What If

by A. J. Pine

  That’s why one touch, one night of coffee and crazy, can bring me to this.

  “Griffin…I…” His fingers keep moving, and my thoughts and vision begin to blur. He must be holding me up now because I’m not sure I still have legs to support me. “Griffin…” I say again, not wanting to burst at the seams, not alone. “Together.” I press my back against him, and he groans. “Not alone.”

  I don’t think I’m making any sense until his fingers slip out, and he spins me toward him as I gasp.

  “Not alone.” He repeats my words, his brown eyes dark with need but also with understanding.

  Somehow the water turns off. Did he do that or me? A warm towel over my shoulders, and Griffin’s hand in mine, he leads me through another door. I sigh, noting the rumpled sheets and blanket, items of clothing strewn on his floor, grateful for some visual reminder of the disorder that is his life—that the image doesn’t hold up past the cozy living room. I ignore thoughts of why the bed may be in said condition, deciding not to let nameless, faceless others intrude on this moment.

  I drop my towel, and my hands instinctively go to my hair.

  “It all rinsed out while I was…” He grins, answering my unasked question, and his pause only makes the heat inside me build.

  I grab his hand as I back up toward the bed, and he pauses at the nightstand, retrieving a condom from the top drawer. This, for me, has always been the awkward part, the pause for safety, but when I watch Griffin roll it down his length, I realize there’s nothing safe—or awkward—about this moment.

  He follows my lead, letting me guide him down on top of me, and when he’s inside, there are no words, nothing that feels right to articulate what’s happening, so I respond with my hands splayed on his back, my lips connecting with his. In the shower I was overwhelmed, overcome with how it felt to be touched by him, but now my urgency is replaced with a tender ache, the knowledge that whatever this is will be over the second our bodies separate. Griffin must feel it, too, because he takes his time, uses gentle care as he rocks back and forth, my hips mirroring his rhythm. As the gray dawn threatens through the window, we try to outrun it, our pace growing as the euphoria consumes us.

  In case I wasn’t already on the verge, Griffin slides a finger between us, and my back arches as we erupt in a chorus of each other’s names.

  “Stay,” he says, handing me a T-shirt and a pair of clean boxers. “At least until your underwear dries.”

  He smirks as he strides back to the bed in a fresh pair himself, the threat of sleep already softening the cocky expression.

  I want to argue, but I want sleep more. Besides, tomorrow doesn’t really begin until I’ve gone to sleep and waken up to the new day, right? I’ve always been good with that brand of logic.

  “You don’t need to be anywhere this morning?” I ask, giving him the out this time, but I’m already wearing the T-shirt, sliding on the boxers.

  “Not early enough to matter.” He lets out a soft sigh. “What is it about a woman in men’s underwear?”

  I roll my eyes but secretly enjoy the compliment. Somehow what happened between us is still—happening. And here I am in his shirt and freaking underwear, postponing the inevitable for as long as I can.

  “I need my phone, then,” I tell him. “It has my alarm already set for work.”

  Griffin changes direction, heading for the bedroom door rather than the bed.

  “I’ll get your bag.”

  Seconds later my phone sits charging on his nightstand while I lie in the crook of his arm, as if we’ve done this hundreds of times before.

  “Can I give you a ride to work?” he asks, his voice lazy as he starts to drift off.

  I kiss his chest, at the same time trying to ignore thoughts of what it would be like to fall asleep like this every night—cared for, wanted.

  “Sure,” I say, and he doesn’t say anything more.

  Sleep comes for Griffin quick and easy, but instead of finding the same peaceful end to our evening or morning, the headache returns quickly, the throbbing relentless, and only an hour after we settle in together, I find myself rummaging through my bag searching for the prescription bottle I never let too far out of sight. In the bathroom I cup water in my hands to wash the small pill down and then crumple to the floor, eyes squeezed shut against the early morning light, my only comfort the cold ceramic tile.

  Twenty minutes. If I can make it through the next twenty minutes without him finding me like this, I can make my way home once I get to a main street.

