What If

by A. J. Pine

  I throw my head against the back of my seat and laugh, this time ignoring the pain. “Yeah, Saturday morning in the suburbs is prime murder-your-hitchhiker-on-the-way-for-coffee time. I thought you said you trusted my eyes.”

  She shrugs. “You never can be too safe.”

  Safe. I let the word hang in the air for a few seconds before responding. “And hitchhiking is safe?”

  She sighs. “I like to think of myself as a creative transportation enthusiast.”

  I roll my eyes. “That’s not a thing.”

  “It’s a thing if someone does it,” she starts. “I’m doing it, so it’s a thing.”

  “Is it a thing you do on a regular basis?”

  Her smirk fades. “No.” Her eyes roam around the car. “Please tell me this is a hybrid or some newfangled electric beast.”

  Nice change of subject, Pippi.

  I open my mouth to speak but first pet the dashboard lovingly. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. She didn’t mean it. You’re not a beast.” I glance at my passenger who doesn’t share my affection for the vehicle that saved her from the early November chill. “No. It’s not a hybrid. It’s a car that gets me through Minnesota winters. Why?”

  She taps her index finger on her pursed lips. “What you must spend on gas, not to mention your carbon footprint—”

  “Uh, says the girl who just tossed a photograph, probably loaded with less-than-environmentally-friendly chemicals, out my window,” I interrupt. “Plus, I’m giving you a ride, and you trash-talk my girl? Yes, cars do have gender, and this one is most certainly a girl. My girl. Why are you betraying the beast that’s getting you where you need to go?”

  I fix my stare straight ahead and blow out a long breath. I never have to defend my truck. Everyone loves the truck. Girls love the truck, especially how roomy it can be reclining on a summer night, stars shining through the moon roof, and yeah. No one’s ever complained about gas mileage or carbon footprint. In fact, I’ve heard nothing but praise. Plus, I can rattle off a list of people grateful for my beast towing their sedans from snowy ditches.

  Her eyes grow distant. “My grandfather was a mechanic. He hated SUVs. Some things you don’t forget.”

  Her voice bears an echo of sadness, and a small part of me wants to ask about her grandfather while the rest of me says, Dude, get her where she needs to go before you’re late. I shake my head. Maybe I’m more hung over than I think.

  “I didn’t get your name,” I say as we pull into the coffee shop’s crowded parking lot. “I’m Griffin.” I extend a hand to shake, the gesture awkward and unfamiliar now that she’s already had her palm on my face.

  When she doesn’t reciprocate, I lean back and release my seat belt.

  “What are you doing?” she asks, alarm taking over her features for the first time since she stepped into the car of a stranger.

  I rub the back of my neck, brows raised. “Getting coffee?” The words are meant to come out as a statement, but the tenseness in her shoulders stops me in my tracks.

  She lets out a breath and smiles, the expression forced. “My treat,” she says. “For giving me the lift. How do you take it?”

  “Double-shot cappuccino.”

  “I’ll be right back, Fancy Pants.” And she’s out of the truck before I can protest.

  Fancy Pants? Fuck. I look at my pressed khakis, the ironed-in crease down the middle, the freaking neon sign of who I am no matter how much I ignore it. I’m the same asshole I was before Scotland. What did Jordan call me? A man-whore with heart. I’ve done a good job since my return to lose the last part of that phrase. But at the end of this year I’ll be exactly who my parents raised me to be, Griffin Reed Jr., MBA-bound and tied to the plan they set in place for me when I was a freshman in high school.

  But I’m not that guy yet.

  And for some reason I give a shit that this girl knows me for two minutes and thinks she has me pegged.

  I watch her through the glass door, this stranger who has challenged me since stepping up to my car, her red braids spilling over her shoulders. She strides to the counter, letting her coat fall loose as she orders. I notice the exposed ivory skin of her neck, and wonder if it sports the same freckles that fall across her nose and cheeks.

  I shift in my seat, forcing my thoughts from her possibly freckled, possibly not freckled neck. Grandma Reed. My third-grade teacher. My niece quizzing me on her thorough knowledge of Harry Potter. Exhale. Good. Crisis averted. For safe measure, I close my eyes, but my mind starts to recreate her image.

