What If

by A. J. Pine

“Can’t scare me that easily,” I tell him.

  “Liar.”

  “Maybe.”

  Not like he hasn’t already seen me run. They all did. Because strangers or not, I am scared.

  And foolish.

  And falling.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Griffin

  Megan sits on the porch, e-reader in hand as she rocks on the glider. My parents and my other sisters play Bridge in the living room. In the resulting quiet, I stand in the opening that separates the kitchen from the great room, watching from a distance as my niece observes Maggie sketching the bowl of fruit perched on the table, one meant to be viewed but not eaten.

  “She’s lovely,” a voice says from behind, and I flinch, as if caught doing something I shouldn’t.

  “Geez, Nat. Keep some Tic Tacs in your pocket or something so I know you’re approaching.”

  She whacks me on the shoulder. “Explain yourself,” she demands.

  I know what she means to ask, but I buy myself a few seconds by playing dumb.

  “Explain what?”

  My reluctance to face her coupled with not taking my eyes off the pair at the far end of the kitchen table gives me away.

  “You have never brought anyone other than Davis to brunch before. I gotta say, I prefer Maggie, but it still doesn’t explain your motives.”

  “My motives…” It’s not a question but more of a challenge, to see how far she’ll go figuring it out on her terms before she gets me to speak.

  Then she’s quiet.

  For over five seconds. The silence builds until I have to face her, knowing she’ll hold out until I do.

  “No answer I give is going to satisfy you,” I say. She grins.

  “I’d accuse you of being self-serving,” she says, “using her as your latest distraction.” Then she waits a beat. “If it wasn’t for the way you look at her.”

  I sigh. Or maybe it’s a groan. Whatever it is, it’s joined with the word “fuck” under my breath.

  “Didn’t I just use her, though?”

  Nat shakes her head.

  “I don’t think you meant to, sweetie. That wasn’t your intent.”

  I study the slats in the wood floor, the hint of guilt still there despite my intent. Not only guilt for letting her be a distraction, but for wanting her to be something more when something more has never been what I’m willing to give.

  Nat pokes me in the chest.

  “Hey. When are you going to give yourself permission to be happy? I’m not only talking about her.” Nat inclines her head toward the kitchen.

  “I already freaked her out by bringing her here today,” I say. “It was way too much way too soon.”

  Nat shrugs. “Happy,” she repeats, and I laugh.

  “Says the girl who’s been on her own since, I don’t know, always? Didn’t I learn from the best? Didn’t I learn from all of you where rocking the boat will get you?”

  Nat’s the one to look away now because she knows I’m right. She knows how things work around here.

  “You’re going to enlighten me on happiness?” I ask. “You play the system as well as I do.”

  “Vi makes me happy, asshole. Vi is enough.”

  She’s right, about the asshole part. “Who are you trying to convince?” I ask. “Me? Or yourself?”

  I never said my power of deflection didn’t get others caught in the wake. She turns to walk away, to rejoin the card game in the living room.

  “Wait.” I grab her shoulder, and she stops, her eyes dark—not with anger but with pure, raw hurt…and something else I can’t identify. “I’m sorry. You know I love Violet more than anything. I know she makes you happy.”

  Then I recognize what else is there beside the pain—acceptance.

  “I knew the choice I was making when I had her, Griffin. And the consequences that came with it. But the joy of being her mom, the unfathomable depth of love I have for her, it absolutely obliterates everything else. It has to. She comes first, and every decision I make has her best interest at heart. She is my happiness and always will be. It doesn’t mean I don’t want more. It means more will be harder because of what’s at stake.”

  She looks at me for a long, hard moment and then says, “I accept my choices and what they mean for me, but you take yours for granted. You have choices, Griffin. They might not be easy ones, but they’re there.”

  I don’t respond because she doesn’t wait to hear it. Instead of heading back to the living room, she opts for the far end of the kitchen, the table where Maggie and Vi sit sketching fruit. I watch as she sits down next to her daughter, Nat’s face transforming when Violet’s eyes meet hers. Then Maggie looks up, too, her gaze meeting mine, and I feel the transformation, wonder if she can see it on me—the hope, the possibility, the start of something more. Not easy, but more.