  Breathe, I remind myself. So I do, silently counting my breaths and waiting for them to slow to an even rhythm, one that lets me know the prescription is kicking in and Griffin won’t wake to find me heaving over his toilet only steps from where we did things that were so much better than heaving.

  Eyes squeezed shut. Cheek on tile. Breathe in. Breathe out. Repeat.

  I make it to the point where the throbbing stops. Shaky and spent with exhaustion, I stand and find my clothes in a heap at the opposite door. I throw on my skirt but shove my shirt and panties in my bag. The T-shirt, maroon with the word Aberdeen printed across the chest, will have to be a casualty of the evening because it’s coming with me.

  I sneak back into the room to grab my phone, and I can’t resist the urge to stop and look. Asleep, he really is such a boy, the peacefulness of his features painting him far younger than what must be his twenty-two or twenty-three years.

  I allow my lips one last brush of his skin, the bruise beneath his eye. Not the lips. I’m toast if I kiss the lips.

  He doesn’t stir, and a minute later I’m out the door.

  I text Miles as I approach the first intersection I can find. Not gonna make it in today. Can you please cover for me? Thank the gods, I know this street. I’ll be home in ten minutes.

  Headache? Miles texts back, and I don’t know whether to feel like shit for waking him or promise to kiss him next time I see him for knowing me so well. And for not asking about Griffin.

  Yep. A doozie. Took my meds but am wiped. I owe you.

  His response is immediate. No worries, sweetheart. I’ll come by after closing.

  I smile, welcoming the visit since I know it means he’ll bring me the leftover pastries for us to polish off while watching Gilmore Girls DVDs. Royal Grounds closes at nine on Sundays. That gives me fifteen hours to get my shit together and come up with a story, because if I know Miles, and I do, his reprieve won’t last past then.

  Chapter Seven

  Griffin

  Don’t be late.

  My life is fucking Groundhog Day this weekend. While yesterday I woke up hung over, alone, lucky to see out of my right eye, today I’m sober, the remnants of an asshole attack by a chain-link fence hidden under my shirt. Again, I’m alone. The difference?

  Absence.

  I knew she’d be gone, but I wasn’t expecting to feel this—her absence. If she would have left when I gave her the chance, I may have had a What if? or two. But the second she led me into the shower, that was it. Now I can’t turn it off, the need to see her again.

  This morning I ignore Nat’s text and drive. I’m already late, so a quick detour won’t matter. I half expect to see Maggie on the same corner, for us to start over again from our first meeting. Knowing the shape I’m in now, would I let it happen again?

  I know the answer when I find myself throwing the truck into park in front of Royal Grounds.

  “Good morning, J. Crew,” is the greeting I get as I walk through the door, and I realize I have no idea what to say to Maggie if she’s here. I can’t let last night be the last time I see her.

  “Hey, man,” I say. “It’s Miles, right?” He nods, stepping out from behind the counter, making no attempt to hide that he’s checking me out, slowly, head to toe.

  “I’m Griffin. We met last night.” For a second I consider extending my hand to shake, but his growing smirk, fueled by my discomfort, tells me he’d leave me hanging just to watch me try to recover. �
�Is, uh, is Maggie working this morning?”

  His brows pull together. He thinks I should know the answer to my own question, but when I don’t say anything else, he says, “No. Not today,” his tone flat and dismissive, a total one eighty from his initial greeting.

  “Does she work on other Sundays?”

  He leans against one of the breakfast bar stools, arms crossed over his chest. Another barista glares at Miles from behind the counter, clearly not enjoying taking care of the morning rush by herself. But Miles’s eyes stay trained on me.

  “Why do you want to know?”

  The edge in his deep voice aims to intimidate me, but Miles doesn’t know he’s talking to an emotional fuckup who got himself punched in a bar just so he could feel something.

  I swallow the irony of why I’m here. Because for the hours I was with Maggie, I wasn’t drinking myself numb or waking up with a phone number on my hand, unsure who it belonged to. I wasn’t numb at all, and when I woke up, I hadn’t forgotten a thing. Not one thing.

  There is where my problem is. Remembering her—knowing what I’m missing.

