If Only

by A. J. Pine

  The familiarity of his voice, of Brooks spilling off his lips, hollows out my insides, and I want to fill it with him the way I did on the train. But I don’t have that option.

  “Yes. I do.” After knowing him for only a day, I have to say it all, to put it out there in order to start again. A do-over. A mulligan.

  “We need to forget whatever made us do what we did yesterday. A clean slate then, remember?”

  He nods. “A clean slate.”

  His gaze fixes on mine. The sadness in his eyes tells me I’m not crazy, that we both felt something, and maybe we still do. But he doesn’t fight me on this, doesn’t try to change my mind, so I know whatever possibilities he thinks this year has to offer, they don’t involve him and me.

  Noah glances at the clock on the classroom wall. “I don’t think we won. The scavenger hunt, I mean. We’re at the two-hour mark.”

  I shrug, not wanting to admit I’m happy we didn’t rush, that we had this short time even if it means we go our separate ways from here.

  “On the count of three, we YAWP together. Then we start fresh.”

  He nods, and a weight presses down on my chest, one I’m about to release. I close my eyes and shake off any last what-ifs, because I didn’t travel thousands of miles to fall for someone I can’t have, someone I’ll say good-bye to in ten months anyway. This is more than a redo. It’s me, flipping the switch, turning off feelings I shouldn’t have.

  I count. “One. Two. Three.”

  A pause, and then together, “YAWP!”

  Our voices rip through the empty room.

  Switch—flipped.

  As if choreographed, we both step down from our perches in unison. I extend my hand in front of me.

  “Hi. I’m Jordan.”

  He takes my hand and shakes it slowly.

  “Hi, Jordan. I’m Noah.”

  A Scottish Kind of Life

  (Mid-October)

  “Life is like playing a violin solo in public and learning the instrument as one goes on.”

  E. M. Forster

  A Room with a View

  Chapter Eight

  “Try it!” The rolling of her r somehow makes the request sound much more like a command. Or maybe it’s that she’s yelling. But that’s the usual for Elaina—loud.

  “But it’s so…” I’m searching for the right word, trying to justify my hesitation though not wanting to insult her. “…thick.” I say. “I like my tea.”

  I’m starting to whine, which I should know by now has zero effect on Elaina other than annoying the shit out of her.

  “No luck?” The familiar voice comes from behind me, and I turn to see Griffin standing in the kitchen doorway. He’s become a regular fixture around here, my Mr. Right Now. He’s been sleeping here on Thursday nights for the past month, ever since classes started. Sleeping here means that—sleeping. The first time he spent the night, Griffin put all the cards on the table. I’m only here for a few months. Even if I did serious, there wouldn’t be much of a point. But I like you, and I want to be with you for as long as it works. How about this? If either of us thinks it’s moving in that direction, we just stop, spare ourselves the drama. I agreed. He wanted what I wanted, and despite my earlier judgment, he was a good guy, honest. Not a man-whore, just someone who couldn’t commit long-term, and for the first time, that’s exactly what I was looking for.

  On Fridays we start class at the same time, so it kind of made sense. He’s a pretty good spooner, and kisser, and sometimes more than kisser. I’ve told Sam all about him, including us sleeping together but not sleeping together, yet. Her response is always the same: What are you waiting for?

  It hasn’t felt right. That’s the only explanation. And Griffin never pressures me, never shows an ounce of impatience, because I think we both know that sex could be a game changer for our situation. Maybe there will be a cosmic sign, a new constellation that will form just to let me know tonight is the night. Until then, I’ll keep checking the skies.

  “It’s just a coffee!” Elaina throws her hands up in exasperation. I don’t blame her. I cause her to exasperate quite a bit.

  “It looks like pudding,” I protest. “See what happens when I spoon in some sugar?”

  I demonstrate for Griffin. When I let the granules drop from the spoon into the cup, they rest on top of the liquid, slowly seeping in one grain at a time.

  “That’s not coffee,” I tell him. “It’s paste.”

