Stitches by Sam Mariano
Epilogue
Griff
“You look so handsome.”
I stand near the double doors of the crowded ballroom, like I’m ready to flee at any given moment. Moira stands before me in a dark blue ball gown, the cut of her dress drawing my poor, helpless eyes straight to her cleavage as she fixes my bowtie.
“There, perfect,” she says, smoothing her hands across my chest and down my arms.
“I feel dumb wearing a tux,” I tell her.
Eyebrows rising, she looks me over, making no attempt to hide her appreciation. “Well, you do not look dumb, if that’s any consolation.”
Putting my hands on her narrow waist, I draw her closer. “I’m tired of talking to these people. I want this thing to be over. I want to take you home and get you out of this dress.”
“You and me both. I wish we could go home, cuddle up on the couch with Sebastian, and watch Sabrina.”
“That is not where I thought you were going with that.”
“You guys owe me a movie. You always owe me a movie. Every single time I turn on a movie I like, you team up and distract me with sex. It’s not fair. I never get to watch anything I like.”
I cock an eyebrow. She’s right, we do that, but half the time I think she picks the movie just because she knows we will. “I’ve never heard any complaints.”
With a sly smile, she says, “I didn’t say I had any.”
“Then let’s bail and do that instead.”
“Nope. I’ve invested way too much time and effort into this benefit to beg off early. Come on, let’s go find Sebastian while we have a chance,” she says, grabbing my hand and dragging me across the ballroom.
Tonight we are attending—and hosting—a gala that Moira herself came up with and put together—the Better Tomorrow Ball, an annual gala in honor of Ashley Halliwell. It’s kind of egregious, exalting Ashley’s death given the circumstances, but Moira saw a chance to do good in the world in Ashley’s name, and she went for it.
Even though I never really liked this kind of thing to begin with, I’ve gotta admit, Moira did a hell of a job. The ballroom is decorated beautifully and the event is just about at capacity. Circular tables with elegant floral centerpieces fill the space around the dance floor, every single one bringing in thousands of dollars for suicide prevention programs. There’s even a scholarship in Ashley’s name given out to some high school senior who survived her own battle with depression and went on to have “better tomorrows.”
It feels a little morbid to me, but it makes Moira feel better about what Seb did. That’s what I tell myself, anyhow. Either way, it’s for a good cause. Not a cause that has a damn thing to do with Ashley, but I guess it doesn’t matter.
Our table is right in front of the dance floor, way too close to the live music. Seb is sitting there now, looking profoundly bored until he sees Moira hauling me across the room. His expression lightens and he pushes back his chair to stand.
“Done socializing for the moment?” Seb asks.
“Hey, I’m the hostess, I can’t just ignore everybody,” she states.
“I disagree. You’ve done your part; now let them get drunk on champagne and make fools of themselves on the dance floor.”
“I wish people would stop mentioning her,” I say. “I never liked these things to begin with, but when they come with a dollop of guilt…” Regarding Seb, I ask, “You don’t feel weird about being here?”
“Why should I?” he asks. “I poured plenty of money into sponsoring this damned event.”
“Damned is right,” I mutter. “We’re all going to Hell.”
“Well, if we do, we’ll see Ashley again; we can tell her all about her party,” Seb says, easily.
“That’s horrible,” I state. “You’re horrible.”
As if innocent, he says, “What? She’d love it. Have you heard how nicely everyone is talking about her tonight? Nobody liked her that much when she was alive.”
I hold up a hand and shake my head. “Just… stop talking.”
Interceding, Moira goes straight into Seb’s arms to draw his attention away. She wraps her arms around his neck and gazes up at him like he’s the only man in the room. I’m not bothered by it, since just a few minutes ago she was looking at me the same way. “You’re a real Prince Charming, you know that?”
Smirking down at her, he points out, “Prince Charming isn’t your type.”
“True,” she allows. “Still, I wouldn’t say no if a certain dashing gentleman asked me to dance.”
“You must be waiting for someone else, then, ‘cause I don’t ask.” Resting his hand possessively on Moira’s hip, Seb glances over at me. “We’ll be back.”
I nod, dropping into my seat. “You kids have fun.”
Moira’s hand brushes my shoulder as she walks past. “Don’t worry; I’ll save the next dance for you.”
She drags a little smile out of me. “Lucky me,” I call, before she gets too far away.
I say it like I’m joking, but she knows I mean it. Seb and I are the luckiest bastards around, no contest.
Moira looks back at me with a playfully narrowed gaze before Seb leads her out on the dance floor. I turn in my chair to watch them. I don’t know why I do. It’s not like I can’t see her in his arms any day of the week—usually in fewer clothes. Usually right up close, where I can touch and kiss her, too; where Seb and I can team up to make her dizzy with pleasure, turn her to putty in either of our hands.
My mind is wandering to places it shouldn’t when I’m in a ballroom full of people, so I turn back around and grab my drink, tipping it back, shifting to accommodate the slight bulge in my pants. Just a couple more hours.
Suddenly, a brunette woman in a long black gown comes up to my table, offering me a little smile. “You guys sure know how it’s done, don’t you?” she remarks.
Since I’ve never seen her before and I damn sure don’t know what she’s talking about, I raise a questioning eyebrow. “Excuse me?”
She indicates our table, which should seat eight. We bought out the table just for the three of us. “You must really like your space.”
“Bad table manners,” I offer back, lightly. “Didn’t want to embarrass ourselves.”
Grinning, she drops into the empty seat beside mine. “You’re Griffin Halliwell, right?”