  “Forget it,” I say, turning toward the door. “You’re right. I don’t know why I’m here.”

  “Wait,” he says, resignation in his tone, so I stop and face him again. “It’s not like I didn’t hear what your buddies were saying last night, what a typical Saturday night is like for you. I mean look at you.” He tilts his chin up in a nod of recognition. “A perfect, pretty little package you either abuse or use for evil rather than good.”

  I clench my fists at my sides, trying not to react. But the guy smiles. He fucking smiles because he thinks he has me figured out, and I can’t help it. I play defense.

  “Maggie knows that’s not why I came here last night. And it’s not why I’m here now.”

  Miles adjusts himself so he’s now sitting on the stool, and he crosses his arms again. Regardless of him checking me out, his muscles grow tense, and I get the feeling part of him wants to kick my ass. I’m taller, but he’s solid enough to do some damage. He wouldn’t be the first.

  “Now we’re getting somewhere,” he says, satisfaction in his voice. “She got to you. Maggie does that.” His voice softens with those three words.

  Confused, especially after he left with another guy last night, I ask, “Are you two…”

  “No…no.” He laughs, but the sound is forced. “Maggie and I would never work. I love her, and I’ll do anything for her. You and I…” He gestures between us. “We’re not so different. Only my inability to commit probably comes from a much less self-destructive place than yours.”

  I run my hands through my hair and sigh. He’s right. When it comes to relationships—shit, the word is so foreign even in thought—I am anything if not honest that if things go beyond a day, a week, whatever, it’s only until it stops being fun. Or it starts becoming work. On one rare occasion, I started investing and trusting. That’s what gets me in trouble—trust. After last night, I don’t trust myself to stay away. I can’t stay away, and that scares the shit out of me. But here I am, talking to a dude who seems half attracted to me, half ready to level me, and admittedly in love with Maggie on some level, even if it’s only as friends.

  “Is this where you ask me what my intentions are? Because I don’t have an answer to that.”

  Miles rubs his jaw, thinking. “Did she tell you she doesn’t date?”

  I nod.

  “And you don’t date. Not really. Am I right?”

  I nod again.

  “Then don’t date each other. There’s obviously something between you, and you’ve both got your fucking issues with labels.” He waves his hand in the air as he says this. “Call it whatever the hell you want until neither of you is chicken-shit to call it something more.” His eyes narrow. “She’s special, more than you know, and she can use another person in her corner. If you’re the guy, I can handle that.” He exhales, long and hard. “And if you hurt her, I’ll handle that, too.”

  I don’t doubt him for a second.

  “Does Maggie get a say in any of this?”

  He laughs, and though it’s genuine, I don’t second guess his fierce protection of Maggie.

  “Of course she does. It’s all Maggie’s say. But if she puts her faith in you—if she trusts you, and you betray that trust—I’m the one who’ll be there when you’re not. That’s all I’m saying.”

  He hops off the chair and heads back around the counter, so I turn to leave, letting his words sink in. If it didn’t make me happy to see someone so protective of her, I’d think he was a douche. I laugh to myself, thinking of Scotland, of Jordan, and how she earned the same fierce protectiveness from her roommate, Elaina. Elaina would have kicked my ass without question if I hurt Jordan. Lucky for me, Jordan kicked my ass instead. And fuck that I’m still thinking about it two years after the fact. “If she’s not in class or at the campus library, she’s here.” I hear Miles over my shoulder, so I pause at the door. “That’s pretty much her routine, working there or working here. But not today. She’ll be okay by tomorrow.”

  As soon as he says those last words, he curses under his breath. “Fuck.” I open my mouth to ask him what the hell he means, but he nudges the other barista out of the way, taking over with the line of customers at the counter. I guess our conversation is over.

  “Really?” Nat asks when I walk in fifteen minutes late. “You’re killing me here, baby brother.”

  I push past her to the kitchen where I can see the pitcher of mimosa calling me like a beacon to the counter. “Nat, you’re barely four years older than me. It’d be nice if you’d give it a rest sometimes.”