  Griffin reaches for the cup in front of me and brings it to his lips. He raises his eyebrows and then throws back the whole thing as if it’s a shot.

  For a month now, Elaina’s been offering to make me a Turkish coffee each time she makes her own, and for a month I’ve politely refused, preferring to stick with tea. This morning, for some reason, she decided I’m trying the coffee no matter what. What she didn’t anticipate, however, is Griffin coming to my rescue.

  He hands the cup back to me looking no worse for the wear.

  “It’s a little too sweet with all that sugar, but otherwise not bad.”

  Elaina catches his infectious smile.

  I put the cup on the table, then place my hands on his cheeks.

  “My hero!” I declare, in my best damsel-in-distress voice. Then I plant one right on his still-warm coffee lips, which of course sends Elaina right back into exasperation.

  “Tomorrow,” she says. “I am hiding your tea until you try the coffee!”

  She walks out of the kitchen in a huff, but as soon as she’s out of view, I hear her laugh quietly. We’ve sort of fallen into this rhythm. I make her crazy, but she still loves me. She makes me try various foods and beverages against my will, and I still love her. She is my Sam away from Sam, though Sam and I text at least once a week. Until my mom or dad puts the kibosh on my data use, I’m going to keep at it.

  “Did you really like the coffee?” I ask Griffin as Elaina’s bedroom door slams.

  He shrugs. “It was a bit on the pasty side in terms of texture, but it didn’t taste too bad.” He’s so far not fazed by the amount of caffeine he’s ingested or that had he sipped the coffee as Elaina was trying to get me to do, he would not have thrown back the coffee grounds resting at the bottom of the cup. But this is Griffin, as he was that first day on the train; he goes with the flow, even if the flow means defensive coffee drinking on my behalf.

  A minute later, Elaina returns to the kitchen ready to head to campus. I grab my fleece and bag on the way out, and the three of us trek through Seaton Park, as we do every Friday morning.

  “Are you working tonight?”

  Already twenty-three, Elaina took a few years off to travel before going to university and helps pay her tuition by tending bar at the Blue Lantern.

  “Yes.” Elaina groans, but I know she loves the perks of her job: great tips; getting to work with the cutie, Daniel, who served me my first snakebite; and coming home with phone numbers mixed in with her take-home pay. Elaina is hot in that exotic, mysterious kind of way. Her black hair lies in waves down to her waist in stark contrast to her milk-white skin. She has these giant brown eyes, and don’t get me started on her voice. She had me at the accent, and I think the same goes for most of the male patrons at the Blue Lantern. If they only knew that on the nights she doesn’t have to work, she and I are curled up on her tiny bed eating biscuits and watching reruns of Friends. Have I mentioned how much I love her?

  “Great! Griffin and I will come visit. It’s Duncan’s birthday, so I think we’re grabbing a bite first.”

  Griffin nods his confirmation of the evening’s plans.

  “You know what would make Duncan really happy for his birthday?” I ask.

  Here it comes. Three. Two. One. Ladies and gentlemen, I can now predict Elaina Tripoli’s eye rolls. While I am correct, I don’t say this aloud.

  “You really want to push it after you wouldn’t try her coffee?” Griffin asks.

  He’s right, but then again, so am I.

  “Elaina, come o
n,” I start. “Duncan is adorable, and he’s had a crush on you for weeks!”

  We’re in the middle of the park at this point, and amid the bustle of students trying to make it to class on time, me included, Elaina stops, forcing the foot traffic to part around us.

  “Jordan.” There is almost a third syllable to my name when she says it. “He is a boy. I only date men.”

  I’ve filled Elaina in on the reacquisition of my virginity, which, to this day, maintains the status quo, by the way. She’s been officially single for a little over a year herself, though she seems to hook up with her ex, Theo, whenever she goes back home for extended periods of time. From what she tells me, he sounds like a total asshole, but they have history, a history that makes it easy for her to turn down perfectly nice guys like Duncan.

  “Oh no,” I say. “I’m not letting you count Theo as a man. He may be older than you, but from what it sounds like, he is no man. And besides, Duncan is only a year younger than you now. He’s twenty-two today.”

