What If

by A. J. Pine

  I don’t ask Miles this because he’ll find a way to argue against me. Mr. Sunshine, the guy with the positive spin on everything, he’d try to convince me that two wrongs actually do make a right, that somehow broken plus broken can equal fixed. But I don’t want to argue. I don’t want to prove what I know is true. I want to sail as far as I can get before the boat rocks me hard enough to throw me overboard.

  “So Paige, huh?” I ask, perfecting the art of subject change, and Miles releases me from our embrace. Leave it to me to call Griffin out on his talent for deflection only to use it to my advantage. Hello, pot. Meet kettle. “No more Andrew?” I add.

  “I don’t know,” he says. “Andrew wanted to get serious. And, well, you know me. Paige, though. She’s funny. And smart. Do you know she’s not only a bartender? She manages the place she works at. She has a degree in restaurant management and hospitality services.”

  I didn’t know that. Paige and I have the perfect neighborly relationship. She locks my door when I forget, comes over for coffee every now and then, and never asks what I do beyond work and school. Simple. Easy. And, at the same time, not at all a friendship. But it could be. Tonight it was clear Paige is a great ally to have in my corner, for more than merely swapping keys in case of emergency.

  “You got all that from walking her five feet down the hall.”

  He shrugs.

  “She’s hot, too,” I add, and his grin turns a certain shade of naughty.

  “And tastes delicious even after devouring my spicy guacamole.”

  I push him away and stand up. “Ew, Miles! That’s just…I don’t need to picture you and Paige like that yet, okay?”

  He stands, too, his broad shoulders shaking with laughter.

  “You’re going to see him again, right?” he asks, backing out of the room.

  I shrug. “We still haven’t exchanged phone numbers.”

  “You’re not pulling that serendipity bullshit, are you?” he asks, and I push him out my bedroom door and toward the main door of the apartment.

  “He knows where I work, and he knows I hang at the library on Monday afternoons. So no. No serendipity.”

  Just hope, I think. And want. I want to see Griffin again.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Maggie

  I give up hope at four-fifteen Monday afternoon. With my classes done, any and all studying complete, I take ten minutes to unwind, to remind myself we had no plans to meet at the library today. Just because he came looking for me last Monday doesn’t mean we have some sort of standing arrangement.

  I take my sketchbook out of my bag, opening to the bowl of fruit from Griffin’s parents’ house. On the opposite page is my unfinished portrait of Griffin’s niece, Vi. My finger traces over the letters, V-I, and the same relief floods through me as it did yesterday when she asked if I would draw her, and I asked her to sign her name to the unfinished piece when I was done. I can differentiate between all of them now, Griffin’s sisters, his mother, and his niece. Despite the similarities in genetic makeup—I’ve never seen so many women look so much alike—a couple hours with this family was enough for me to distinguish, to pick up on some of their nuances once the overstimulation of such an unfamiliar environment subsided.

  I tell myself it’s all part of the continued healing process, but that’s not the only reason. It was Griffin, too. Being there with him helped drown out the extra noise, the parts of a strange experience that would normally distract me. It’s these thoughts distracting me now, easing the anxiety brought on by false hope. So when the chair across from me slides out with a hasty scrape across the wood floor, I startle to see Griffin, wide-eyed and out of breath, sitting across from me.

  “Are you okay?” I ask, forgetting my disappointment at almost being stood up for a date that didn’t exist.

  His fists clench and unclench on the table in front of him, and then he slaps both palms down with a crack, much to the annoyance of patrons surrounding us. Griffin Reed was not made for library subtlety.

  “I’m gonna need your number,” he says. One of his hands leaves the table only to return with his cell phone and with it a folded-up piece of paper. He slides the phone across to where my hand rests on Vi’s name in my book.

  “What?” I ask, his urgency still a mystery.

  “Your phone number. And I mean your number. Not the coffeehouse number, and not a landline, if for some crazy reason you still have one. Type your mobile number into my phone. Please. I’ll wait.”

