What If

by A. J. Pine

  “Hey, Mom.”

  Her smile is inviting as I approach and kiss her on the cheek. Like I predicted, she doesn’t care that I’m late.

  “Come out to the porch with me,” she says, leading me to the heated three-season room that separates the kitchen from the backyard.

  I glance over her shoulder and see my father playing chess with Violet, not sure what surprises me more—an eight-year-old who can kick my father’s ass in chess or the warm, easy smile on his face whenever he’s in Vi’s presence. I was too young to remember if he was ever like this with my sisters.

  Mom rocks on the bench glider, patting the space beside her for me to sit. She looks cozy in her leggings and over-sized sweater, her sandy hair streaked with the finest bits of silver that she ties back into a messy bun. But her smile fades before I even sit.

  “Sweetheart, you could at least pretend you’re not laughing in his face, make a show of it for a bit?”

  My feet planted firmly on the ground, I rock us back and forth but look straight ahead instead of at her.

  “You think I’m laughing?”

  She’s tried to hint before she thinks it’s all an act, each thing I do to tarnish my image in my father’s eyes. How do I explain going to Europe to find myself only to come back the same as when I left—lost? I want to be the guy I was when I wasn’t here. But that guy can’t exist in real life. In my life.

  “If not laughing, then what, Griffin? What are you doing to yourself?” She sets a ballet flat-covered foot on the ground, slowing the motion of the glider as she looks at me while I still stare straight ahead. “You have everything a guy your age could want, plus a secure future. So what is it with the drinking, the fights?”

  I stand and cross the small enclosed space, doing what I do best—creating distance.

  “First…” I raise my glass in her direction while she keeps hers noticeably cradled in her lap. “Let’s not do the whole hypocrisy thing, okay? I don’t think two little bar mishaps can be construed as fights.” Especially if I welcome the occasional split lip or black eye.

  Her regal shoulders sag, and for the first time in years I see a crack in my mother’s armor and wonder if she’s hoping to peek through mine, too. Then my thoughts shift to Maggie, to last night. What did she see when she looked at me? Who did she see? And did I ever get a glimpse of the real her, or was her mask even better than mine? I think of Miles and the words that were so obviously not meant for me to hear. She’ll be okay by tomorrow. She hides herself as well as I do. Problem is, I don’t know who I’d be if I came out from behind the curtain.

  Now here’s my mother, inviting me to be candid.

  That’s not what she really wants, though. She wants me to be who I’m supposed to be—to be grateful for the gift my family has bestowed upon me. So I throw on my easy smile, the one that says everything’s going to be fine.

  Perfect timing, too, because Vi leads Grandpa through the porch door, and even though the room has a table that seats eight, the space shrinks in my father’s presence.

  “Good morning, Griffin. Glad you could join us.”

  The edge in his voice is only enough to let me know of his disappointment—for being late. For being me instead of him. Who knows? I’ve grown too used to it to bother figuring it out.

  “Morning, Dad.”

  I give Violet’s hair a good ruffling before attempting to trade places with her and my father and heading back into the kitchen. “Food smells great. I know you, your mom, and your aunts went all out,” I say, looking at my niece. “I’m going to see if Nat needs any help before we eat.”

  “Give us a minute, will you?” My father looks at me and my mother, and I know which one of us he’s asking to leave.

  My mom kisses me on the cheek and stands up, no words of encouragement. Not even a prayer for my safe return. I may get away with a lot when it comes to her, but at the end of the day, she’s Dad’s better half, supporting his endgame regardless of what it means for mine.

  “Come on, Violet. Let us go see if your mom needs our assistance.”

  Vi grabs my mother’s hand and skips out the door without another thought.

  My father sits at the table, motioning me to join him.

  “I’m good right here,” I tell him, and he leans back in his chair, crossing his foot over his knee.

  “You left in a hurry last night before we’d finalized your choices. You need to start signing up for interviews, so I know where I might have to call in a favor.”