  She doesn’t respond but does start walking again, so Griffin and I do as well.

  “Give him a chance,” I plead. “He’ll be with us tonight. And you know I can’t stop him from asking you out again.”

  Duncan isn’t shy with his crush. Every time he sees Elaina, several times a week, he asks her out. Every time, she says no. It’s probably one of my favorite things I shouldn’t love to watch.

  “She’s right, you know.” Yes, Griffin with the assist. We plan to wear her down, little by little, until the four of us can start hanging out without watching Duncan get rejected over and over again. “You’ve got a lot going against you tonight. It’s his birthday. And, I’m not sure if you know this, but he’s Scottish. Native Aberdonian, actually. He can hold his liquor longer than you will have the stamina to wait for him to pass out and shut up. I’m saying, if you throw the guy a bone tonight, with just a maybe, it’ll be the best birthday gift he could get. In fact, since I’m a dude and don’t actually buy other dudes gifts, I’ll say your maybe was from me.”

  And there it is, a chink in the armor as her expression begins to soften. Only Griffin can do this to her, and it makes me want to kiss him again, but I know better than to bust out a snog session on the way to class. Instead I grab his hand and squeeze my approval.

  “All right!” she snaps. “Maybe I will tell him maybe, your man-child friend. Only, though, because it is his birthday. Tomorrow I go back to refusing him.”

  She looks straight ahead, instead of at Griffin or me, but smiles. When we emerge from the park, the three of us split up on High Street. Griffin and I wave to Elaina as she moves ahead, giving us the illusion of privacy on a crowded university street. Before we head our separate ways, Griffin leans down and lightly presses his lips to mine. He lingers for a moment, and I let him. Tonight, I think. Maybe the wait will be over tonight.

  “See you later,” he says through a smile as he pulls away.

  “Yes, you will,” I confirm before crossing the street and making my way to building twenty and my favorite class of the semester: The British Novel in Film.

  I signed up for the class not knowing what works would be on the syllabus but hoping, praying that Merchant-Ivory’s adaptation of E. M. Forster’s A Room with a View would be one of them. Last Friday we were assigned to read the book and have it completed by today when we will watch the film in its entirety. By next Friday we are to turn in a persuasive essay that compares and contrasts the novel to the film. I am beyond geeked about all of it.

  “Hey.”

  The voice comes from the seat to my left, which is usually empty. In fact, no one sits right next to anyone else in this room. There are far more desks than students, so we all enjoy a protective barrier of personal space that usually consists of an open desk on either side. Today, though, this is not the case.

  “Hi,” I say, turning to see Noah, the body attached to the voice from the seat that is supposed to be my protective barrier. It’s not like I’m surprised to see him. We’ve been in this class together since school began. It’s the only class we share, and though we’ve been friendly since our sort of relationship reboot, we’ve also kept our distance, an unspoken mutual agreement.

  Occupying the seat next to me, that is the exact opposite of distance. And being in close proximity to him brings back the train, that first day, and everything we admitted to each other but agreed to forget.

  “How are you?” he asks, and I find it hard to believe he’s here for any sort of small talk, but I’m not about to accuse him of anything otherwise.

  “I’m good. Things are good.” And I mean the words I’m saying. Things are good, have been good, which is why I want to kick myself at the hint of strain in my voice when I speak to him. I should reciprocate the question, but I don’t. He can make small talk all he wants, but I maintain our distance the best I can, sliding to the far side of my seat. Though it’s barely an inch, Noah’s eyes follow my movement.

  “Look, Jordan. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to bother you. It’s just, this book.”

  He pauses, and I feel the tiniest shred of disappointment. He’s here to talk about a book? Of course he’s here to talk about a book. Why else would he be here?

  “I know you’ve read this book like a hundred times and have probably watched the movie double that.”

