If Only

by A. J. Pine

  Noah’s eyes glaze over as he pushes against his door with his foot.

  “Why would I care about whether there is or is not a door in my tiny kitchen? And what were you doing out here anyway?”

  “Air. Needed air,” he says, his sentences sparse, like the space between us. “Fucking hell.”

  Yeah, I needed air, too. A day after he storms out of my flat, a day after he all but admits he’s back with Hailey, we’re close enough to touch. Hell, we have to touch if we want to breathe.

  “It’s not like I planned this, Noah.” I answer the blame in his tone.

  We both scramble for nonexistent distance.

  “I’ll drop the class,” he says, looking anywhere but at me. “One of us should drop the class.”

  “I already tried,” I admit, and this gets his attention. “Nothing’s open, unless you have an advanced calculus credit you need to fill.” I make no effort to hide my bitter tone, not when it’s clear he’d rather be anywhere but near me.

  I look up and down the seam where our doors have somehow connected, and I see it, the reason for our predicament.

  “It’s the door stop on top of my door. When I opened mine and Oliver exited the kitchen, it punctured his door.” I laugh. It’s either that or scream. “If my sweater hadn’t snagged, you’d be in here all by yourself.” Only I could storm out of a room to get away from Noah and wind up trapped in a pocket of space barely big enough to contain our bodies.

  Oliver calls from the kitchen. “Looks like you and I were both exiting at the same time, Jordan. And Noah, quite literally, has gotten himself caught in the middle.”

  Noah’s eyes close, and small beads of sweat dot his forehead. Something’s not right.

  “Hey,” I say, my voice softening. “Are you okay?”

  As my breathing regulates, his becomes increasingly erratic. His body lies flush against the door, palms pressing hard against it. Maybe there’s more to this than his need to avoid me.

  “Noah, talk to me, please. Are you okay?”

  He squeezes his eyes tighter. “I’m good, Brooks. Never better.” With each word he strains for air.

  For a split second I let myself wonder at his use of my name, my last name, but now is not the time for overanalyzing. Noah’s in trouble.

  “You’re a shitty liar.”

  I keep my voice calm and mirror his stance, trying to create extra space between us.

  “Noah, are you claustrophobic?”

  I think back to that first day on the train, stuck in the vestibule with this stranger of a guy and his book. How he just sat down and started reading, like it was the most normal thing to do. A distraction. He was distracting himself.

  “Maybe?” His hoarse word attempts humor, but I bite back my smile and push down the tingling in my senses as his warm breath puffs against my cheek. “There was a hide-and-seek incident when I was seven. Involved a small cabinet and my brother locking me in by threading a wooden spoon through the handles.” His shallow breaths frighten me, and my heart breaks for a little boy who was hurt by a childhood game.

  “Oh, Noah. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. We’re gonna get you out of here.”

  If my sweater hadn’t snagged, he’d be in here by himself. But I’m here. I can help.

  “Oliver?” I try not to sound worried. “Can you do something?”

  Nervous laughter answers me first. “I’ve just called campus security,” he says. “And I seem to have reached their voicemail.” More nervous laughter. “They are gone for lunch for fifteen more minutes.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” I say, only loud enough for me and Noah to hear.

  He lets out a strained exhale. His jaw tightens, and his eyes remain shut.

  “Tell me how to help, Noah. Let me help.”

  He shakes his head, and kicks behind him at the door, but no words come. Only labored breaths.

  I don’t have time to think, so I act, my hands reaching for his face, cupping his cheeks. Noah gasps at my touch, but he opens his eyes.

  “I’m here,” I say. “I’m going to help you through this.”

  He nods slowly, his face in my hands.

  His eyes begin to close again. “Stay focused on me, Noah. Can you do that?”

  He meets my eyes again, another nod.

  “Tell me what worked on the train. Tell me what I can do.”

  Now his eyes widen. “You knew?”

  I smile because he’s speaking. And breathing. He can do this.

