Epoch (Transcend Duet #2)(19)

Morgan coos when I take her from Nate. I kiss her rosy cheek. She giggles. I love her.

“I’m not used to being the chipper one. Everything okay?”

I hug Morgan to me and lean against the island. “Griffin’s not speaking to me. Or he’s avoiding me. It feels the same either way. Dr. Greyson passed me off to someone else. And I have something to tell you, but there’s no time, so it will have to wait until later. Or another day. Another week … Whatever.”

“I’m sorry you’re having problems with Griffin. Dr. Greyson wouldn’t pass you off to someone else unless he thought it was in your best interest. And just tell me whatever it is you need to tell me.” He hikes the strap of his messenger bag onto his shoulder while sipping his coffee.

“Oh …” I dig into my pocket and toss his photo onto the counter. “And I stole this photo because I like to look at it. Why? I don’t know. It’s wrong. It’s messed-up beyond words. You should fire me and get a restraining order.”

I crumble inside like an imploding building.

Nate sets his cup on the counter and picks up the photo, bringing it closer to his face, eyes narrowing a fraction. “My first trip to the West Coast. I went with a buddy. He took the shot.” He sets it back on the counter. “Keep it.”

My head juts back. “What? No. Why would I keep it?”

“For the same reason you took it in the first place.” He shrugs.

“No way. It’s so wrong.”

“Why? Are you fantasizing about that guy?” He chuckles like it’s insane.

That guy?

“Yes. NO! I mean no. God no!” I shake my head and hug Morgan tighter, refocusing my attention from the photo to her.

Nate reaches into his pocket and pulls out his wallet, trying to fish something out with his big paws. “I’ve carried this around for over twenty years. Does this make you feel better?” He holds out a black and white picture of Daisy. “Her friend did her hair, makeup … even fake nails. Emily liked photography and said Daisy should be a model. She took a bunch of photos. I knew nothing about this until after Daisy died. Emily gave me this one after the funeral. I used to look at it every day. But now …”

My gaze lifts to his.

He shrugs, giving me this look. What look? I’m not sure. But the longer he keeps it plastered to his face, the more certain I feel that it’s the I-don’t-look-at-it-anymore-because-you’re-right-here look.

I don’t like this look one single bit.

When I break the stare-off, he slips the photo back into his wallet. “I have to go. But just remember … Daisy and I were friends first and foremost.”

“So you think we should be friends?”

Grabbing his cup, he saunters to the back door. “Why not?”

“Why not?” I say to Morgan after the door shuts behind Nate. “Because I can’t be friends with men who I’ve had sex with in my dreams.”

Then, because I’m hell-bent on ruining my life before I hit twenty-five, I grab the photo off the counter and slide it back in my pocket.

*

Griffin has done a stupendous job of working late every night since my birthday and sneaking in after I’m asleep, only to be out the door before I wake up.

No calls.

No texts.

No love notes on the nightstand.

Tonight I eat dinner alone, leaving him a taco salad in the fridge in case he wants it when he comes inside later. But I miss him. I think he’s waiting for me to bridge this gap between us with an apology for being me. Dr. Albright is right. Daisy is an irremovable part of me. I can’t let her go any more than I can leave my foot at home for the day.

Maybe I can negotiate a truce for now. I grab my sweatshirt and head out to the garage. The door is shut since it’s cooler outside, so I go through the access door at the back. A woman with long black hair, leather chaps, and the tightest shirt I have ever seen, glances at me from my bucket next to Griffin.

She smiles.

Griffin sits back on his heels and looks over his shoulder, eyeing me for a few seconds with no smile. “Need something?”

My bucket. I need my bucket. Why is this woman sitting on my bucket!

“I made taco salad.” And that’s my bucket.

“Put it in the fridge.” He turns back toward the motorcycle.

No “thank you.” No introduction.

“I’m Apple.”

I squint. “Excuse me?”

The bucket thief runs her fingers (which have rings on every single one) through her eternally long hair. “My name’s Apple. Thanks for loaning your guy to me for the night. Something’s knocking with my girl, and I leave for Cali tomorrow.”

Fritter. Pie. Crisp. Dumpling. Turnover. Jelly. Who names their child Apple!

I sigh with a soft smile. I know this answer—the same generation of stoned hippies who named their kid Swayze. Do I say hi or my condolences?

Neither.

I say Bitch, get off my bucket, and I don’t loan my guy to anyone. Okay, I don’t say that either.

“I’m Swayze. And you can come inside and wait if you don’t want to sit out here on that uncomfortable bucket while he works on your bike.”

“Are you kidding?” She eyes Griff, nudging the toe of her boot against his leg. And he gives her a smile. A fucking smile! Like they’re sharing some secret message. “I used to watch Griff all the time. It’s mesmerizing. I could watch him all day.”