"I hope you realize that if something like this ever occurs again—"
"Mom," Beverly sighed, watching her feet as they swung idly over the hospital's boring white floor, "I know. I really am so sorry; nothing like this will ever happen again—it wasn't even supposed to happen this time, remember?"
A heavy sigh crackled through the phone line, and Beverly could almost see her mom's expression—pursed lips, chin jutting out, and eyes narrowed in that I-am-you-mother-and-I-know-when-you're-lying-to-me-so-you-better-not-be-lying way. "I remember. I realize you're basically all grown up," her mom's voice was soft, "but you'll always be my baby and I can't help but worry."
Beverly smiled sadly, picking at a loose thread on her worn sweatpants. "I know, Mom. I am sorry."
"And I know you are. Listen, do you need us to send you anything at all? I know why you don't want to come back here, but the least we can do is send something from home. A cake, maybe? A 'Get Well' card from the twins? Crutches? Ibuprofen? Anything?"
Her grin widened at the woman's suggestions; she would expect no less from her mom. "No, that's okay, Mom."
"Beverly . . ."
"Mom!" she rolled her eyes with fond exasperation. "I promise to call every couple of days, how's that?"
Her mom hummed thoughtfully. "Better. Will you be alright back at your dorm?"
Beverly frowned at the thought of her dorm. She had originally been unsure as to what state the room was in (Griffin's it's "cordoned off" wasn't exactly specific), but according to Deb the whole thing really had been taped off as "evidence," and the cops still hadn't declared it livable. Beverly wasn't sure what they were looking for. After all, it wasn't like they didn't know who the perpetrators were; Dennis, Red, Joseph Harris, and quite a few other folks would be locked up in prison for a long time (Dennis would take a bit longer, though, since he was apparently still in a coma after the beating he receive).
"Actually, about that—"
"Beverly!"
"No, just listen," she rushed before her mom could blow up. "I know a lady who lives near the city; she's letting me stay with her while I figure out my living situation." It had been so kind of Cynthia to offer, and the more Beverly thought about it, the better it sounded.
"And you're sure she's not involved in this drug ring mess?" With a tone like that, her mom would have been an amazing interrogator at any police department.
"Yes, Mom. She owns a coffeehouse and is really nice."
"Fine. You promise you'll be alright?"
"Yes, Mom."
"And you'll call me to keep in touch?"
"Yes, Mom."
"At least three times a week?"
"Yes, Mom."
"And you'll tell me about Griffin?"
"Yes, M—what the hell?" she spluttered, her eyes wide as she pulled the phone from her ear and stared at it in shock. Shaking herself out of her trance after a moment, she pressed it back and demanded, "How did you know about Griffin?" She had avoided mentioning her boyfriend, not because she was ashamed of him, but because she wanted to drop that particular bomb on her parents once she was no longer in a hospital bed.
Her mom was laughing like a maniac on the other end of the line, the smug woman. "I am your mother—I know everything." A pause, and then, "Also, his godmother, Cynthia, called me. I really like her; she and I are going to have fun planning the wedding, let me tell you."
Beverly flung a hand over her eyes, wondering when she'd stepped into such a nightmare. Her mom and Cynthia, spending time together? Oh, God, the whole world would probably implode.
"Mom," she whined. "That was so mean."
"Just watching out for you, Beverly. Cynthia was so sweet to call me, really. And Griffin sounds like a nice young man. I approve."
Against her wishes, a smile curled against Beverly's lips, and her frustration at her mother was forgotten. "Do you really? I like him a lot, and—"
"Don't worry, Beverly, I know you do. And yes, I really, truly approve. We'll have to meet him in person soon, of course, but I'm happy for you. I'll let you go now, okay? Be safe getting home, and you better call me, Young Lady. Three times a week, you hear?"
"Yes, Mom," she chuckled. "I promise. Tell the twins and Dad I love them, okay? Love you, too."
"Will do. Love you, baby. Bye-bye, now." There was a soft 'click,' and Beverly pulled the device from her ear with a small smile. She loved her mom, even if the woman could be a bit over-the-top at times.
"Everything okay?"
Beverly turned with a smile to find Griffin striding towards her, a nurse behind him pushing a wheelchair. She shot him a thumbs-up. "All good, now, I think. Mom's still a bit freaked out, of course, but she's not going to kill me anymore." It was meant as a joke, but the tightening of Griffin's smile reminded her that—to him—her almost-death hadn't been a joke; it had been a waking nightmare.
"Sorry," she apologized, snatching up his hand and squeezing it in hers.
His gaze softened, and he pulled his other hand up to stroke it along her cheek. "It's okay, Beverly. You ready to go?"
Switching her gaze to the nurse and wheelchair, she nodded eagerly. "I've always wanted to use a wheelchair; how fast can we go?"
The middle-aged woman laughed. "Not too fast, unfortunately. We're trying to get you out of the hospital, after all, not put you back in."
"Fair enough," Beverly conceded, letting Griffin and the nurse help her into the chair. The nurse had to push her for "liability purposes," but Griffin walked right beside them, glaring at anyone who got in their way.
Cynthia's SUV was parked right outside the hospital's entrance, and the woman herself was sitting in the driver's seat, her expression of concern quickly shifting into one of relief when she saw Beverly.
Griffin helped Beverly settle into the backseat before clambering in after her, sending the nurse a swift, "Thanks," before closing the door and turning his attention back to her. "Are you alright?" he asked, bending over to help her with the seatbelt. "You're not in any pain?"
Normally, Beverly would have been annoyed with the constant coddling; if she'd wanted to be bothered about her health every five seconds, she would have gone home to be with her parents. But, after thinking about it during her stay at the hospital, Beverly had promised herself she'd be patient with Griffin. After all, she'd probably be just as bad (probably worse) if something had happened to him.
"Don't worry," she consoled him as Cynthia directed the car away from the hospital, "I'm just fine, and I'll be even better now that I'm out of there. Thanks again for letting me stay with you, Cynthia."
The older woman caught Beverly's gaze in the rearview mirror, sending the girl a kind look. "It's no trouble at all, Miss Bev. If it's alright with you, Griffin has asked to stay as well. I was thinking about giving him the room next to yours, but I'm not sure if you can stand to be around him for much longer."
Griffin scoffed. "Where else would I sleep? You only have beds in three of the rooms, Cynthia."
"I also have a backyard," Cynthia replied airily, and Beverly chuckled lightly at Griffin's disgruntled features.
"It's fine with me," she assured Cynthia, trading a loaded glance with Griffin and reaching up to squeeze his bicep. "I have a feeling Griffin is going to be a bit clingy, either way."
Cynthia laughed loudly, while Griffin only grunted, "Damn right I will be. You were kidnapped recently, and I'd rather not repeat that."
Sobering, Beverly caught his gaze. "I know. We won't repeat it, alright? Everything's okay, now." And really, it was. There were lots of things to clear up still—she had to talk with both Cynthia and Griffin about the letter, reassure Francis she was alright, continue healing, possibly undertake physical therapy, and worry about the upcoming semester—but Beverly, in that moment, was happy.
Sending Griffin one more loaded smile, she settled deeper into her seat and shut her eyes, letting the rocking of the SUV and Griffin's warm hand in hers lull her into sleep.
Everything will be alright.
***
A/N: And every little thing, is gonna be ~alriiiiight~
Good song, good song.
Also, Bev's mom is me and I am Bev's mom: The ultimate #grifferly shipper
Stay cool, dudes and dudettes,
A. R.