  Tap. Tap.

  I jump to find her standing outside my window. I try to open it, forgetting I turned the car off, forgetting pretty much everything except what this girl is doing to me in the space of several minutes.

  My hand fumbles with the key until the car is in accessory mode, the window finally obeying.

  She reads the side of the to-go cup, confirming my order.

  “Double cappuccino,” she says with confidence, handing the drink to me.

  “Thanks,” I say, transfixed by her eyes, more hazel now than green. Fucking hell.

  “I got you this, too.” She raises her other hand, a plastic bag full of ice dangling from her fist. “Alternate temperatures. After about ten minutes of this, switch to a warm compress.”

  She hands me the bag.

  “Are you pre-med or something?” I ask.

  Her head shakes in response. “I’ve got…friends in the medical field. They’ve taught me some tricks of the trade.”

  “Where’s your drink?” I ask.

  Pippi looks over her shoulder into the shop and waves before turning back to me. “Inside.”

  “Oh.” I nod. “Do I at least get your name before I leave?”

  She shakes her head and then motions at my face. “You’ve got stuff to deal with, Fancy Pants,” she says, backing away.

  “It’s Griffin.” I groan, defeated, the rejection both new and familiar, and I’m compelled to keep her at my window for as long as possible. “Will I see you again, Pippi?” I ask, and she smiles, her gaze knowing.

  “Probably not,” she teases, and something in my gut sinks. Then she reaches into her bag and retrieves the camera, snapping my picture once again without warning. “But I’ll remember you, Fancy—”

  “Griffin,” I interrupt her.

  “Griffin,” she says, but the smile fades, and I hear a tinge of regret in her voice.

  “Wait,” I call, her back to me now as she makes her way to the door. She doesn’t turn, though, but walks into the shop, blending into the Saturday morning crowd.

  I’ll remember you, too.

  Chapter Two

  Maggie

  I duck inside the coffeehouse, weaving my way to the back room. My shift started ten minutes ago, so I don’t bother to punch in. Instead I toss my shit onto the table, find a Sharpie in my bag, and fill in the white space underneath the photo.

  Griffin/Fancy Pants

  “How ya doing, Mags? And who’s your ride?” There it is, the smooth, familiar voice of comfort.

  I spin and thrust the photo at him.

  “Who messed up his pretty face? Wait, is he for me?” Miles asks, and I snatch the picture back. “And it’s not even my birthday.”

  I groan. “So it’s still boys this week? I can’t keep up because you asked the same thing when I showed you my lab partner’s picture at the beginning of the semester.”

  “Uh-oh.” Miles grimaces. “Addison. Uh. How is she?”

  I backhand him on the arm with Griffin’s Polaroid. “She’s been a shitty lab partner since you stopped calling her back. That’s how she is.”

  Miles bats his thick black lashes apologetically, and I kiss him on the cheek.

  “Sweetie,” I say, “I love you, but stay off my home turf, okay? After all I missed last year and being forced to take a part-time schedule this year, I can’t afford to fuck up, which means you have to stop fucking my lab partners.”

  He winces, but doesn’t arg
ue.

  “That means damaged J. Crew is off-limits, huh?”

  I give my throat a dramatic clearing. “What about Andrew?” I ask.

  Miles sighs. “We’re just having fun. Doesn’t mean I can’t look at pretty things.”

  I roll my eyes.

  “Oh, by the way, your gran called. She said she tried your cell, but you didn’t answer. You know better than to make that sweet woman worry.” He reaches into my coat pocket and finds my name tag, then waves it in front of the time clock. “It won’t lock you out until quarter after, remember?”

  I groan. “Actually, Miles, no. I don’t remember.”

  “Mags…” His voice softens.

  “Don’t,” I say.

  I pull my cell from my bag, and there it is, the missed call and voicemail notification from Gram. Shit. I never miss her scheduled check-ins.

  “My phone and I haven’t been getting along this morning.” I smile, my attempt at levity. “I must not have heard it while I was chasing a bus down the street or trying my hand at hitchhiking. I’ll call her back in a minute.”

