by A. J. Pine
I sit up and swing my legs off the bed, tracing the trail of my clothing throughout the bedroom.
“Oh shit,” I say once I have my T-shirt back on. “I have nothing to wear!”
How could I say yes to this stupid idea? I’m going to meet his family in a day-old coffeehouse T-shirt and jeans? Plus I smell like a stale pot of coffee. I can change my mind. I’m a master at making up excuses. This isn’t part of the plan, and it’s only going to make things harder. I’ll fake a call from Miles that I need to fill a shift. But he cuts me off before I get the words out.
“You can wear that,” he says, pointing to a Minnesota hoodie draped over a chair. I peel off my wrinkled Tee and swap it for the sweatshirt, and hell if it doesn’t smell like apples.
“Thanks.”
My tone is clipped, and his eyes narrow at the sound of it. In a room where we should have released every bit of tension along with a few yelps of pleasure, a tightness fills the air, one that is my fault. The anticipation of brunch—and what it means that he wants to bring me home—isn’t part of our deal.
He wants to bring me home, and I said yes, which means he doesn’t deserve the fallout from my heightened anxiety.
DEFCON 1 blares from my bag. Meds.
“Just…give me a second?” I ask, and he nods, brows crinkled as he stares toward the source of the sound. “Forgot to turn off my alarm.”
I back into the bathroom and kill the alarm. Once the door is closed, I pull out my backup supply of daily meds, the ones that hang in my bag just in case. This morning counts as just in case.
After rushing through the routine and splashing some water on my face just to snap myself out of this frenzy, I take a deep breath and head back to his room.
“That’s one hell of an alarm,” he says. “You must be a heavier sleeper than I thought.”
My only response is a nervous laugh. Crisis averted, for now. But I maintain my early assertions of this guy. Griffin Reed is a distraction.
Swimming in his garment, I hop back on the bed next to him, putting on the show of all smiles and whimsy, the Maggie he met last week. That’s the Maggie he wants to hop in the car. She’s fun. Families love her, and maybe I can pull her off for a few hours.
“Come on,” I say, nudging him toward the edge. “Let’s go have your family scare the shit out of me.”
He grins. “You’re gonna be great.”
I smile back. He’s right. Parents love me. They always have.
As long as I can keep up the show.
Chapter Thirteen
Griffin
Violet opens the door before I have a chance to grab the door knob and throws herself into my arms.
“You’re early! Mom owes me five dollars! Hey, Mom, you owe me five bucks!”
I lower my niece to her feet and plant a kiss on her forehead.
“You guys are placing bets on my arrival?”
Maggie stands next to me, laughing under her breath.
“Hey,” Violet starts. “I bet in your favor. It’s Mom you should be angry at. And Auntie Megan and Auntie Jen.” She looks at Maggie, noticing for the first time that I’m not alone.
“Who’s your friend?” Violet extends a hand in Maggie’s direction. “I’m Violet.”
“I’m Maggie.”
The two shake hands, and it’s only now I realize what I’ve done by bringing her here. Sure, she gets to see the best parts of my life, like Vi and my sisters, when they aren’t betting against me. But she’s going to see the other parts, too, everything I’ve always hidden from anyone who knows me, one of the reasons I keep everything outside of the Reed family simple, easy. Scotland was also a good lesson—in the art of pretending. Letting myself fall for Jordan, someone who loved someone else—I was such an asshole. No. The show I put on suits me better, enough that I’ve started to believe it. How could I be anyone other than who I trained myself to be?
I know better now. Self-preservation wins every time. So what am I doing letting my life outside these doors collide with what lies within? Self-preservation in the form of self-sabotage? The me of only a week ago wouldn’t have called her after the first night. Up until now, I thought I knew my own agenda—to let her get a glimpse and then send her running. But that’s not it.
Last night when I asked her to come here, all I could think about was wanting her with me for a few more hours, for another day. To soak up whatever time we had before everything went south, as it always does. As I know it will.
