by A. J. Pine
Stunned silence. That’s my response as I watch him leave, but when the door bangs shut, I’m all words.
“What the hell was that? Miles, what do I… I don’t even…” Okay, maybe I’m all words, but I never claimed they were coherent.
Miles watches the door with me as he approaches the bar.
“Do you want control of your life, Mags?”
I nod. Everything I do is an attempt to regain control. Of course that’s what I want.
“It’s up to you, sweetheart. If you want my opinion, that was some romantic shit he just pulled, but if you want a say, if you want to be a part of this decision, then be a part of it.”
So I spring up from the stool and race outside to where Griffin sits, already behind the wheel of his truck. Thank God because I didn’t think this through. No coat.
I yank open the passenger-side door and climb in. Wide-eyed but grinning, Griffin waits for me to say something.
“I don’t want to date you,” I say, repeating what I keep telling him, keep telling myself.
“I know. We have an agreement. I was there when we made it.” His confidence doesn’t falter, but his words are painted with a slight edge he means for me to hear.
I rub the chill from my arms, and Griffin starts the truck.
“For the heat,” he explains.
“I know about our agreement, but that doesn’t mean you get to waltz in here with this sort of anti-grand gesture and knock me on my ass.”
He lets the mask fall, and there he is—him.
“Knock you on your ass? Maggie, I didn’t mean…”
“I know. This is uncharted territory. So you know what that means.”
He sighs. Because he knows.
“Ground rules?” he asks.
“Ground rules.”
“Lay them out for me,” he says. “Let me know how this works.”
I maneuver to my knees, my hands fisting in his jacket.
“Rule number one. Never, ever say good-bye without kissing me.”
His brown eyes darken almost to black.
“Did I knock you on your ass?” I ask.
“Yeah, Pippi.” His voice is low and gravely. “You did.”
“Good.” I run a hand through his hair, my itching palm finally getting its fill. “We’re even.”
He waits for me to come to him, and I press my lips to his, taste what I’ve been hungry for all week. But it’s more than just him. I taste his hunger, too. So we linger while the truck heats up, while his warm breath mingles with mine. For a few moments, it is the perfect kiss good-bye.
If only I knew what came after rule number one.
Chapter Ten
Griffin
I call the coffeehouse at three and recognize her voice as soon as she answers.
“Royal Grinds, may I help you?” she asks, her voice rushed and breathless, and I have to shake my head to remind myself that she’s at work and not half naked in my bathroom.
“Uhhh, don’t you mean Grounds?” I ask. “Though I’m kind of thinking I like your version better. I mean, who doesn’t want a royal grind?” So much for burying the naked thoughts.
“Shit. I’m sorry. Shit! I didn’t mean to swear. I mean, can I help you?”
Shit.
“Maggie. It’s okay. I was a dick. I shouldn’t have corrected you.”
For a few seconds, nothing but silence. Then, “Griffin?”
My name is a question but one filled with relief. “Maggie?”
A sigh, and then, “Oh, thank goodness. Miles knows I hate to answer the phone. I never get it right, but the line is so long. Some weird afternoon rush, and I’ve already messed up four drinks. But he’s with the last person in line now, and I grabbed the phone so he could finish. Anyway, I’m kind of just vomiting out words now, so yeah.”
I lean back on my leather recliner, happy to listen to her flustered verbal vomit for as long as it takes. In the silence that follows I remind myself why I called in the first place.
“Hi,” I say.
“Hi.”
“So. We don’t have a date tonight.”
She laughs, a quiet sound but not hidden. “No. We don’t.”
“Which is good,” I tell her. “Because if it was a date, I might be worried about what we should do, make sure I get everything right.”
Another laugh, this one not muted. “And I might be worried about smelling like a bottomless pot of coffee, or that I’ll fall asleep in middle of the evening because I’ve been up since five.”
“Oh,” I say, realizing I’ve only been thinking about tonight from my perspective. But shit. I didn’t consider this. I think about giving her another out, but she speaks before I can offer it to her.
“So what are we not doing tonight?” she asks, keeping up the game, which gives me the confidence to jump back in.
“That’s exactly why I called. I need a short inventory. If this was a date, what kinds of things would be deal breakers, which would guarantee you’d say no to a second date?”
“Oooh!” she says. “This is good. Um, how about, guy asks me out only to take me to his apartment to play video games. And for dinner, a frozen pizza.”
“This deal-breaker dude sounds like a cheap asshole.”
“Hey, I’m all for a good pizza,” she says, “but the frozen ones are full of additives that can really mess with your system.”
“A girl who’s careful about what she puts in her body. I see.”
“High maintenance, right?” she asks. “Good thing you’re not dating her.”
This time I laugh, but her answers already start to rearrange themselves into a plan. For our non-date.
“Video games are a deal breaker?” A guy’s gotta double check.
“Totally.” Her one word is a challenge, one that I eagerly accept. But now I’m pressed for time and need to get moving if I’m going to make this work.
“See you in an hour, Pippi.”
“Fifty-five minutes, Fancy Pants. Not that I’m counting.”
I am.
