by A. J. Pine
“It’s okay,” I tell her. “I get it.”
I hesitate, not wanting to bombard her with the plan I’ve got forming.
“Look, Griffin. Saturday was… It was wonderful. Spectacular, actually. But I thought I was clear. I’m not the dating type. You’re certainly not the dating type.”
I steel myself at her words, hoping she doesn’t see my slight wince. She’s right. I’m not the dating type. My friends made that clear. I made that clear. But here I am, ready to state my case.
“You’re right. I don’t do well with relationships. They’re messy and complicated, and I want nothing to do with any of that. But what if things didn’t have to get that far? What if we mutually agree to not date?”
Her brows furrow, and I have to concentrate on not leaning over and kissing the wrinkled skin between them. In a little over twenty-four hours, how did I forget how beautiful she is, how every little shift in her expression lets a tiny bit of the person she’s hiding seep out and into view?
“I don’t understand,” she says, but she’s listening—interested.
I lean forward on the table, hoping to convince not only by words but by proximity.
“You’re right. Saturday was…” I don’t have the words because I’ve never had a night like that, but telling her this will scare her away. Hell, it’s enough to scare me away.
“We weren’t dating, right?” I ask her, and she nods. “We made it clear we weren’t looking for anything more, but shit, Pippi. Why deny ourselves that kind of fun because we don’t want the baggage?”
I lean in closer, close enough to hear the tremble in her exhale, my lips a breath from hers. “No baggage,” I say. “Just more of this.”
I let my lips touch hers, waiting for her to pull away. She doesn’t. Instead she kisses me back, and everything about the feeling of her mouth on mine again tells me that neither of us believes the lie, but I’ll hide behind it if she’ll do it with me.
“No baggage.” Her voice is airy as she nods her agreement. “And when we think it’s getting complicated…not dating?”
“A clean break. No bad feelings. We just walk away.” I have to force the last sentence. Three trips to the library to find her are enough to prove I’m full of shit, but she doesn’t need to know that. When she’s ready to walk away, I’ll let her. Because it will be what’s best for both of us. All I know is that the need to see her again overpowers my logic. Or at least gives me the ability to ignore it.
She licks her bottom lip, and I’m ready to complicate things right here in the coffee shop, but I restrain myself, waiting for her to take the lead.
“The picture,” she says. “I’m not explaining, but do you believe me that he was no one important?”
“Who could be more important than me?” I ask, giving myself an internal fist pump. She doesn’t have to explain because she already told me all I need to know.
“I knew you were going to be trouble,” she says.
“The best kind, Pippi.” And I kiss her again.
Chapter Nine
Maggie
Straighten the mugs on the back counter. Organize the display on the front counter. Refill any missing pastries. Repeat.
This is my Friday night. Oh, and Miles giving me the one raised brow every time his eye catches mine. When I can’t take it anymore—the anticipation of what he’s going to say or ask or accuse me of—I crack.
“What?” I hop up on the back counter and cross my arms, and for a minute Miles continues to busy himself wiping down the espresso machine¸ even though we still have an hour before closing, and George and Jeanie are only one beverage in. With their late-night caffeinating, I doubt either of them sleep. But I love their company—and their business—so I don’t complain. There are also the two girls who ordered our bottomless pot of coffee, though I don’t know what for. One’s had her nose stuck in her tablet all night while the other keeps getting up to walk and talk on her phone each time it rings.
I think I recognize one or both of them but realize that’s how I feel about pretty much everyone after I’ve met them, so I don’t dwell on whether or not I’m being rude by not going to say hi. Other than ordering their coffees from Miles, they haven’t glanced my way at all.
Miles wipes the crusted milk off the foaming wand and gives the counter a once-over before finally turning to face me.
His expression is…wary. He’s only ever looked at me with ridiculous, unconditional love and merriment. That’s the best word for his personality—merry. His ever-present grin and lack of taking anyone or anything too seriously—that’s my Miles. At my worst, his eyes smile, regardless of his expression. Even when he’s the picture of concentration, the devilish mischief in his baby blues never quite disappears.
It doesn’t matter that we made the horrible mistake of pushing our friendship beyond its boundaries. We came out of it laughing. A little embarrassed. A little disappointed. But with the laughter and love of the best friends we were before and still are today.
“What?” I ask again. Any trace of accusation fizzles from my voice, which instead is laced with concern.
Miles scans the coffeehouse, which, other than our Friday night regulars, is starting to empty. I guess he deems the crowd worthy of ignoring because he slides onto the counter opposite me, his back to the patrons.
“I’ve never pushed you, right?” he asks, and I’m not sure of his meaning. My hesitation must relay the message because he continues. “We’ve known each other since your freshman year, through everything that’s happened in the past two years, and I’ve never pushed you to tell me anything you didn’t want to, to share anything outside of your comfort zone. Am I making sense?”
I nod, aware now of where this is going, aware of the texts I didn’t ignore but brushed off with countless excuses, somehow feeling the need to keep whatever happened with me and Griffin last weekend and then on Monday private. Even now when I have to tell him something, I want to tuck it away, keep it safe, because saying it will make it real.