  When we leave, it’s under the pretense of Maggie having to work. But it’s two in the afternoon, and Maggie and I have nowhere we actually need to be, except back at my place where a co-ed shower promises to rinse away any immediate worries.

  “Your sisters are great,” she says as she removes my borrowed sweatshirt, letting it fall on my bedroom floor. “Thank you for wanting me there today.”

  I move toward her, and she stands unmoving as I let my hands fall onto her waist.

  “I want you…” I say, my words trailing off as I find a freckle to kiss, “…everywhere.”

  She lets out a shaky breath. “And I’m sorry for, you know, kind of losing it at brunch. Sometimes I forget…”

  I unclasp her bra, and her head falls back, a soft hum escaping her lips.

  “Let me make it up to you,” I say. I kiss her neck, help her as she finds the hem of my shirt and begins to lift it above my head. “I should have warned you better about the Reed family brunch. I didn’t anticipate my father giving you the third degree. I thought he only saved that for me.”

  More kisses, my mouth finding its way to one breast and then the other, and everything else falls away.

  “I want you, too,” she says, her voice soft but insistent. Her gaze holds mine, and for several seconds she just looks at me. I wait for her to break the silence.

  “You’re different,” she says. “Is it possible for someone to be so different after a week? Or have I had it wrong from the start?”

  She reaches for my face, lets her fingers trace over my once-bruised eye and then trail down the disappearing wound on my chest. The physical markers that were the start of this change. My change.

  “I think, maybe,” I say, “that I see things differently now. That can happen in a week, right?”

  She nods, her green eyes turning glassy.

  “I think so.” Her voice trembles, and she clears her throat. “How about I start the water?” she asks and backs away before I can respond.

  Seconds later her voice echoes along with the sound of the water splattering against the tiled walls.

  “Are you joining me?” Maggie peeks out from the shower door, her auburn waves drenched against her milky skin, and I can’t get out of my jeans fast enough.

  My phone vibrates in my pocket with an incoming text, and curiosity gets the best of me. It’s Nat.

  This shouldn’t be a big deal. Vi had a great time with Maggie. Totally hit it off. But after the bathroom incident, I thought this was a little strange so wanted to tell you. When they were hanging in the kitchen, Vi said Maggie asked her what her name was three times. Maybe something’s going on with her, Griff. Maybe you should ask.

  I stare at the screen for a few seconds.

  “Hey there, Fancy Pants.” She opens the shower door wide, and the sight of her knocks the wind out of me. “I’m getting lonely in here.”

  It’s not a big deal. Who wouldn’t need help remembering everyone in my crazy family?

  I drop the phone on the counter.

  I can ask Maggie about it, add more anxiety to what was already an intense day, or I can continue on my quest to kiss every freckle
d inch of her skin. Besides, I’ve gone down this path before. If I ask for an explanation, I run the risk of ruining the moment, like I did in the library when I saw that random guy’s picture.

  This choice is easy.

  Seconds later I’m right where she wants me and right where I want to be, no questions asked.

  …

  Maggie

  Miles bangs around in my excuse for a kitchen while Paige walks through the door with giant throw pillows piled above her face.

  “You can’t see where you’re going,” I tell her, and she drops the stack on the floor in front of her. Her blonde hair is piled on her head in a messy bun, but something about the appearance of it tells me she put time into the I-seem-like-I’m-low-maintenance look. Despite the near-freezing temps outside, she sports a black, ribbed tank, fitted in all the right places, and multicolored harem pants, the perfect combination of exposed skin and snuggle chic. I glance down at my attire: Griffin’s Minnesota sweatshirt that he insisted I wear home, but my jeans have been swapped out for black yoga pants. Snuggly—sure. Chic—not even a little bit.

  “If I fall down, at least I’ll have these to break my fall.” Then she gracefully collapses on the pillows anyway. “Is Miles done yet? I’m hungry. And I want to see my Gilmore Girls boyfriend.”