  I laugh. “Call in a favor? Jesus, Dad. Here you want me to help run your business, but you don’t think I can make it through a damn interview. Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

  He stands.

  “This has always been the plan, Griffin. Whatever you’ve been getting out of your system these past few months, it ends now.”

  The finality in his tone tells me this isn’t open for discussion. I know my place, to simply stand and listen, so I do, my teeth clenched so hard I feel my pulse in my temples.

  “This is more than your future we’re talking about,” he continues. “It’s the future of the company, the one you swore up and down four years ago you wanted to run. I didn’t get a thing handed to me growing up, so I made sure things would be different with my children. We’ve given you everything. Now it’s time for you to give back.”

  Give back? I want to ask. I don’t remember signing a contract at birth saying I owed my parents for whatever they handed to me growing up. Who knows, though? The kid I was, hell even the teen I was, probably would have signed it anyway. It’s not like I haven’t enjoyed the perks, but I’m beginning to understand what it is I might be getting out of my system—that guy. The one who would have signed on to that deal.

  He doesn’t say anything else. After a few long moments of holding eye contact, he pivots and leaves the room.

  Finally, I’m home free, back in the kitchen where my sisters are putting the finishing touches on Nat’s spread, and I paint on the smile everyone expects me to wear. I snag a piece of bacon off a tray, and Nat slaps my hand, not before the food is in my mouth, though.

  “Everyone’s supposed to contribute a dish, Griffin. This is the second brunch you’ve come empty-handed, which is shitty considering you cook better than those two.” She points a spatula at Jen and Megan who are already at the dining room table, mimosas in hand, ready to dig in.

  “Earmuffs,” I whisper, stealing one more piece and stuffing it in my mouth, then donning the oven mitts to grab Nat’s famous egg soufflé to bring to the table.

  “Fuck off,” she whispers.

  Violet calls out from the half-open door to the porch, her voice a sing-song accusation. “I heard you!”

  Nat’s shoulders slump in defeat, and I do my best to rein in my laughter, if only to save the soufflé.

  My sister rolls her eyes, bested once again by an eight-year-old.

  “I blame you, Uncle Griggs,” Nat calls after me, but I don’t turn around, don’t take the bait. My smile is no longer forced when I think of my precocious niece, when I hear Natalie mumble to herself:

  “Merde.”

  Chapter Eight

  Maggie

  I should be used to it by now, that leaving for the day is more like packing for a weekend vacation. But my upcoming exam and paper translates to extra supplies, which means an overloaded bag. Books? Check. A myriad of Post-its, colored note cards, and highlighters? Check again. Camera and my planner. I pet the top of my planner with sincere affection before fitting it into my bag. I was resistant at first to handwriting instead of putting my notes in my phone—until I saw how much more I remembered from the act of writing everything down. Now I’m a convert, or at least a hybrid.

  My phone alarm sounds with my second reminder. If I don’t leave for the bus now, I’m going to miss it. And I’m thinking I should lay off the hitchhiking for a while.

  Coat on, luggage over my shoulder, and I’m out the door and down the hall when I hear my name.<
br />
  “Need me to lock up, Mags?”

  Shit. Again? This weekend threw me off. He threw me off.

  “Thanks, Paige!” I call over my shoulder to my neighbor. Why she’s always up when I leave is beyond me since she usually works nights, but I love her for it. Can’t imagine what I’d do if someone had easy access to my place. Never mind if something gets stolen, but mess with my organization or make me deal with change in the one place I never have to? I don’t think I could handle that.

  I’m down the stairs and at the bus stop with minutes to spare, so I lean inside the covered depot and text Miles, apologizing for sleeping through our pastry-gorging Gilmore Girls session last night.

  Me: What time did you leave?

  Miles: Only stayed for one episode. Feeling better, sweetie? You were so out of it last night.

  I barely remember answering the door to let him in. It’s been a while since a migraine like yesterday’s. Even after the meds kicked in, I was too wiped out to function, which also means I was too wiped to tell him about Saturday. Miles didn’t push, just let me doze while he popped in a DVD and hung out.