  I do as he says, stunned by the turn of events. I don’t ask what brought this on until I hand the phone back to him.

  “I’m gonna ask again, now,” I say. “Are you okay?”

  He eyes the screen, and his breathing slows, the frantic nature of his entrance morphing into calm. He breathes out a silent laugh, and when he looks up from the screen, there it is—the grin that threatens to melt me into a puddle.

  “Pippi,” he says. “You fucking wrote Pippi.”

  The unmasked joy in his voice startles me more than his entrance does. While I wouldn’t trade having him show up when I feared he wouldn’t, now I fear something even bigger. A phone number. Such a small thing, a tiny gift to give. But what does it mean?

  “My Poli-Sci professor ambushed me after class, no doubt set up by my father, and I’ve spent the past two hours having phone and Skype interviews with three different business schools—interviews I wasn’t prepared for and interviews I had no intention of ever setting up in the first place.”

  “Why would he do that?” I ask. “Why set you up to fail?”

  He shakes his head. “That’s the thing. I’m a master bullshit artist, especially under pressure. Learned from the best. He knew I’d pull it off rather than make him, or me, look like an asshole.”

  I still don’t understand, and the expression on my face must tell him this.

  “I’ve been dragging my ass in terms of what I’m going to do next year, and my father has apparently had enough of it. To quote him, ‘It’s time I start giving back.’ Because I guess I owe my parents for my easy upbringing.”

  “Why?” I ask. “Why are you dragging your ass?”

  He shrugs. “Because everything I’ve worked for since my education mattered has been for a life I don’t want.”

  I sigh, wanting to fix this for him but knowing this problem is not mine to solve. But I can still ask him the unanswered question.

  “You’re good at so many things. Languages. Cooking.” At the mention of the last word, my eyes fall closed as I smile at the memory of our non-date. “Bullshitting,” I tease. “You have so many talents, Griffin. So much you could do. What do you want?”

  His posture loosens as he sags in the chair, and he looks down at his hands before bringing his eyes back to mine.

  “I don’t know,” he says. “I never considered what I wanted because I thought I wanted this. I made myself believe I did until it got too close, too real. Now I guess I’m just—lost.”

  I smile against my sadness. “I can understand that.”

  I pick up the folded piece of paper he must have had in the pocket with his phone.

  “What’s this?”

  I start to unfold it, and he doesn’t stop me.

  “It’s stupid,” he says. “Just something on the job bulletin board in the business building. Kinda ironic, isn’t it?”

  When I flatten the paper, I bounce in my chair, then look up at him with the biggest, goofiest grin.

  “AmeriCorps? Griffin, this is fantastic!”

  He shrugs and looks down, but a small smile tugs at his lips.

  “My father does want me to give back…”

  I read through the description on the flyer.

  “Wow,” I say. “An anti-hunger coalition. This is amazing, but it’s a huge change.”

  His eyes fall to the table. “You’re right,” he says. “It was a stupid thought. I wouldn’t know what the hell I was doing.”

  “No.” I reach for his hand. “That�
�s not what I meant.” He meets my gaze, his eyes unsure and searching. “This is amazing. You’d be amazing. All the stuff you’ve never done before, you’d learn. And the food part of it? You grow basil on your freaking windowsill. You just caught me off guard.” I smile at him, hoping he knows how much I mean what I’m saying. “I can tell you want this, Griffin, and that’s all that matters. If you want it, I know you’ll be great at it.”

  He raises his head, his brown eyes gleaming.

  “I could be pretty good at it, couldn’t I? There’s no money in it, though. I mean, there’s a stipend, but it’s not enough to live on.”

  I slide the flyer back to him.

  “Maybe not the way you’re living now, but you’re creative. You’d think of something.”

  He folds it up again and sticks it back in his pocket.

  “It’s an option,” he says, the unsureness creeping back into his voice.

  “Consider it,” I say. “For real.”