When she gets into my truck, I take in the aroma of the coffeehouse, the warmth and familiarity of the place that once held little meaning but now makes me think of nothing but her. I realize we haven’t established a ground rule for how we’re supposed to greet each other. I wait for her to slide to the edge of her seat, to take my coat in her hands like she did last night, but she’s a picture of caution, her body close to the door, seat belt clicked into place seconds after she sits down.
“Where to?” she asks, a slight tremor in her voice, and my pulse quickens at the sound of it. Because whatever label we give tonight, it’s something.
Then I think, fuck it, and I unlatch my seat belt so I can close the distance.
My plan is still to play it safe, to just let my lips touch her skin, but she turns to face me as I make my move, and my mouth is on hers. When she doesn’t push me away, I make full contact.
She’s warm, her cheek heating my palm. She tastes of caramel, espresso, and…mint? This observation gives me all the confidence I need as I let my head dip to her neck, my lips finding the freckles under her scarf. I smile against her, breathing her in, not registering any other scent but Maggie.
“Brushed your teeth for me, did ya?” I tease, and her gasp is her admission.
“Ground rule,” I say, my lips trailing over her throat as she swallows her acknowledgment. “I always kiss hello.”
…
Maggie
I don’t know what I was expecting, but I’m relieved when Griffin pulls into the parking garage of his apartment building. Too much tonight is new, out of my comfort zone, and despite what happened between us the last time I was here, there’s a certain safety in being somewhere I’ve been before.
“You approve?” he asks, noting my smile.
“So far. Yes. I was afraid you were going to take me somewhere and get all…date-y on me.”
We exit the vehicle and head inside. I eye the ingredients strewn a
cross the counter as I unbutton my coat. Fresh mozzarella, tomatoes. A jar of red sauce reads, “Organic pizza sauce. No additives.” Next to it is a pizza pan with dough kneaded into a circle. Homemade crust.
“Not frozen pizza,” I say, swallowing hard against the overwhelming need to throw my arms around him and kiss him senseless. It was a game, everything we said on the phone, but he listened in a way I couldn’t expect.
“Oh, shit, I forgot one thing,” he says.
He strides to the window on the far wall of the living room where he plucks leaves from a small potted plant. When he gets back to the kitchen, he drops the leaves on the counter next to the rest of the ingredients.
My jaw drops, and then my eyes meet his.
“You grow your own freaking herbs?” I ask, and if I wasn’t so impressed I’d want to smack that self-satisfied grin off his face. No, scratch that. I want to kiss him until I can’t remember my own name—the one thing I never forget—for surprising me at every turn, for letting me see all these little nuances I hope he doesn’t share with just anyone.
My eyes dart to the living room again where I remember the PlayStation and the giant flat-screen. Griffin’s coffee table is tidied now, no remotes in sight, and he follows me as I make my way to the couch, sitting down as I examine the stack of board games. Monopoly. Clue. Othello. Connect Four. And on top of the pile, a small red card-box that I pick up, my eyes pricking with unexpected tears.
“Uno. I played this a lot with my grandmother when I…” I catch myself before I go down that road, the one that will show Griffin just how complicated I can be. “Whenever I was sick,” I tell him, redirecting my thoughts. “She would sit with me in my room and play Uno for hours.”
Griffin sighs, and I want to ask him to rewind our entrance, to let me try it again. I should thank him for the most thoughtful date that wasn’t and do what I’m supposed to do—smile and laugh at his reversal of my worst date idea. Instead I swipe a tear from under my eye before it has a chance to fall. Because everything is a reminder of why I shouldn’t be here, why it’s too much too soon.
But when his arms wrap around me, bringing my back to his chest, I let my body fall against his, breathing out the tension.
His chin rests on my head. “You and your grandmother were close?” he asks, his tone hesitant but curious.
“You don’t have to do this, Griffin. We don’t have to do this, the whole getting to know you, sad family history thing. We said no back stories, remember?”
His head falls so his warm breath tickles my ear. “That was for last week. This is tonight. We don’t have to do or say anything you don’t want to. I’m instituting another ground rule.” His lips brush against my temple, and I squeeze my eyes shut but to no avail. Another tear escapes, this one not so much from what I remember but from what I know I won’t be able to forget. Him.
Stupid, stupid hitchhiking idea. If I had called Miles last week and told him I forgot to set my phone alarm, what would have happened? He could have sent one of the regular patrons to pick me up. Jeanie’s done it before. But I didn’t want to disappoint Miles again. As understanding as he’s been about my slow recovery, about whether or not I’ll ever fully recover based on my own standards, every friend has his limits. What would happen if I became too much, even for him?
“What’s the rule?” I ask, letting my head slide down his shoulder so I can see his face. His eyes stare back at me, dark and intent.
“That we keep making the rules up as we go, until we figure this out.”
I don’t ask him what this means, needing to leave any sort of definition of us unspoken. My rule, but one I keep to myself.
I slide back against the arm of the couch, out of his grasp but facing him, my knees to my chest.
“My mom died when I was really young, before I turned three. I never knew my dad. Not even sure if my grandparents did. It’s not something they liked to discuss, and I never really asked much. My grandparents raised me, so I always felt like I had a complete parental unit, you know? I didn’t need to know any more because I was happy with what I had.”