  Me: Miss you. We’ll try again next Sunday?

  Miles: Always , sweetie…but one thing I need to tell you…

  The bus eases around the corner, and I scramble to find my bus card in my bag while not letting go of my phone. While Miles has a flare for drama, he’s not one to use it on me. But when the bus stops in front of me and he hasn’t followed up his previous text, I’m guessing he’s allowing for a dramatic pause.

  I get on the bus, swipe my card, and fall into the nearest seat. Still no text, and I have no patience.

  Me: WTF ? What do you need to tell me???

  Miles: Shit. Sorry. Had to say good-bye to my guest.

  I roll my eyes even though he can’t see me.

  Me: You had a bootie call after you left me? It must have been midnight. Who ARE you? And tell me Andrew doesn’t say yes to you at that time of night?

  I picture him laughing. It’s not like this is the first time we’ve had this conversation, because this is Miles. Miles loves everyone, and everyone loves Miles. It’s biologically impossible not to. There have been studies. His non-answer is the answer. I know he and Andrew are just having fun, but I find myself wanting to live vicariously through Miles, for him to find a happily ever after so I can sort of have one, too.

  Me: Guy or girl? Wait. I don’t care right now. WHAT DO YOU NEED TO TELL ME?

  This time his response is immediate.

  Miles: He came to Royal Grounds yesterday looking for you.

  I don’t need him to clarify. I do need to catch my breath and focus before I miss my stop. But my haste gets the better of me.

  Me: Do I want to know more?

  Miles: Do *I* need to know more? You left with him after closing and he shows up looking for you the next morning. Details, girl.

  Me: Later. Tell me what he said. Plz.

  Miles: Not much. But I think you did a number on him…and I think you should think about seeing him again.

  I don’t date. I can’t date. Miles knows this. It’s too much right now. I have him. I have Paige. Everything nice and neat and uncomplicated. Griffin—God, just thinking his name is enough to throw off my concentration. I shake my head, trying to erase the lingering thought of What if?

  It’s too late. I’ve already missed my stop.

  Shit. I gather my stuff from the seat next to me and hurry off at the next corner, only a block from where I need to be. I stop on the sidewalk to respond one more time to Miles before I miss my biology exam.

  Me: Missed my stop! Mention of a guy I spend a single crazy night with, and I can’t even get off a bus. That was me, thinking about seeing him again. Decision=no.

  I pick up the pace as I approach campus but keep checking my phone for Miles to respond.

  Miles: He did a number on you, too, sweetheart. It’s been two years. I think you’re ready for more.

  Me: Love you, I text, so he knows the conversation is over.

  Miles: Love you, too. Good luck on your test.

  Wanting more and being ready for more are two completely different things. Miles can only pretend to understand, and he does it well. But he doesn’t really get it, what it would be like to be with someone like me. It has been two years, and I have a hard time being with me most of the time.

  I got to be someone else Saturday night. Griffin gave me that. We played our parts for each other, and for a few spectacular hours, I didn’t think of alarms and planners. I got to take care of him instead of worrying I would need the caretaking, until I left. I did so well letting him see the old Maggie, not the one whose brain can’t multitask, whose body fights fatigue, food additives, and alcohol consumption with debilitating headaches, whose risk for a repeat of what happened two years ago increases simply because I’m still alive. Yeah, throw all that on the table for a guy who doesn’t do complicated—for a girl who can’t handle more complication.

  My stomach twists at the thought of him seeing me yesterday. Or maybe it twists at the thought of seeing him. Period.

  Fancy Pants has enough baggage of his own. He doesn’t need to add me to the list. And I sure as hell don’t need to add him to mine.

  Biology. I’m going to focus on biology, my exam, and researching this afternoon for my psychology paper.

  Biology. Not Griffin. Yeah. That’s a good mantra. Not Griffin.