  “I will,” he says. “You want to know what the most fucked-up part of the day was?”

  I nod.

  “This girl I wanted to see, who maybe wanted to see me, too…” He pauses, then relaxes his features into a revelatory smile. “You’re still here,” he says.

  I don’t try to hide my shared happiness. “I’m still here.”

  He clears his throat, attempting to get back into his over-confident character, but it’s too late. The masks are off, and this silly thing—me waiting for him in the library and him hoping I’d be here—it makes me feel bare, more so than that first night in the shower, so very different than removing our clothes for each other.

  “I don’t ever want you to think I’m not showing up again, okay?”

  He waves his phone between us, an explanation for his initial strange request.

  “Okay.” I take my phone out of my bag, ready to make the same request, when it vibrates with one of my alarms. “I need to catch the bus,” I tell him.

  “Wait for the next one,” he says. “Come have dinner with me.”

  I purse my lips in contemplation. “This isn’t a date, is it, Mr. Reed?”

  He shakes his head. “Impossible. We’re not dating.”

  “That’s a relief,” I say, ignoring the butterflies dancing their betrayal in my belly.

  “But I want to ask you something,” he says.

  I lead him outside and down the street, to a small Chinese take-out shop that makes any dish I ask for without MSG. We bring the food back to the library basement to eat, since I don’t want to be far when the next bus comes.

  Griffin asks his question, and for reasons I still can’t comprehend, I say yes.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Griffin

  I load my suitcase into the truck and start her up so it’s warm when Maggie gets here. While I wait, I reread my most recent text. It’s from Jordan Brooks, the girl I met in Scotland. For so long I’ve seen her as the one who got away, but that label doesn’t seem to work anymore, not since Maggie.

  Jordan: Can’t wait to see you! It’s been too long. SO excited you’re bringing someone. Was starting to worry about you.

  She sent the message an hour ago, and I haven’t responded. Because I still haven’t officially decided I’m going on this trip. Not until Miles pulls up in front of my building in his hundred-year-old Nissan do I make my final decision. Maggie saved me once before, at my parents’ house a week ago. Having her with me now has the same effect. When I’m with Maggie, I get the feeling—or maybe delusion—that I can do things I didn’t think I could. Though she said yes when I asked her to come with me, I haven’t let myself believe it. Not until I see her emerge from the car and watch Miles hoist her suitcase out of the trunk do I let myself admit this is real.

  Me: On the road in a few. Text you when we get there.

  I take Maggie’s bag from Miles and deposit it next to mine in the trunk.

  “So…” he says.

  “So…” I answer, extending my hand to him, and we shake.

  “Take care of her,” Miles says, a note of authority in his tone, enough to show he cares but not make him sound like an asshole.

  A throat clears, and we both look at Maggie, who bounces to keep warm in the late November chill.

  “I think someone is forgetting his own ground rule,” she says pointedly, her eyes fixed on me.

  I let out a laugh, remembering. I always kiss hello. I back up so I’m sitting on the edge of the still-open trunk. Then I grab the belt of her wool coat and pull her to me without hesitation as I position her between my legs and my lips find hers.

  Fingerless gloves cup my face, and delicious, warm lips spread their heat to mine.

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Miles says to us both, but laughter colors his words.

  Maggie steps away from me, enough time for her to say good-bye to her friend, and then she’s back, her mouth opening this time to let me in, and our tongues tease, and taste, and somehow forget we’re sitting half outside a parked car until we hear the Nissan’s engine start, after two tries, as Miles leaves me with this girl, the girl who said yes.

  “We should get on the road,” I tell her. “We’ll hopefully make good time since it’s still a holiday, but who knows what the Black Friday traffic will be like when we get to the city.”