I don’t know why she knows me, since I sure don’t recognize her. “Yep, that’s me.”
Her smile dims and she nods. “I just wanted to stop over and say how sorry I am for your loss. I think it’s beautiful that you’re doing all this in tribute to your wife. You must have really loved her.”
That drains the humor right out of me.
Noticing that, she grimaces. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to… I’m sure tonight sucks enough, and there I go—”
I raise a hand to stop her, shaking my head. “You’re fine. Thanks.”
She’s still sitting here and I don’t really know what to say, so I grab my glass and take another drink. Her eyes go straight to my left hand, to the wedding band on my finger. “You still wear your ring,” she remarks.
I look at my hand, now that she mentions it. “Uh, no. I mean, yeah, I wear a ring, but it’s not…”
It would be complicated to explain to someone who wasn’t sitting here offering me condolences at my dead wife’s benefit, but I can’t even begin to explain it under these circumstances. Normally people see the ring, but know just enough not to ask about it.
“I think it’s sweet,” she says, somehow mistaking my hesitation for something else.
“I’m not in mourning. It’s not like that.”
For some reason, she slightly brightens.
Everything I say somehow comes off as positive to her, so I just stop talking. I feel like I’m digging myself a hole—probably my own guilty conscience, but it’s still uncomfortable.
“Do you dance?” she asks.
“What?”
Nodding her head toward the floor, she says, “I think they’re about to play another slow one. I mean, if you think it would be weird, I understand, but if not….”
I didn’t see that coming at all, so I’m sitting here dumbstruck when Moira comes back and leans down behind me, wrapping her arms around my neck and leaning close. My new friend’s eyes widen at the clear show of affection/ownership.
“Am I interrupting?” Moira asks.
“Not at all,” I assure her, placing my hand over hers.
The newcomer’s gaze drops to Moira’s hand beneath mine, to her wedding band that matches mine. She can’t see Seb’s hand as he walks around to his seat, but if she could she’d see he has the exact same one. Even without knowing that, she’s wildly confused.
“Sorry,” I tell her, pushing back from the table and putting a hand on Moira’s waist. “This dance is spoken for.”
Moira doesn’t say anything when we’re standing there, but as I haul her away, she says, “All your dances are spoken for, mister, not just this one.”
I grin at her possessiveness. “You’re allowed to have two lovers but I’m not allowed to dance with another woman?”
“Absolutely,” she verifies, with a vehement nod.
I smile down at her as I pull her close on the dance floor. “You’re the only one I want to dance with, anyhow,” I assure her.
Her blue eyes sparkle with warmth as she secures her arms around my neck and sways with me. “Good.”
I hold Moira close as the song goes on, breathe her in when she rests her head against my shoulder and sighs. I love when she does that. I love when I can feel her contentment rolling off of her in waves. This is my home. Not the house we all live in together or the bed where we fall asleep each night.
This. This is where I want to live, in moments like these. With Moira pressed against me, the smell of her, the taste of her…
Well, hell, I can’t taste her right now, can I?
Gently lifting her chin until she pulls back, I lean down and fix that. I taste her lips and she opens for me so readily. Even here, in this crowd full of people, her hunger for me bleeds out of her in soft little sighs, in the way her heart rate kicks up. Her teeth catch my bottom lip and I growl low in my throat, yanking her hips against mine.
“Keep that up, baby, I’ll haul your little ass right out of this ballroom.”
Grinning as she lingers close, she teases, “Is that supposed to be a threat?”
“Nope,” I murmur, leaning in the nibble on her ear. “It’s a promise.”
Her head drifts forward and sags against my shoulder. “Stop tempting me. You know we can’t leave. Between you and Seb, I swear to God, you make it impossible for a girl to get a night out with clothes on.”
“You prefer a night in with clothes off,” I point out.
“I do,” she agrees, strongly. “Why do we ever leave the house? We should stop doing that. There’s nothing for us out here.”
As if to emphasize her point, I catch an older woman watching us, her mouth pursed in disapproval. After a few months of keeping things quiet about our relationship, Sebastian decided it was time to take it public. He wanted to control the narrative, he said. Didn’t want people thinking me and Moira were doing anything we shouldn’t. Moira, of course, was fine with whatever he wanted, but I was a little more worried about it. Ultimately, though, I wanted to be able to take Moira out from time to time, and I wanted to be able to kiss and touch her the same way he could. I didn’t want anyone thinking anything bad about Moira either, so I came around to it.
Most people who found out where surprised. Some didn’t care; a couple thought it was interesting; some thought it was weird, and a few became irrationally outraged by our situation. The woman glaring daggers at Moira’s back right now is one of them. On impulse, I run my hand protectively down her back, like I can fend off her bitter disapproval. Of course, I can’t. The judgmental old broad hones in on the wedding band I wear to symbolize my commitment to our relationship, and her lip curls up in disgust.
Keeping my hand on Moira’s back protectively, I close my hand but for my middle finger. The old biddy gasps, her gaze jumping to mine, and I give her my most charming smile as I flip her off.
Mind your business, lady.
Now she huffs and storms off the dance floor like I’ve ruined her night.
Oh well. She sure hasn’t ruined mine. I still get to hold the most beautiful woman in the room and call her mine. I get to build a life and a family with my two best friends. Somehow all three of us were lucky enough to find each other; this perfect mix of cast-offs the world didn’t have a proper place for. We made a place.
A lot of people look at us and see something bizarre, something sordid, maybe something sad. They look at us and think we share because we have to.
We don’t have to share; we get to.