  If only my brain would obey. But I’ve had two years to learn that when it comes to my own thoughts, I’m not always in charge. I’ve learned to compensate for short-term memory loss, kept my life organized and manageable through maintaining routines. Even though, little by little, I’ve established some semblance of normalcy, Griffin is anything but normal. When I’m still trying to get my life back, I can’t afford a distraction like him.

  …

  Griffin

  The same girl sits at the information desk from the last time I was here an hour ago. She was also there the time before that. Doesn’t she have a class to go to or something? She gives me the fucking side-eye this time, and I don’t blame her for being suspicious of a guy who comes into the library, takes a couple laps of each floor, and leaves. I decide this is the last trip before side-eyes calls security on me.

  I find her on the sixth floor at a table by herself. Her back faces me, but I could pick her out of a lineup with that gorgeous red hair pulled over her shoulder, the freckles I now know are splattered across her pale neck.

  I freeze for a second in the entryway, realizing I didn’t prepare for what would happen if I found her. Never mind I don’t have a Monday class and have been hanging out on campus all morning anyway. So, here she is. In the real world and not in the fantasy we created Saturday night. I guess it’s time to take a shot at reality.

  Her head bobs slightly as she reads something out of a large reference book, her hair blocking her peripheral vision, but when I pull the chair out next to her, she doesn’t flinch. I smile as I sit, seeing the phone next to the book and the earbud cable running up and into her hair.

  She’s dancing in her chair, and it’s probably the goofiest, most adorable thing I’ve ever seen, but my staring must give me away because her head jolts in my direction and she gasps.

  “Shhhh!” A patron to her right must not be one for gasping.

  “Sorry,” Maggie whispers but doesn’t take her eyes off me, and I grin as heat colors her ivory neck and cheeks.

  The table is covered with books, colored note cards, but everything is organized, has a specific place, nothing like the table would look if I was working.

  “Come downstairs to the coffee shop with me,” I say, knowing we can’t have any sort of conversation here. This also buys me time to figure out what, exactly, I’m going to say.

  “I’m researching,” she says, but there’s almost no resistance in her voice, and I let out a breath of relief. There are so many ways she could have reacted to seeing me, especially since she lef
t without a word yesterday. But she’s already gathering her note cards, paper-clipping them by color, a Post-it on top of each one detailing the subject of the pile. When she picks up her planner, a photo falls out of a guy who looks around our age. Something is written in the white space below his unsuspecting face, but Maggie grabs the picture as quickly as it falls.

  “Who’s that?” I ask, hating that I sound like I’m accusing her of something.

  “No one,” she says, her words pinched.

  Because I know what I came here to ask her, I have to make sure I didn’t misread what I felt Saturday night.

  “You don’t owe me any explanations, so…”

  “No, Griffin. I don’t owe you anything.” Her voice shakes, though, as she says the words, and I see myself as she must—the way I see my father when he speaks to me.

  I lean in my seat and let my head hang back with a groan. When my eyes meet hers again I say, “I’m sorry, Maggie. You don’t owe me anything, and I’m a dick for insinuating that you do.”

  Her posture relaxes, and though she doesn’t say anything else, she finishes packing up her books and study materials.

  I raise my brows at her obvious activity. “So that’s a yes, then, to my coffee request?”

  I let out a long, hopeful breath and wait for her to return my smile, but instead she chews on her top lip.

  “I don’t want to give you the wrong idea, Griffin. But we can’t talk here. So, yeah. It’s a yes, but only to explain why we are a no.”

  Baby steps. She’s not telling me to fuck off. I guess that’s a start.

  I buy her coffee, hoping I have at least as long as it takes her to drink it to figure this out.

  She sips her latte, and I decide to wait, let her say something first.

  “I’m sorry,” she finally says, “for not saying good-bye yesterday. I figured a clean break would be easier than an awkward farewell.”

  Something in her tone doesn’t add up. There’s a strain to her words, and I don’t believe her. I think back to Miles and his slipup, and I’m sure she’s hiding something, but I don’t push it. Baby steps.