I can’t stop thinking about him. For once I want to forget, and I can’t. He’s in my head, in my not-so-innocent dreams, and I haven’t seen him or heard from him since he left the library Monday afternoon.
Which shouldn’t matter because we’re not dating. It was my idea not to exchange phone numbers. Why would two people who are nothing more than that—two people—do something as permanent as program each other into their phones? I hold back a laugh, at the ridiculous thought of permanence in my life, in someone like Griffin’s life.
Someone like Griffin. Because I do know him, right? I know his type. Yet he let me glimpse the hint of something more. He brought me to his place, showed me photos of him and his sisters. He gave me an out, but I didn’t leave, not until I had to.
Permanence.
Neither of us wants that. We were clear. But I can’t help reading between the lines and the hours and days it’s been since we last spoke, since we made our crazy agreement, since I would have agreed to anything he’d asked once he showed up at my table in the library. When he left I headed back to the sixth floor to research, but not before the girl working the information desk asked me if I was okay, that she’d watched the guy I was with come in and out of the library three times that day.
“Was he bothering you?” she’d asked, and I’m not sure if I gave her any more of an answer than the goofy grin on my face.
He came looking for me, again and again until he found me.
I’ve been a shitty friend to Miles this week, and he’s calling me on it. But I can’t help the smile taking over my features, for a few seconds forgetting that for all of Griffin’s charm—and talents at convincing me to do what I know will hurt us both in the end—I haven’t heard from him since that day.
So I straighten the mugs on the back counter. Organize the display on the front counter. Refill any missing pastries. Repeat. But I have to come clean now with Miles, admit to spending tonight waiting and hoping for a twenty-
something college guy to choose coffee over more obvious Friday evening options.
“You’re right,” I start. “You’ve never pushed me, and I appreciate your patience.”
“But?” he asks, anticipating my next word.
I sigh. “But I want you to be patient for a little while longer. Until I figure this out.” Whatever this may be.
Miles hops off the counter and crosses to where I sit. He leans his forehead against mine and rests it there for a few seconds.
“Ya gotta start living again.” His deep voice is gentle, and his shoulders slump. “I’ll admit it.” He straightens to meet my gaze. “I used to worry what life would be like for you after the whole almost-dying thing. But you came back, Mags. And you’re kicking ass at being alive. I just want to see you live.” He nods to my drawings on the back wall. “You’re hiding in there,” he says. “And in here.” He taps my forehead lightly with his index finger.
“I’m okay,” I tell him, and it’s as close to the truth as I can be. I’m as okay as I may get. That much is true. If I could get okay-er? If I knew that was a possibility, I might do something foolish. I might allow myself to hope.
“I almost believe you.” He backs away, the lull of the dwindling patrons interrupted by the whoosh of the door opening, the threat of the impending Minnesota winter evident in the wind gust as it enters along with the person at the door.
“Huh,” Miles starts, as we both lock eyes on Griffin Reed, who as soon as he enters is flagged down by the occupants of one of the few tables of people left. The two girls with the bottomless pot of coffee. He kisses each of them, on the cheek, but still. My insides riot at the sight of it. He hasn’t even looked at me yet, but it’s not like he doesn’t know I’m here, right?
Miles grabs my hand and squeezes it, a sign that I have not mastered the art of caging my reactions when I’m thrown emotionally off kilter.
But something shifts when Griffin’s gaze turns in our direction—his and those of the two girls at the table. The familiarity. The resemblance. Maybe it would have clicked if there were three girls instead of two. If I had seen a smile on either of their faces before Griffin’s arrival. Because they share it, that smile. All three of them. Not to mention different shades of the sandy hair that, at least for Griffin, offers the perfect contrast to his deep chocolate eyes.
I exhale, long and shaky, but my stomach no longer threatens to leap out of my throat. My hand relaxes in Miles’s grip.
“You okay?” he asks, and I nod as I watch Griffin leave the two girls behind, their eyes trailing after him as he makes his way to the counter.
“Uh-huh,” I say. “I think so.”
Miles leans in close to whisper in my ear. “Remember,” his voice both teases and pleads. “Remember how to live.”
He lets my hand go and greets Griffin with that raised chin thing guys do, and Griffin responds with a, “Hey, man.” Then Miles is gone, busying himself with the preliminary closing routines.
Griffin sits on a bar stool, and I stare at him for a second, noting the difference.
“Your eye,” I say. “It looks good.” The lack of evidence of a night gone wrong transforms him into someone else entirely, if only by appearance.
“Managed to stay out of trouble this week.” His grin lights up his face, lights up the whole goddamn room because this revelation seems to mean something to him.
My hand fidgets in my apron pocket, but tonight it’s free of any requisite photos. No reminders needed, not of him. I haven’t forgotten the touch of his skin on mine, or our kiss in the library coffee shop, one that dripped with possibility. I can’t remember if I locked my apartment door this morning, but I remember him. And there’s nothing more terrifying than the strength of this memory because with it comes ideas I’ve trained myself to live without: Want. Need. Hope.
“Can I make you a drink before we shut everything down?”