  “No,” I admit. “Not exactly. I knew something was stressing you out, but it makes sense now—the book, the reading I thought bordered on obsessive. You were doing what you needed to help yourself. I wish I knew, wish I could have helped you then, too.”

  My hands release their grip and pull away from his face, but he grabs my wrist. He says nothing but doesn’t object when I lace my fingers with his, pulling his hand tight against my chest.

  “You did,” he says. “Help, I mean. You were a good distraction.”

  My eyes fall closed as I hear him using the same word that day on the train—distraction. Is that what he thought of our kiss? Is that all I was? A distraction? Maybe this whole time I’ve been seeing more than was ever there.

  “Fuck. I didn’t mean it like that. Brooks, that’s not what I meant. I tried to tell you, that day on the tour. Tried to thank you.” He stops to breathe.

  I guess I’m a shitty liar, too.

  “Forget about it,” I say, determined to put everything aside until we’re out and he’s okay. “I’m here,” I remind him, and he nods, a small smile softening his anguish.

  Looking down toward his pockets, I ask the question. “Don’t suppose you have your book? I could read to you.”

  He shakes his head.

  “How can I stop the pain?” Because he is in pain. I can see it. Some physical manifestation of his anxiety, and all I want is to take it away.

  He takes a breath. “Life is pain, highness. Anyone who says differently is selling something.”

  Then he smiles. He smiles, and the breaths that follow shake a little less.

  I stare at him, my brows knitting together.

  “Highness?”

  He laughs now, and I’m so relieved to see him like this, but I’m not getting the joke.

  “It’s from a movie, right?” I ask. “I swear I’ve heard that line before.”

  “It was from a book first, but yes, you might know it from a movie.”

  His voice teases—a challenge.

  “Challenge accepted, Mr. Keating. One more hint? Please?”

  I still hold his hand against my chest, squeezing it as I plead.

  “As you wish, Ms. Brooks.”

  He raises a brow, and his words no longer lack the breath needed to produce them.

  I gasp and bounce once on my toes. “The Princess Bride! I told you it was a movie!”

  He rolls his eyes, and if I wasn’t so happy he was talking and breathing with less distress, I would scoff. Instead I squeeze his hand, and he squeezes back.

  “Like I said. It was a book first. I’m starting to worry you may be sheltering yourself with all the books you reread. Maybe it’s time to change things up—read something by an American writer?”

  I gasp. This time I do pout, lips pursed and everything. When I remember our situation, how close my mouth is to his, I un-purse, my teeth clawing at my top lip as it tries to hide, as I try to hide. I may not have a fear of small spaces, but a small space that puts me in kissing distance with Noah rates up there with newfound causes of claustrophobia.

  “Come on,” he teases. “You’re missing out on one of the best pieces of contemporary American literature if you’ve only seen the movie.”

  I shrug. “Movie wasn’t that great. Not sure the book would be for me.” I bait him, and it works.

  Noah’s head tilts back against his door. “You’re killing me, Brooks. Forget the panic attack. You and your narrow-mindedness will kill me.”

 
His shoulders shake with laughter, and I kick at his foot in the tiny space between us. I ignore my heart and the tiny leap it takes at the sound of Brooks on Noah’s lips. I need to keep him talking, keep him distracted, keep him safe.

  “I’m not narrow-minded!” I yell. “Take that back!”

  He squeezes my hand, a sort of reset, and his laughter stops.

  “Sorry,” he says. “Your buttons are too easy to push. How about you read the book and see if your opinion changes? Since you are open-minded and all.”

  We’re interrupted by a pounding on the door to Oliver’s flat.

  “Brilliant!” Oliver cries. “Yes, yes, they’re right there!”

  Footsteps move through the hallway, and a familiar voice mumbles, “Bollocks,” in a familiar Scottish brogue.

  “Duncan?”

  “Right, Jordan? Is that you in there?”

  Relief pours out of me with my words. “Yes, Duncan. It’s me. Noah’s in here, too, and he’s not doing too well. Can you get us out?”

  Duncan hums under his breath. “Aye, Noah, too? Sure ya don’t want me to come back in another ten minutes?”