  Miles steps around the corner from the tiny kitchen to tiny living room-dining room—basically, my couch, coffee table, and TV stand. He sets the bowl of homemade guacamole on the table, and Paige perks up, ripping open the bag of lime-flavored tortilla chips as Miles joins her on her pile of pillows.

  “I will fight you for Logan Huntzberger, and you know I will,” Miles tells Paige. “I am fiercely possessive of my pretend crushes.”

  She huffs out a breath and swats his hand away from the chips.

  “It’s so not fair that you challenge me on this when you’re the only one here who crushes on the female characters, too. Can’t I have him tonight? Please?”

  Paige draws out the last word, and I laugh, abandoning my lone spot on the couch to join the party.

  “Sorry, sweetheart,” he says. “But when it comes to Stars Hollow, I prefer the gentlemen.”

  Paige whacks him with a giant pillow, and Miles obliges by wrestling it from her and arranging it so he rests against the foot of the couch, lounging in his fitted jeans and equally fitted black T-shirt. His inky hair and lashes are almost too much. The guy is a specimen to be reckoned with, adored by guys and girls as he adores both as well, and tonight the flirtation between him and Paige is palpable.

  When I told Paige Miles was coming over, as he does most Sunday nights to binge-watch Gilmore Girls, she made it clear she had no plans this evening, either. While the two have met in passing, I’ve never mixed neighbor life with, well, Miles life. Right now I wonder if I should have thought twice about my invitation for her to join us.

  Don’t break my neighbor’s heart, Miles. I kinda need her.

  Instead of letting on about my misgivings, I shake my head at both of them. “It’s my choice tonight, and we’re not watching a Logan episode. We’re watching a Jess one.”

  The two of them groan in stereo, but then a spark alights in Miles’s blue eyes.

  “You want fucking ‘Swan Song,’ don’t you?” he asks, accusation in his tone and a grin on his face.

  I don’t answer him. Because, damn it, he’s freaking right, and I hate when he figures me out before I mean him to.

  “‘Swan Song?’” Paige repeats.

  I stuff a guacamole-covered chip in my mouth and let out a tiny moan of pleasure before returning to mock surliness.

  “Yes, I want to watch a Jess episode, and yes, I want to watch ‘Swan Song.’ But why do I get the feeling this choice of mine is about to come with a dose of analysis?” They can crush on Logan all they want, but my fictional heart belongs to Jess—troubled, closed-off Jess who could have held on to Rory Gilmore if he was only emotionally capable of letting go of his pride.

  Miles sits forward, commanding Paige’s attention, ever the know-it-all grad student.

  “Because it does, darlin’. Are you new? What’s the one class we had together?”

  I roll my eyes because I know what he’s doing. Laying it on thick, as if he needs to, and all for Paige’s sake.

  “You were a T.A. in my Intro to Psych class sophomore year.” Now he’s a doctoral student, working his way through school while earning his PhD in psychology.

  Paige’s eyes widen, and she bites back a smile. Shit.

  Miles nods in my direction. “Let’s take a look at the lovely Margaret’s attire.”

  Paige directs her gaze, reluctantly, at me.

  “Margaret, Miles? Really?”

  He doesn’t falter. “The size of her university attire tells us one of two things—either the campus store was plum out of women’s sizes or even a small or medium in men’s, and our dear Margaret was desperate to represent the Gophers anyway. Or, this sweatshirt belongs to someone else, someone who, like our friend Jess Mariano in said episode, came into our lovely friend’s life with a shiner…and probably as much emotional baggage.”

  I’m rethinking my wardrobe now, not only from Miles’s astute analysis. Maybe Paige was on to something with her choice of attire because the room feels much hotter than it did a few minutes ago.

  “I’m not following,” Paige says. “Whose sweatshirt is she wearing?”

  “Maggie?” Miles’s voice loses the taunting tone, and it’s all warmth now. “Tell us how the date that wasn’t went last night.”