I lace my fingers through hers and squeeze her hand. She squeezes back.
I want her here because I want her here. That’s the only conscious reason I can think of, and my chest constricts at the thought of it. I want her here.
The second our hands relax, Violet pulls her from me and toward the kitchen.
“You need to come meet everyone else,” she says.
Maggie moves away from me, looking back over her shoulder, and I shrug as she flashes me a confused-but-resigned smile, waving with her free hand, the one that was just in mine. My imagination twists the meaning of her look—as if she knows me so well already—into one of pity.
I shake my head free of this thought, forcing myself to remember her in my bed a little more than an hour ago. No such pity existed then.
“Griffin.” The voice comes from my right, the foyer entrance to the great room.
“Hey, Dad.” I shove my hands into my front pockets—my automatic response to seeing him—to avoid the awkwardness of feeling like our greeting should include some sort of familial gesture like a hug or a handshake when neither of us has the inclination to do it.
For a second I think he’s about to do it anyway, his right hand leaving his side, but instead his fingers rake through his thick mix of sandy-gray hair. He almost looks younger when he does this, something I know is a reflex of mine. But I tell myself our similarities end there, at the surface.
“Did I hear Violet say there was someone to meet?”
I open my mouth to answer him, to tell him about Maggie, but he doesn’t want an answer.
“I was hoping you’d stay for a bit after your sisters leave so we could talk about your applications. I know you haven’t received any responses yet, but we should start prioritizing, strategizing where we can get you some internships based on where you’ll be getting that MBA.”
I free my hands from my pockets, clasping them behind my neck as I muster my best apologetic grin.
“I’m really sorry, Dad. Maggie needs to be at work in a couple hours, and I promised I’d drop her off.” And there it is, my out. As much as I tell myself I wanted Maggie here because I wanted her here, a part of me cringes at my selfishness, at how I just used her without her knowledge. Even though she’s not a witness to it, I want to take back my deflection, to fucking say what I should have said two years ago.
This isn’t what I want. It’s never been what I wanted. Oh, and by the way. I don’t actually know what I want since I’ve always been expected to be you. But thanks for the thousands of dollars you’ve thrown at me to keep me in place. Much appreciated.
Instead I say, “Maybe next week, Dad,” knowing it will never happen because Black Friday is reunion day, and for some inexplicable reason, I decided to spend Thanksgiving weekend with Jordan and Noah. I’ll exchange standing up to my father for spending an evening with the girl I fell for and the guy she wanted instead of me.
There will be a hotel and a bar and everything I need to blot out the memories when they get too real. And maybe, just maybe, I won’t have to do it alone.
…
Maggie
Jen, Megan, Natalie. Jen, Megan, Natalie. I repeat the silent mantra in my head, his sisters’ names in birth-order sequence, over and over while silverware clanks against dishes, while Griffin bears the constant ribbing of his siblings, yet all in fun. And love. So much love between them all. Even his dad—about whom he hasn’t said much beyond that night in the parking garage—softens whenever his granddaughter looks hi
s way.
Her name isn’t part of my mantra, so I’ve already lost it.
“Won’t you try the mimosa, Maggie?” Griffin’s mom sits across from me, the pitcher raised and ready to pour.
“No, thank you. I don’t drink.” The words come out like an apology, and I want a do-over. But when I look around the table, Griffin to one side of me, his niece on the other, everyone’s glass is filled, the young girl’s flute containing only OJ, I assume, but she drinks from the flute, modeling the adults.
The silence means they’re waiting, as if what I said needs to be explained.
“I get migraines,” I tell them, hoping the half truth will suffice. “Alcohol is a trigger for some people, and I’m one of the lucky ones.” I shrug, like it’s no big deal, like I never went to a frat party for the cheap beer or Jell-O shots. Now that’s not even an option. I’m the girl with the ready-to-go syringe for when the headache comes on too fast, the daily blood thinners I take increasing the effect of alcohol in my system at an exponential rate.