  Miles crosses his arms and gives me a pointed look. “Honey, I have never heard of a hitchhiking story that ends with a pretty, broken boy picking up a pretty, broken girl and one of them not eventually burying the other’s body. Instead you come in here flaunting that Polaroid but telling me I can’t have him.”

  I let the tension out of my shoulders. “He gave me a ride, Miles. That’s all. I have no claim on him. Pretty sure he’s straight, though.”

  I turn to remove my coat and hang it on the rack. As I do, Miles wraps his arms around my midsection, resting his stubble-lined jaw against my cheek.

  “Sexual preference is an evasive response to this situation, honey. You wrote down his name.”

  “I didn’t give him mine,” I say, the damning evidence of my hesitation still in my hand.

  “Say it,” Miles pushes. “J. Crew is off limits.”

  “It’s Griffin. His name is Griffin. And pretty face or not, the boy’s got issues if that’s what he looks like on a Saturday morning.”

  It doesn’t change the urge I had to fix it, to make him better. Control what I can to avoid what I can’t—that’s always a good distraction. But Miles doesn’t need to know this. I don’t need anyone new to deal with, especially someone like him.

  “He’ll forget me as quickly as I’ll forget him.” But my free hand clenches into a fist, the sensation of his skin on the tips of my fingers too fresh to be forgotten, the wish to touch him again too strong to be ignored.

  Miles straightens, releasing his grip on me before he plants a kiss on top of my head.

  “You wrote down his name, sweetie. Off-limits,” he says with a sureness I’ll never possess. Then he turns me to face him. “And no one, Maggie, no one forgets you.”

  …

  Griffin

  In the normal world of space and time, showing up at the top of the hour would be fine. No questions asked. I take one last look in the mirror and shrug. No way can I hide how my night went. I throw back the rest of my cappuccino and hop out of the truck, bracing for my mother’s disappointment, or better yet, my father’s silent condescension.

  All three of my sisters are here, probably have been for the better part of an hour. I walk up the driveway past Nat’s blindingly green Golf and chuckle. She always did make a statement. I’m sure she picked up Megan and Jen to make sure they weren’t late. If there was room for me, too, in her pocket-sized car, I have no doubt she would have been pounding on my apartment door two hours ago. Never mind that I live an hour out of her way.

  I breathe in, steeling myself for what lies beyond the door, and I enter.

  “Uncle Griggs!” My niece, Violet, launches herself at me, and I forget everything other than this, holding the most beautiful eight-year-old girl in my arms.

  I kiss her nose, and she giggles. “How’s my Vi?”

  “Good!” She shimmies out of my arms, patting out any wrinkles threatening to form in her blue dress. She learns quickly. Once free of my grasp, she gets a good look at me. “What happened to your eye?” she asks, her hands then covering her mouth. “Grandma’s gonna be mad at you.”

  I laugh. She’s right to be more concerned about my mother’s reaction than how I’m actually doing.

  “You should see the other guy,” I say. “Still Uncle Griggs, huh?”

  She shrugs. “It suits you.”

  It suits me? This kid needs to slow down on the whole maturity thing. Other than her size, Vi calling me Uncle Griggs is the only evidence she’s still a child.

  Nat stalks through the foyer, her hands laden with packages of batteries.

  “One thing I asked of you, Griff. One thing, and you’re freaking late.” Now she’s close enough to see. “What the FRAK?”

  I cover Violet’s ears with my hands. “Hey. Don’t taint my niece’s vocabulary with gateway cursing. We all know freaking and frakking lead to fucking, and then what’s left?”

  “I can still hear you guys,” Violet informs us.

  “Shit,” I say.

  “Damn it, Griffin!” Then Nat’s hand shoots up to cover her mouth as her eyes go wide.

  Violet frees herself from my hands. She looks at both her mom and me and shakes her head. “Merde. You two are hopeless.” Then she saunters off to the great room, presumably where Natalie was headed in the first place.

  “What was that?” I ask, knowing exactly what my niece just said.

  “She’s learning French for our trip next month.”