  She follows me until I stop, arms braced on the cool granite surface. “I’m sorry,” I say, eyes trained on the floor.

  “For what? Being late? Making it harder and harder for me cover for you so Dad still thinks you’re worth investing in for this whole eventual, business-partner thing? Or is it for being a dick to me just now?”

  This last one gets me to smile, and I pull her in for a hug, planting a kiss on the top of her head.

  “I’m going to go with A and C for now. I’m still thinking about option B.”

  She sighs, defeated, of course, by my brotherly charm, and returns the hug.

  “You could tell them. That’s an option.”

  “They could take away the car, the apartment. Those are options, too.”

  She pushes herself from me, leaving her hands on my shoulders. “And you can grow the fuck up, do something that makes you happy, and support yourself financially. That’s my favorite option.”

  “Mom! Earmuffs!”

  Violet has impeccable timing. I scoop her into a hug, and she squeals with laughter.

  “We have to do something about your mother’s language.”

  “Tell me about it,” she says before kissing me on the cheek. “Grandma wants more juice,” she says, brandishing an empty crystal champagne flute, save for the bits of orange juice pulp clinging to the sides.

  Nat grabs the glass from her, rolling her eyes. “Well, I guess Mom won’t care if you’re late.”

  “She never does,” I say, filling my mother’s glass and then one for myself.

  “Ugh,” she says. “When do you get to stop being the favorite simply because you’re the baby? Because it’s been annoying the crap out of me for twenty-three years.”

  I raise my eyebrows and look down at Vi, who crosses her arms and stares at her mom.

  “What?” Then the recognition registers on her face. “Damn it. Gah!” She slaps me on the shoulder. “This is your fault! You make me go all frustrated mom on you, and I lose any ability to censor myself. Violet, please tell him I don’t talk like this at home.”

  Violet grabs the flute back from her mother and then turns to me. “Fine. She’s better at home. But let’s get one thing straight.” She eyes us both. “I’m the favorite.”

  With that the little brat exits, and Nat and I both lose it.

>   “What’d we miss?” Megan and Jen brush past Violet as she exits, Jen holding her flute out for a refill and Megan nearly plowing into me with her eyes trained on her e-reader rather than where she’s walking.

  “Eyes on the road there, Rory Gilmore.” She bumps into me anyway.

  “Huh?”

  “Haha!” Jen laughs. “I doubt you’d ever catch Rory reading that!”

  “Huh?” Megan asks again.

  “I don’t even think she knows we call her that,” Jen adds.

  “We’ve been calling her that since the episode where Rory was reading Ulysses the same time she was.” Natalie turns to Megan. “Not quite Ulysses today? Tell your baby brother what you’re reading.”

  Megan’s eyes narrow. “Tell Mom and Dad who your sperm donor is.”

  “Oooh, I like where this is going.” Jen hops up on the counter next to the pitcher. “Are we ever going to find out?”

  With her successful deflection, Megan’s head falls back to her book, and she sidesteps the counter for the kitchen table and sits down. I follow her without notice and start reading over her shoulder.

  “Careful, Megan. Or Griff’s gonna read your porn.” I guess Jen lost interest in Nat’s baby daddy.

  Megan’s head shoots up, and my eyes go wide.

  “Porn? Rory reads porn now?” I ask.

  “It’s not porn,” Megan says, an eerie calm taking over her voice before her lips turn up in a wicked grin. “It’s male-male shifter porn, and it’s freaking fantastic.”

  I look at Jen, her shoulders shaking with laughter. My eyes switch to Megan who does the same. “Male-male? Girls like that?”

  Megan’s eyebrows shoot up. “Uh, yeah? Romance is romance, Griff. And shifter romance? Hot.”

  “Shifter?” I ask, trying to piece it all together.

  Nat finally joins in with a sigh. “They’re werewolves.”

  “With weredicks!” Jen shouts before all three of them burst into laughter.

  Stunned for the moment, I check both entrances to the kitchen to make sure Vi’s not hiding out, listening in for more evidence that her mom is, in fact, a potty mouth. Instead I find my mother lingering in the space between the kitchen and great room.