He doesn’t interrupt. I could stop now, but I don’t. Regurgitating what I do know, the parts of my life that are solid in my memory, feels good even if the memories are painful ones.
“My grandparents were big on board games. My friends used to come over for family game night when I was younger. Uno was our thing. My grandpa was fiercely competitive. It was pretty funny to watch him play.” I pause, the memory of him as clear as glass. What would those first weeks, or months, of recovery have been like if he was around to help Gram out, if she could have had a break from the repetition, the monotony of teaching me the rules of the game over and over again, when I’d known them all my life? Would he have been able to let me win like she did, watch me make the same mistakes in the same hand because I couldn’t retain the information?
Griffin pulls my ankles so my legs straighten and drape over his lap.
“You okay?” The skin between his eyes crinkles with concern, which means I must have been hanging out in my head for longer than it felt.
“Huh? Yeah, sorry. Just thinking.”
“Are they still around? Your grandparents?”
His hand gently strokes my thigh, up and down, the movement soothing, reassuring.
“My grandma is.” I sniff back any more tears. This is not going to be how this night goes. I’ve let him see as much as he needs to, as much as I can handle him seeing. “But she’s in Florida now.”
“I don’t blame her,” Griffin says, not pushing the issue, letting his unasked questions go unanswered. “It’s fucking cold out there.” He nods his head toward the window.
I laugh, and so does he, the mood shifting for now.
“You hungry?” he asks, and I nod. “Well, then we better get to work. You okay being sous chef?”
I swing my legs off his lap and stand, offering him a hand to pull him up after me.
“It’s only pizza, right? Is there really that much to do?”
Griffin’s eyes widen, and he staggers back in mock horror, clutching at his heart.
“If at the end of the evening you still feel that way, I will have failed you. Now go wash your hands. You’re in for a treat.”
I know. You don’t have to convince me.
Chapter Eleven
Griffin
Maggie sprawls on the recliner, her bottle of water resting next to her in the cup holder. I offered her one of my IPAs, but she doesn’t drink. Something else about additives. I didn’t press the issue, and only now that I pick at the last piece of pizza do I notice I’ve barely had a sip of mine.
“So you cook,” she says, shifting to her side to face me on the couch. “Like, you made me pizza from scratch. This beautiful pizza. With basil that you grew.”
She retrieves her mini Polaroid from the side table, providing photographic evidence that the two of us put away an entire pizza.
“I cook,” I say. “Usually only for myself. Or on rare occasions, my family.”
“Why only rare occasions?” She asks the question still looking at the photo. “They must love it.”
I start gathering our plates from the coffee table. “Because sharing food with my family means spending more time with my family.”
She yawns and stretches, her arms reaching above her head. Her Royal Grounds T-shirt moves with her, revealing a patch of porcelain skin above her jeans. I cough and clear my throat as I move toward the kitchen.
“Let me help.” Maggie lowers the footrest of the recliner, but I shake my head.
“Haven’t you been doing shit like this all day? How about you shuffle the deck?”
This request somehow revives her, and she springs to life as she reaches for the pile of games that were moved to the floor so we could eat.
“What’s wrong with spending time with your family?” she calls across the room. “I was raised by my grandparents, but I’ve always had this romanticized notion of a big
family, all these people to love.” She laughs. “People who have no choice but to love me back.”
Her words sound like she’s making a joke, but the wistfulness in her voice says otherwise. How do I tell her about my family without shattering her vision?
I pile everything in the sink, deciding to ignore the mess until morning. Back on the couch, I grab the bottle of beer I’ve been ignoring and allow myself a nice, long swig before answering.
“Your sisters seem great. Looks like you guys get along,” she adds.
“We do,” I say. “Things are different, though, when we’re all together in the same place. The big family thing—it does have its perks. More people to love, sure. But it also means more people to judge your every move. With me and my sisters, it’s like a game of deflection. Someone asks Natalie a question about my niece’s dad—deflect to Jen. My parents want to know when she’ll be done playing the role of student and ready to be an adult. She’ll pass the torch to Megan, who’s missed more than her share of family gatherings this year for a guy no one has met.”
I lean back, draining more of my bottle in a few hungry sips.
“And you?” Maggie asks. “What do you need to deflect?”
My head tips back and bangs lightly against the couch.
“You don’t want that laundry list,” I tell her.
She slides off the edge of the recliner, Uno deck in hand, and takes the seat on the couch next to me. Sitting cross-legged and facing my direction, she shuffles the deck, then spreads it like a fan.
“Pick a card,” she says, and I laugh.
“I’m pretty sure that’s not how the game is played.”
She hums her amusement, a grin playing on her lips. “Deflecting already, I see. Just pick a card.”
“What happens when I do?”
She huffs out a breath. “Whatever number you draw, that’s how many questions I get to ask you, and you have to answer sans deflection.”
“You’re sexy when you speak French.”
She rolls her eyes, and I laugh again.
“What happens if I get a WILD card?” I ask, reaching for the deck and thinking of ways to make Uno much more fun than anticipated.