  “I get in trouble for ear-muffing her, and you’re teaching her how to say shit in French?”

  “Well…” Nat hesitates. “I Googled some French slang for her so she wasn’t only learning textbook speak. I may have stepped away for a minute with the window still open. What can I say? She’s a quick learner. I mean, she used it in the correct context and everything.”

  I grab the batteries out of Nat’s hands. “I take it the photographer isn’t ready yet?”

  She shakes her head.

  “So I’m not really late, only in Reed time.”

  “Correct.” She sighs, her eyes focusing on mine. “Honey, what did you do? When is shit like this going to stop?”

  I cover my ears like I did with Vi. “Shhhh. Remember there are sensitive ears nearby.”

  She doesn’t appreciate the joke.

  “Griffin…”

  “Natalie…”

  She crosses her arms and gives me a pointed look. Though she’s only twenty-six, the youngest of my sisters, the disappointment coming from her tears at something inside me. I was almost proud to walk in here and have Mom and Dad flip out at me. Not Nat. She’s the one who roots for me, which means she’s always the one who gets let down.

  “Everyone’s in the other room?” I ask.

  This time she nods.

  “Let’s do this, then.” I lean down to kiss her on the cheek. “Hi, by the way.”

  “Hi.” She smiles, and I’m guessing it’s probably the first time this morning she has. “Now get your freaking, frakking ass in there.”

  She marches ahead of me, and I follow. Mom and Dad may run the show, but behind the scenes, Nat’s the one in charge, the one with true maternal instinct. She may have gotten pregnant young, but like everything else, she shines at the whole mothering thing. It’s in her blood. In that we’re so different. I love my niece probably more than any other human, but I could never do what Nat does. And definitely not alone.

  The French doors leading to the great room swing open, and Jen and Megan burst out to greet us.

  “Please save us,” Megan says. “If Mom raises her eyebrows one more time, I swear she’s going to break through her Botox.”

  “What about Dad?” I ask.

  Jen answers this time. “He’s doing that scary-ass silent thing where he stands next to the piano observing. I think he’s saving the rage for you.”

  “Dad doesn’t rage,” I say.

&nbs
p; “I know. The silence is worse.”

  Jen’s right. There’s nothing worse than someone who turns off everything rather than letting it all spill out. But that would be too messy for Griffin Reed, Sr. And Dad doesn’t do messy. In that respect, I’ve learned from the best, leading a life free of any real complication, mild bar brawl notwithstanding.

  “No one has anything to say about how I look?” I flash Jen and Megan an exaggerated grin, waiting for them to reprimand me as well. My plan backfires as I cut the grin short, a shock of pain reminding me of my physical vulnerability.

  “Honestly, Griffin.” Jen says. “It’s getting harder to keep up with your bullshit.” She turns to Megan. “Didn’t he come with a busted lip to Dad’s casino night fund-raiser last month?”

  Megan shakes her head excitedly. “No! That’s when he got drunk and started singing “Blurred Lines” in the Bingo caller’s microphone. The busted lip was for family dinner the week after.”

  “Oh yeah,” Jen says. “That performance was actually pretty epic.”

  “See?” I say. “I’m adorable.”

  “An adorable mess,” Nat adds. “We thought you’d grow up in Europe, having to rely on yourself for over a year. But you came back no different.”

  I laugh, shrugging off her analysis to mask the twist in my gut, then head toward my mom. How do I explain that the year off was my best year, that I wasn’t this guy over there? I gaze around the room. I love my family, and sometimes I think they do bring out the best in me—at least my sisters do. But it’s not enough, not when family is defined by expectations and obligations. I may be my father’s son, but I’ll never be the Griffin Reed that he wants me to be.

  “Hey, Mom.” She stands, scrutinizing the frames and holiday-decorated vases adorning the mantle. Everything is tasteful and understated, of course. “Someone need some batteries?”

  She doesn’t look at me yet. With a flick of her wrist, she motions to the photographer setting up in the corner to her right. “They’re for him. This is what I get for taking a recommendation from a neighbor. Someone young and fresh. I hope he understands this is coming out of his fee.”