  I bring my knees to my chest and bury my face so I can hide the evidence that will give me away. When I come out of hiding, I can’t disguise the flush of my cheeks or the uncontainable grin that comes with remembering where I was only a couple of hours ago—back in Griffin’s shower. Then back in his bed. I smile because it’s him. I smile because I remember.

  Then, because I really never wanted to hide this, not from Miles—and now not from Paige, either—I tell them everything.

  Miles walks Paige home…to her next-door apartment, and I try to trust that he won’t make things difficult for me in the one place where I have the most control—home. When he comes back, he finds me in my room, pushing a thumbtack through a photo. Not on the bulletin board with the photos I need, the ones that serve a practical purpose, though there is a photo or two of Griffin there. No, this one goes on a small board that leans like a picture frame on my nightstand, the top edge balancing against the wall. On it are only two other photos—one of me and my grandparents from my high-school graduation, the other of me and Miles posing with my first piece of latte art. And now this one.

  Miles drapes his arms over my shoulders from behind, his chin resting on my head.

  “Are you sure he’s not for me?” he asks, though there’s no authenticity in his teasing, not now that he knows the extent of my week since meeting Griffin. A pang of guilt settles in my chest at the realization that Miles now knows more about me and Griffin than Griffin does. Because he knows me. All of me.

  “Maggie.” My name comes out as a sigh, and I don’t respond, knowing he’ll continue. “You know the reason we never would have worked isn’t because of this, right?”

  He steps back, gesturing toward the bulletin board that takes up most of the large wall in my room. Like his analysis of “Swan Song,” he’s right on the money with what I’m thinking now. He sits on the edge of my bed, eyes still trained on my photographic memory. I perch next to him and exhale, long and slow.

  “I know,” I say with as much conviction as I can muster. Miles knew me before, and he knows me now, and everything about us has always screamed friends instead of more than. Sleeping with him had been wonderful, but we both felt the same when it was over. We were just sharing loneliness. That wasn’t where our relationship was supposed to go. But a tiny part of me, the only part I’ve never shared with him, still thinks about What if? What if I was still the girl in that Intro to Psych class? What if I didn’t have t
o worry about what I eat or drink, about getting enough sleep, about anything that could be a new trigger, that could turn a good day into one that ends with my head on a cold, tile floor begging for the throbbing to stop? What if I didn’t live in fear that all of it would happen again, that if it does, I might not be so lucky?

  Lucky. What a subjective word.

  Miles nudges my shoulder with his own.

  “Now say it like you mean it,” he says, and I laugh.

  “Did you know that ten to fifteen percent of people with diagnosed aneurysms will have more than one?”

  This is our thing. When Miles has to talk me off a ledge, I throw statistics at him. He’s relentless with his hope for me, but I keep a wall full of reminders that say otherwise. Tonight, though, as I spout off my anxieties, I realize my fear isn’t for me alone. It’s for him—Griffin. When I think of what I put Gran through, of how much she lost before she almost lost me—how could I set someone else up for that possibility? Wanting him feels too selfish, too soon. I owe Griffin more than that.

  “I’m proud of you,” he continues, and I peel my eyes from the vision in front of us, questioning him with raised brows.

  “For what?” I add.

  He kisses my forehead.

  “For trying out this living thing. It looks good on you, sweetie.”

  I sigh. “I feel good. But for how long? How long can I keep this at bay?”

  I motion back to the wall, but Miles keeps his eyes on me.

  “Why do you have to?” he asks. “The guy is crazy about you. And this is only a piece of you. It doesn’t define you, not if you don’t let it.”

  “Yeah, well…”

  But he doesn’t give me a chance to argue. Miles pulls me in for a hug. I think about tonight, about what attracts bad-boy Jess to straight-laced Rory, and vice versa. He’s broken, and she wants to fix him. But in the end, Jess is the one to fix himself. Because he’s not fixable until he wants it.

  What happens when both parties are a little bit broken, though? Griffin has to want to fix himself. I can’t do that for him. And me? No one wants fixing more than me, but part of me may be beyond repair. How do I offer that to someone else to take on, someone who hasn’t taken on himself yet?