  He’s right. I made it very clear to the class, and our instructor, that I’d spent many a Saturday night with some version of Forster’s work, either the novel itself or the film. Most of the class probably thinks I’m socially inept, Noah included, but I don’t care. I will not deny my love for George Emerson and Lucy Honeychurch. Truthfully, if Lucy was out of the picture, I’d probably be okay if it meant I’d have George all to myself. I’m suddenly aware that my lack of success in the male/female relationship department might have something to do with my preference for boys made from words. My book boyfriends have been plentiful over the years. And George Emerson, he’s near the top of the list.

  “Yes,” I say, admitting my borderline-obsessive relationship with Forster.

  “Well, I don’t know. I mean maybe I’ll change my mind after I see the film, but after reading the book, I don’t get it. Scratch that. I don’t get Lucy. Anyone in their right mind can tell Cecil is an idiot. Why, for a second, would she consider him over George?”

  Noah and I have not had any sort of real conversation in over a month. There have been friendly, pleasant hellos in passing. We’ve managed hanging out in large groups at the pub without any real one-on-one interaction. Hailey and I are still friendly, but she’s become pretty close with one of her flat-mates, a girl that, quite thankfully, Elaina can’t stand. This means, despite Hailey’s overt friendliness toward me, she can write off the growing distance between us to flat-mate incompatibility. In other words, Noah and I have been able to avoid each other without arousing any suspicion from our first-day tour group. This is precisely why his popping into one of my buffer seats is throwing off my equilibrium, and I, for one, do not enjoy my equilibrium being thrown. In fact, I’d prefer it not even be gently tossed.

  I’m searching for the right words to defend Lucy, who does eventually end up with George, but it takes her a while to get there.

  “Lucy wants to honor her commitment to Cecil. He may be ridiculous, but she accepted his proposal, regardless of her feelings for George. You understand commitment, right?” I ask, groaning under my breath. Our first conversation in weeks, and my emotions take over.

  “Ouch,” he says. “I guess I deserved that.”

  I shake my head. “No. You didn’t. It’s just, distance is a tricky thing when we see each other every day.”

  Though American literature is his thing, I’ve listened to him argue passionately about the pieces we read in this class, admiring him from a distance, sometimes wishing we could walk back to Hillhead together after class to keep the discussion going. Now here he is, doing what I’ve wished we could do for weeks, and I’m not ready for it.
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  I’m about to admit this when a booming voice interrupts my thoughts.

  “Thank you, lot, for arriving on time for today’s viewing.”

  Fridays are treated as a lab class would be, longer to accommodate for full viewings when it comes time to watch a film. It’s my only Friday class, a perfect way to ease into the weekend.

  The professor continues. “I would like to take this opportunity to remind you that your essays will be due one week from today. Sign up for office hours if you would like to discuss any aspect of your paper before then. Other than that, enjoy the film.”

  Noah motions to get up from his seat, to go back to wherever he came from. But as soon as he stands, the lights go off, and for a moment we plunge into total darkness.

  “Hey,” he whispers. “I’m sorry. As soon as there’s a bit of light, I’ll head back to my seat.”

  “Shhhhh!” a disembodied voice erupts into the darkness.

  I shift in my seat to glare at the owner of the voice, but as I do, the screen lights with the opening credits of the film. I’m not too fond of confrontation anyway. So I slink back around, thinking of all the great comebacks I’d throw at the shusher if I wasn’t such a wuss.

  I turn to Noah, whose profile glows in the soft light of Merchant-Ivory’s Florence. He is unquestionably beautiful. That’s always been a given. But now, I don’t know. Maybe it’s the lighting or the music or the anticipation of Julian Sands circa 1985. Whatever it is forces the next words out of my mouth despite my inner protest.

  “The movie’s already starting. You might as well stay.”

  I must enjoy torture.

  “Are you sure?” he whispers.

  “Shhhhh!”

  I suppress a laugh and lean toward him so I can, if at all possible, reduce the volume of my whisper.

  “Yes,” I practically mouth. “Or you’ll have the shusher to deal with.”

  He agrees with a smile coupled with silence. Breathing in before straightening back into my seat, I smell spring.