“Dude. That sucks.” This from the young niece at my right.
“Vi?” Griffin half chastises her from the other side of me, and I try to file away her name, or nickname at least. What did it stand for?
This isn’t the place to whip out an instant camera and start snapping pics. It’s not something I do with strangers. Griffin was different. I was able to take that first shot under the pretense of safeguarding my life from a would-be Saturday-morning serial killer. After that it just felt okay to do. It felt right.
“Are you a student?” The question comes from the end of the table, from the oldest sister. Megan. No, Jen. Nat has the daughter. Jen, Megan, Nat.
“Yep. I’m a Gopher.”
“What are you studying?”
I turn right, to Megan at the other end.
“I’m double majoring in art and psychology.”
Griffin’s hand moves under the table to rest on my knee. He gives me a reassuring squeeze, a tacit You’re doing great. I wish there was some way to say back, You have no idea.
“What will you do with that double major?” Straight across from me, Griffin’s father asks the question nicely enough, minus the hint of condescension in the word do.
Griffin interrupts. “Something fantastic. From what I’ve seen, she’s an amazing artist.”
My breath catches in my throat when I let my eyes go to his, warmed by this interjection, but for a few long moments unsure of why he would say this. Of how he knows.
“Art therapy,” I respond absently to Griffin’s father. Then I turn back to Griffin. “But you’ve never seen my work,” I say, feeling the heat rise up my neck as my palms begin to sweat. Maybe he’s seen my sketches at the coffee shop, but he doesn’t know they’re mine. Does he?
His head angles toward mine, and he whispers in my ear, “Right. Our little secret. I think I’d call your work fence-hopping amazing.”
I force a nervous laugh, but then slide my chair from the table.
“I’m sorry. Can someone point me toward the nearest bathroom?”
“Maggie?”
He stands with me, and the worry in his eyes must mirror the same in mine.
“I just need a minute. Please.”
I feel the entire table of Reeds staring at me, but I only look at Griffin.
“Through the kitchen and on your right,” he says, and I’m gone as soon as he says the words.
I must hold my breath for the whole walk to the bathroom because once I’m closed inside, I’m hyperventilating.
I fumble in my bag for my phone and text Miles.
Me: Talk me down.
As always, he replies immediately.
Miles: Do I need details?
I shake my head, but then realize he can’t see me.
Me: No. Just tell me Griffin’s family doesn’t think I’m crazy for bailing in the middle of a convo to hide in the bathroom.
This time there is a delay before he responds.
Miles: Griffin’s family??? Okay. Right. No deets. Just talking you down. Here it is, Mags. You’re impossible not to love. Get the hell out there so they can fall in love with you.
I sigh, my breathing less labored now.
Me: I thought he was different. Thought things were clearer with him, but I still forget. I forgot *him*.
Miles: What about a trigger?
Miles knows about triggers, something that jogs my senses into remembering. Yes, Griffin’s words were all I needed, fence-hopping amazing. He brought me right back to that night, to every piece of an evening I never want to forget.
Me: Yes. Freaking triggers. Don’t want to need them or lose my shit in front of a table of seven when I have a little trigger event. It’s been two years. Can’t my brain just work like everybody else’s already?
Miles: 7 ??? Fuck it. Go back out there. Stop hiding. And trust me when I tell you that you don’t want your brain to work like mine. ;-) Love you.
Three light knocks sound on the door.
“Maggie?”
Not Griffin. That much I know. And how long have I been gone that I’m getting the worried knock?
I drop my phone in my bag and take one more long, slow breath.
Fuck it. Right, Miles. Easier said than done. But I open the door anyway, since I can’t really stay in the bathroom for the rest of time.
I open my mouth to greet her. “Hi…” Then I freeze. Here I go again.
She lays her palm on her chest. “Natalie.”
“Right. Of course. Hi, Natalie.”