  Maggie pouts, and I almost throw her down on top of our suitcases, but I decide to be patient and hope she can be, too. It’s been a week since we slept together; Maggie had to work or study every night since Sunday, except last night when she spent Thanksgiving with friends, and I spent it with my family. Though we kept our standing library meet-up on Monday, that’s been it. On more than one night this week I wanted to make use of her number, but what right do I have to call her to come over? How do I tell a girl I’m not dating that sleeping with her next to me is better than not? So I splurged. We have a suite waiting for us at the Four Seasons. And hell if I’m not going to get us to the city in time to make use of it before we have to head to the Signature Lounge for the reunion.

  I catch sight of her in my peripheral vision as I drive, her head leaning against the glass of the passenger-side window, eyes lazy but watching, observing. The corner of her mouth creeps up toward her cheek, and I wonder if she’s lost in thought rather than watching the road go by.

  “You still with me?” I ask, and she blinks, her eyes seeming to focus on something in front of her.

  “Hmm?” Her head turns toward mine. “Yeah. I’m here. Can’t really get too far away. How long’s the drive?”

  I give her a quick look, thinking she’s messing with me, but she grabs her bag from the floor and opens it to show me a slightly crumpled paper bag from Royal Grounds.

  “I brought breakfast, but if we get hungry for something other than pastry, I can Google some restaurants that are on the way. If you want.”

  She’s not messing with me.

  “Uh…a little over six hours,” I tell her and choose my next words carefully, gently. “Didn’t we just have this conversation, except instead of food we were talking about where and when we’d stop to use the bathroom?”

  Her ivory cheeks turn a shade of pink, and she looks away, her eyes back to the window.

  “Pippi?” I ask. “Are you okay?” Something is off. Maggie’s always so focused. I think about that text from Nat after Sunday brunch, Maggie not remembering Vi’s name. Now she’s blanking on a full conversation. Maybe she doesn’t want this. I pressured her into that brunch, right? Made it seem like it wasn’t a big deal, but how could it not be? I brought her home, let her see what no one else sees—me. The realization is a punch to the gut. What this weekend means to me is beyond the confines of our agreement, and I let my hope blind me to the possibility that Maggie might not want what I’m starting to admit I do.

  She waves me off but doesn’t look at me when she speaks. “I’m fine,” she says. “I’m sorry. I guess I’m…nervous?”

  I glance in her direction and catch her reflection in the
pane of glass. I expect something along the lines of a shy smile, something that tells me no matter how nervous she is—and shit, I am, too—that she wants this, whatever this is we’re doing. But her eyes are closed, no trace of a smile on her face, so I focus on the road and try not to read too much into the look, or her questions that keep repeating. Because if I do, I’ll tell myself she’s having second thoughts, that she’s filling the silence with random chitchat in order to avoid anything else.

  I have to say something, so to escape any further complication, I grab her hand from her lap and give it a squeeze.

  This, at least, separates her from the window as her eyes go from our hands to my face.

  “It’s okay,” I tell her. “I’m nervous, too.”

  She releases her grip, and I exhale, prepared for her to pull away completely, to ride the hours we have left in silent contemplation of interstate cornfields. Instead she adjusts her grip, threading her fingers through mine and squeezing tighter.

  “Oh thank God,” she says. “I mean, it’s not like it’s any different than spending the night at your place, right? We’ve done that before. But somehow it’s…”

  “Different.” I finish her thought because I’ve been thinking the same thing.

  I bring our hands to my mouth and press my lips to her fingers.

  “And…” She hesitates. “This girl, Jordan, she’s kind of important, right? You haven’t told me much. Not that it’s my business because it’s not. I mean—”

  This is why I haven’t said much. Because what do I say that doesn’t make me look like an ass, that doesn’t remind her who I was a couple weeks ago—and in her eyes, who I still might be?

  “Shit,” I say, and now she does take her hand back.

  “Oh.” It’s her only response, but the sound of the word says enough. Oh, you had feelings for this girl. Oh, it wasn’t important enough to tell me.

  Oh, we don’t share important things because we aren’t… What the fuck are we?

  So I tell her the truth because—why not? Maybe this is what we need, proof of why, when it comes down to it, I’ve always chosen easy.