He shakes his head. “I didn’t come here for a drink, Maggie.”
My cheeks burn. The use of my name instead of Pippi throws me. It lacks the playfulness of the nickname, evokes a strange intimacy. I hesitate longer than I should to respond, and Griffin fills the silence.
“I didn’t know if I should come here tonight,” he says. “I sat in my apartment, ignoring texts from my buddies about where to meet them because all I wanted to do was see this girl who didn’t want to give me her number.”
From anyone else this would sound like an admission, but not Griffin. In the short time I’ve known him, he hasn’t held back. What he thinks, he says.
I find my voice again. “This girl…she sounds like a pain in the ass.”
He laughs, and I feel the tension melting between us. We can do this. Our non this.
“She is, now that you mention it. I wasn’t even sure if she worked tonight, but there was no way to ask her.”
I grab a stack of sticky notes from my apron and jot down a phone number, then slap it to Griffin’s chest. His brows rise.
“Not my number. The coffeehouse number. You know, so you can call and check who’s working on any given day or night.”
He opens his mouth to respond but is interrupted as his female counterparts approach him on either side.
“We won’t creep on your visit any longer,” the girl to his right says as she starts spinning back and forth on the stool next to him.
“But glad we got to see you for a few.” This from the other girl who, although still standing, barely matches Griffin’s height where he sits.
The corners of his mouth quirk up before he says anything to confirm what I already know.
“Maggie, this is my sister Jen.” He nods to the girl on the stool, and her hand juts in my direction, strong and eager.
“So, so great to meet you. You have no idea,” Jen says.
The other girl, the one still standing, rolls her eyes. “What she means is…” She extends her hand as well, and we shake. “…we don’t meet many of Griffin’s…friends. So this is kind of a treat. I’m Megan.”
His sisters. Two out of the three I saw in the photos on his table.
His sisters. He introduced me to family. This is so not part of the deal. “I’m Maggie.” The plan is to plaster on the fake smile I use for any customer I don’t know well, but the plan is averted when I can’t help but get caught up in the warmth that spreads between the three of them, the affection. It spreads like an airborne contagion, and I’m all but willing to let myself get infected by this foreign experience—this connection.
“Well,” Megan says, looking across Griffin to Jen. “We should go.”
Jen nudges her brother in the shoulder with her own.
“We’ll see you Sunday?” she asks, and Griffin nods his reply.
“See you then,” Megan says, mussing his hair, and I let out a small bubble of laughter.
Miles sits across the room with George and Jeanie at their table. His eye catches mine, and the grin I wear falls on him now.
He shrugs, questions me with his dark brows.
I shrug back, not sure how to respond or what the right answer is. I’m starting to remember what it’s like to let go of the fear, to simply live. The old Maggie could have done this. Miles can vouch for that. He has such faith I can be that girl again.
Then there’s this guy in front of me—who doesn’t want complicated but who makes me feel like I might be more than the complications I bring to the table. In his presence I feel like that other girl, the me I could have been, the one who’s fought so hard to get back and steal center stage from the one who took her place.
As Griffin’s sisters head toward the door, his focus comes back to me. He runs a hand through his tousled hair, and my palms itch to do the same.
“So, yeah. I didn’t quite mean to ambush you like that. With Jen and Megan.”
This is my moment where I either encourage him or don’t. Where I take a chance at making room for more, for however long I can keep up.
My deliberation lasts only
seconds before I step around the counter, around our metaphorical safety zone, and take over the seat Griffin’s sister vacated.
“If that’s an apology,” I tell him. “It isn’t necessary. They’re lovely.”
He peels the sticky note off his chest and slams it down on the counter.
“Megan texted to ask me a question, and when she said she and Jen were here, I figured I had to ask.”
“Ask what?”
“If there was a gorgeous barista working tonight—and, of course, I first had to read a few of Megan’s thoughts about Miles that I can never un-see.”
Sweaty palms. This fluttering in my stomach. It’s too much. He’s too much, but I can’t back away.
“Soooo…you came here to see Miles?”
Griffin laughs, and this sound is more contagious than anything yet, not because it makes me laugh, too, but because of how it feels to be the one to cause this reaction in him. The bitter edge that hung off his smile that first day we met is long gone, replaced by something far better.
“I came here to not ask you out on a date.” He pauses, but his tone makes it clear he’s not done.
I cross my arms, hoping to hide the thundering of my heart against my ribs.
“Okay,” I say, drawing out the last syllable.
“Because we’re not dating,” he continues. “Which is why you won’t give me your number…and why I have to not ask you out in person.”
“Makes sense,” I admit, playing along, while hoping not to give away how much the anticipation is killing me.
“You work tomorrow?” he asks.
“Early shift!” Miles calls from behind us, the freaking eavesdropper.
I roll my eyes, acknowledging our audience. “I’m off at four.”
“Four it is,” he says, and then he stands up, glancing at the note still stuck to the counter. “I think I’ve done okay finding you without that so far,” he muses and backs toward the door.
What?
“Good night, Pippi.” He turns his attention to Miles. “Miles.”