“I wanted to apologize for my parents…and maybe for my little brother not quite letting you know what you’re in for. All of us at once can be a lot to take in.”
She moves aside, allowing me to step out into the hall next to her.
“No, it’s not that. I mean, you guys are all great, but it’s just…”
She gives me a knowing smile, and my shoulders relax, releasing the tension.
“Okay. Yes. It’s a lot to take in. I’m sure you can tell my appearance wasn’t a planned one.”
Natalie laughs. “We’re always up for surprises where Griffin is concerned. Whatever happened out there, it’s nothing in the grand scheme of what my little brother has done today.”
“What’s that?” I ask.
“He brought you here, and he hasn’t taken his eyes off you since you walked in the door, save for the few times you weren’t in the same room. Something’s different with him—good different. And I’m pretty sure we have you to thank for that.”
I can’t help but smile. I want to tell her that it’s the same for me, that something’s changed this past week. But saying it makes it real, and I’m pretty sure I just proved that I don’t handle real that well.
“Thank you,” I say, and leave it at that. Then I let Natalie lead me back to the dining room. Maybe the overstimulation got to me, but this I could get used to—having a sister, someone like Natalie looking out for me. I wonder if Griffin knows how lucky he is, regardless of how tough on him his father may be.
Back at the table, everyone makes a concerted effort not to stare at me this time, but it’s no use trying to play it off like nothing happened.
I take my seat next to Griffin.
“I’m one of a family of three—well, formerly three. Now we’re two. This is all new to me. I guess I need some practice in the large family setting.”
“Well, shit!” This comes from Megan. I remember Megan, the little one. “Griffin should have done a better job of warning you about us, honey. I don’t blame you for needing a few minutes to yourself.”
I smile, and Griffin chuckles. Natalie rolls her eyes.
“I’m not taking all the blame for corrupting my daughter’s vocabulary,” she says.
Soon everyone is laughing, everyone except Mr. Reed, that is.
“Maggie,” he says over the quickly fading mirth. “Tell me about this art therapy. How does that work?”
“Jesus,” Griffin says under h
is breath.
“You can use it for lots of different things,” I say. “There are so many ways for the creative process to explore the psyche.” If there’s one thing I’m sure of, it’s the therapeutic qualities of art. Griffin Reed Senior won’t trip me up here.
“So you’ll need to get your master’s, I assume, or some other higher degree to be able to practice.”
“Yes. Of course.”
Griffin’s hand finds mine under the table, and he pulls it to rest on his knee—his knee that bounces in obvious agitation.
“Do you know where you’re headed for your post-graduate degree?” Mr. Reed asks, but his eyes shift to Griffin, and I realize the conversation is no longer about me. I’m not sure if it ever was.
“No plans yet,” I say. “I’m only a junior.” I don’t mention that I’m also part-time. It doesn’t matter, not anymore.
“Well,” Mr. Reed says, “at least you sound committed to your path.” His gaze shifts to Griffin.
I squeeze his hand, and this time I’m the one reassuring him.
“The food is delicious.” I search the table, and it’s Nat again who throws me the bone.
“I can only vouch for the soufflé. Anything either of my sisters makes is questionable.”
“Hey…” The other two respond in chorus, and I look at Griffin, the only one at the table not wearing a smile, false as some of the others may be. I’m in the middle of something bigger than I anticipated. Maybe running for the safety of the bathroom wasn’t such a bad idea after all.
Griffin’s jaw tightens, but he says nothing, his eyes far away, not focused on his senior counterpart across the table, not focused on anything. Then I understand what we are.
Strangers.
Foolish. That’s what it is to think I am falling for a guy I’ve known for a week.
Yet something inside me tugs, keeping my eyes trained on him until his concentration breaks, bringing him back from wherever he was. He turns to me, eyes dark, fierce—and sad.
Then they soften, resting on mine, the cacophony of female voices filling the space around us.
“Boo,” he says, the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips, but I shake my head.