  Noah’s eyes narrow. “Not now, Duncan,” he says. Noah’s ease disappears, the spell of distraction broken.

  “Right, then,” Duncan starts. “Can you step away from the seam as much as you can? I’m just going to…”

  As he says this, a loud bang jars the calm, and I bury my head in Noah’s chest. A second later, the doors part to reveal Duncan on a step ladder, hammer raised over his head.

  “Thought it would take more than one hit!” he yells, triumphant.

  The doorstop rests at my feet along with the wood it tore from each of our doors. And I still hide my face against Noah’s heaving chest.

  We have an audience now, and the old Noah returns as if on cue. He lets go of my hand and pushes me up gently.

  “I think I’ve had enough movie time for the day,” he says, backing around Duncan and down the hall. “I’ll read the play tonight, Oliver. You don’t need to worry.”

  I take one step in his direction but think better of it when he puts his hand on the front door. “Thank you, Jordan,” he says, finally looking at me. “For, you know, thanks.”

  Phillip and Emily peek out from Oliver’s room, everyone following my gaze to Noah or Noah’s gaze to me.

  When he backs out the door, I let out a breath. Maybe I’m a better actor than I thought because he doesn’t know, he can’t know that I remember. No, I never read The Princess Bride, and I have only seen the movie once. But I remember it well. How could I not? Westley and Buttercup’s love story is one to be rivaled. And anyone who knows anything about their relationship can verify one thing for sure—every time Westley said, “As you wish,” to Buttercup, he meant, “I love you.”

  So I watch the space in the doorway where Noah stood, listen to him as he descends the stairs and exits the building. I tell myself not to hope, that Noah calling me Brooks while we stood so close means nothing. Because as soon as the physical distance was back, I was Jordan again. But my heart, my stupid, betraying heart, it leaps again.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  “Pouring the perfect pint is an art form.”

  While this may be true, it comes out as an admonition from Daniel as I look at my overly frothy glass of cider.

  “And that’s why,” he continues, “you will not be touching the Guinness until at least April.”

  I look to the other end of the bar where Elaina is drying glasses.

  “I thought you were supposed to be training me. He’s not the nicest teacher!”

  She smiles wickedly. “He’s nicer than me, and you know it.”

  She does have a point. I turn back to Daniel, who wears quite a smug expression for a guy wearing an apron. So it’s only a small waist apron barely noticeable against his fitted black T-shirt and jeans, but it is an apron.

  “Why don’t you show me, then?”

  I admit, I thought pouring and serving beverages would be much easier than this. I am counting on tips from this job to be my main spending money for this summer’s excursions, so I had better get good at this, quickly.

  “Here.” Daniel hands me another pint glass and guides my hand under the tap. “It’s all in the tilt of the glass and the speed of the pour. Once you get those two working together, you will have something that looks like this.”

  I’m lulled by the rhythm of his accent, which separates me from my perfect pour anxiety. Together, but mostly his doing, we pour the perfect pint.

  “Can I try again?” I’m a bit giddy about my success. Elaina gives me a knowing smile from the other end of the bar, and I can tell she’s happy to see me smiling. Today was my first rehearsal with my Shakespeare group, and while it went fine, a casual read-through, there’s still a certain discomfort to be in the same room with Noah yet divided by a distance so great. It will get easier. I keep telling myself that, which is why I smile back at Elaina now, acknowledging that here, for tonight, things can be easy—even if pouring the perfect pint isn’t.

  Daniel hands me another glass and this time steps back. I tilt, and pour, and my eyes widen. It’s beautiful. I gingerly place my creation down on the bar and present Daniel with my best self-satisfied grin.

  He nods in approval.

  “See? If you would have been so kind as to have showed me what to do ahead of time, as any teacher would, I could have produced this on my first pour.”

  Daniel looks from his pint to mine, sitting side by side on the bar, and then scratches anxiously at the back of his neck.

  “What? What did I do?”

  “Nothing, actually, except that we have these two pints but no customers yet. What do you propose we do with them?” I can see Elaina has taught him a thing or two about devilish grins.

