Chapter 2: I Remember Everything About You

Nox's POV

The first real filming session happens on a Wednesday afternoon. Griffin's third physical therapy appointment.

I'm already set up in the corner when the therapist walks in, an older guy with gray hair and steady hands. He places a tennis ball in Griffin's right palm. "Hold it. Five seconds."

Griffin's fingers are trembling. I can see them trying to curl around the ball, the effort making his whole arm tense. The ball drops.

"Again."

He picks it up with his left hand, transfers it back to his right. His jaw clenches as he forces his fingers to bend. Three seconds this time before it falls.

"Again."

Two seconds. Then it's on the floor again.

Sweat is running down Griffin's temple. The veins in his neck are standing out. I'm zooming in on his hand, catching every shake, every failed attempt.

"Good work today," the therapist says. "We'll pick up here next session."

The moment the door closes behind him, Griffin just sits there on the treatment table. Staring at his right hand. Then his left hand slams into the wall. Hard. The plaster cracks.

"Turn that fucking camera off," he snarls.

I don't. I keep filming.

"I said turn it off!"

"This is the real part," I tell him, keeping my voice level. "You don't have to pretend with me."

He freezes. Just stares at me, breathing hard. For a second I think he might actually come at me. But then his face crumples and he slumps forward, elbows on his knees, head down. His left hand is still clenched in a fist.

I film it all. His hunched shoulders. The way his head drops. The rise and fall of his back as he breathes. I hold the shot for two full minutes. No dialogue. Just the sound of him trying to hold it together.

That night I'm back at my apartment, going through the footage. Josh is out with his boyfriend so I've got the place to myself. When I get to the part where Griffin hits the wall, where he crumples in on himself, I have to stop. My vision goes blurry. Tears are hitting the keyboard.

I'm not just making a documentary anymore. I'm in deep. I hurt for him in a way that has nothing to do with art or storytelling. Fuck.

A week later I show up at the clinic with tacos. Griffin eyes the paper bag in my hand. "You bring junk food every time?"

I drop into the chair next to the treatment table. "It tastes good, doesn't it? Not like you've got a ton of options right now."

He doesn't argue. I hand him a taco and he takes it with his left hand, fumbling with the wrapper. "Didn't you used to have some protein shake deal or something?"

"All canceled." He gets the wrapper open finally. "Turns out crippled athletes aren't great for branding."

The way he says it, so flat and matter-of-fact, makes my chest tight. "Their loss. Your right hand's messed up but your left hook still works fine."

He glances at me. "What?"

"I'm serious. You've got a mean left hook. I saw you fight once in high school."

"You remember that?"

"I remember everything about you."

The words are out before I can stop them. My face goes hot and I scramble to change the subject. "Next time I'll bring Chinese. You know how to use chopsticks?"

"Yeah."

"With your left hand?"

"Not really."

I grin. Got him.

So the next day I bring kung pao chicken, chow mein, and chopsticks. Griffin looks at them. "Really?"

"Come on, show me what you've got."

He picks up the chopsticks with his left hand. Goes for a piece of chicken. Almost has it. It slips and falls back into the container. He tries again. Same result.

I can't help it. I start laughing.

He flicks my forehead with his left hand. Not hard, but accurate.

"Ow!" I rub the spot, pretending to glare at him.

And then he smiles. A real smile, not bitter or cold or forced. Just genuine and relaxed. Maybe he forgot for a second how much everything sucks.

My heart skips. He looks good when he smiles. Better than he did in high school, even. The sharp angles of his face soften and those gray eyes warm up.

"Happy now, cameraman?" he asks.

"Yeah," I manage. "I'm good."

But I'm lying. Because I want more of this. I want him to smile again and again and I want to be the one who makes it happen.

This is the first time we feel like friends. I like it. A lot.

After filming wraps that afternoon, I'm loading equipment into my car when I realize Griffin's phone is still inside, sitting on the couch in the waiting room. I grab it to bring it out to him. The screen lights up in my hand. I'm not trying to snoop, but the notification is right there on the preview screen.

Harper: "Coming by tomorrow to discuss the NBC offer. Dress nice."

And below that: "You'll be back in the spotlight soon. Trust me."

I stare at the words. Harper. NBC. Spotlight. Griffin hasn't mentioned any of this. My stomach drops.

I lock the screen and head back inside. Griffin is talking with my mom about next week's schedule. When he sees me with his phone, his expression shifts.

"You left this on the couch," I say, handing it over.

"Thanks."

He takes it, glances at the screen, slides it into his pocket. Doesn't say anything. Neither do I.

But driving home, I can't stop thinking about that message. Harper. NBC. The spotlight. All of it adds up to one thing. Griffin is leaving. He's getting better, getting his life back, and he's going to step back into his world. The one with agents and contracts and cameras that aren't mine. The one where I don't exist except as the weird girl with the documentary project.

I grip the steering wheel tighter. This was always just a deal. My film for my mom's help. That's all. That's all it was ever supposed to be.

So why does my chest feel like someone's squeezing it?