  I raise my perfectly poured glass, and Daniel responds in kind.

  “Cheers,” I say.

  “Cheers.”

  That night, I’m the official pint girl at the Blue Lantern. I’m pretty decent with the bitters and stouts, but Daniel still pours the Guinness for the regulars. However, I have no idea how to make a mixed drink, and Elaina has made it clear that I am not allowed near the shot glasses, even if I am pouring the shot for someone else.

  Duncan comes in with a group of mates from Fyfe. Now that Noah knows I work here, I don’t expect to see him or Hailey tagging along with Duncan on any future outings.

  During a lull in the service, Daniel catches me reading in a quiet corner of the bar.

  “What’s that?” He peers over my shoulder. “Shakespeare, aye?”

  “Aye. Comedy of Errors. Do you study literature?”

  Daniel waves a hand. “Nah. I’m Welsh. They make us memorize all the plays in secondary school. We aren’t allowed to enter university if we can’t quote the bard on a whim.”

  “I knew it!” I mock. “You must think me so quaint for having to actually read the play rather than pull it from the depths of my memory.”

  “I do.”

  “So, does that mean you are not a literature major?”

  He shakes his head. “Philosophy,” he says, with a raised eyebrow.

  “Philosophy? What do you do with a degree in philosophy?”

  “I don’t know,” he considers. “Philosophize, I guess.” He smiles his crooked, knowing grin, and it’s hard not to smile back at him.

  “And is the Blue Lantern suitable grounds for philosophizing?”

  He laughs. “The best. I promise you, by the end of the evening, you will learn a lesson in philosophy from a patron of the bar.”

  I feel a wager coming on.

  “Care to make it interesting?” I ask.

  “I’m interested.”

  Suddenly Elaina is beside Daniel. “What are we making interesting?” Her eyes are wide with glee.

  “Okay,” he starts. “I say we base this on quality rather than quantity. Whoever has the best nugget of philosophical wisdom or advice by night’s end wins a
free pint.”

  I look at Elaina who crinkles up her nose.

  “I agree with Elaina. That’s no prize. I have a free pint in my hand right now.”

  Daniel thinks for a moment before making a new proposal.

  “Fine, whoever wins does not have to do table cleanup at the end of the night.”

  Elaina nods at me, and I nod at Daniel. “We will accept your deal, sir. Let the philosophy games begin, and may the number of chatty drunks be ever in your favor!”

  The pub closes at two a.m. When Elaina locks the door behind the last patron, it’s as if all three of us suddenly realize our exhaustion. Daniel is pouring pints and motioning for me and Elaina to come join him at the bar. Tonight, as with most Saturdays I assume, the place was busy and loud. As someone who’s been a patron far longer than an employee, I much prefer the sitting and socializing to the pouring and cleaning. But tips were good, and I only had to re-pour three out of most likely three-hundred pints. Probably not that much, but it felt like a lot.

  “Ladies,” Daniel says, sliding us each a pint. “Thank you for your hard work this evening. In order to determine which two of the three of us are going to take care of all the tables tonight, it’s time to share what we’ve found.”

  Elaina takes a sip of her lager and scowls. “My customers were shite tonight, but I can teach you a lesson. Never tell a patron who is flirting like an arse that you have a boyfriend, or he will go to the cute American bartender who can only pour lagers.”

  “I did get great tips tonight,” I admit. “Thanks for sending a few my way.”

  “You owe me at least ten quid,” she says.

  I raise my eyebrows. “Duncan or arsehole tips? You have to choose.”

  “Fine. I choose the boy, but do not tell him. He will start thinking crazy things.”

  Daniel interrupts. “Ladies, I think we’ve established that Elaina did learn something this evening. I’m not sure it’s the best nugget, though. Jordan, what did you come up with?”

  I smile. “Oh, I think I have a good one. This one comes from a local.”

  He purses his lips. “How do you know it’s a local?”

  “Um, let’s say she was older than your average student.”

  “How much older?” Elaina asks.