What If

by A. J. Pine

  “Griffin, you’re shaking. Let me get you some coffee or tea. I think I have your Minnesota sweatshirt in the back.”

  “I don’t want a sweatshirt, Maggie.” Anger tinges his voice now. Frustration. “I want to know why. Why let it go on this long? Why come to Chicago? Why let me believe…”

  “Griffin, I don’t know what you’re asking. I don’t…”

  “You knew,” he says. “You knew what tonight meant to me—to us. I may be a lot of things, but I’m not enough of an asshole to promise you something I have no intention of actually delivering.”

  I squeeze my eyes shut. Because knowing this has to end, that neither of us are ready for the other, I can’t bear him thinking the last few weeks meant nothing.

  “I should have called,” I say, hating the taste of the lie.

  His hands rake through his hair, gripping the waves tight before dropping to his sides. It’s then I notice his sandy waves are darker than normal. They’re damp, as is his shirt. When I look past him, out the window, I note the flurries that must have started after Miles and I got inside.

  “So this wasn’t your way of teaching me some sort of lesson?” he asks. “Because obviously I failed, right? I mean, look at me. I’m exactly where I was a month ago. Hell, I’m exactly where I was two years ago, falling for the wrong person, trusting when I should have known better. Did you lie about him, too? Because things look pretty cozy. He does get to take you home, right?”

  Miles steps forward. “Okay, that’s enough, man.” He stands next to me now, poised to move between us. “You’re drunk, and you’re going to say something you regret. I think you both need to sleep off the events of the evening and talk when you’re thinking clearly.” Miles turns his eyes to me. “Before either of you do or say something you can’t take back.”

  I hook my arm through Miles’s, letting my hand rest on his elbow. Griffin flinches at the sight, and I pray for the floor to swallow me up so I don’t have to look in his eyes anymore and see what I’ve done to him, what I’m still doing, all in the name of pushing him away where he’ll be happier…eventually.

  “There’s nothing to sleep on,” I say, angling to face Miles, but my eyes still on Griffin. “A clean break, right?” I shrug, a failed attempt at making this casual when it’s anything but. “We walk away with no hard feelings. That was the deal.”

  “I thought we changed the rules.” Underneath the anger, his voice pleads.

  “I changed them back,” I say, moving closer to Miles, squeezing his arm in mine.

  “Maggie,” Miles starts. “Don’t do this.”

  “It’s already done,” I say, not fighting the tears.

  “Are we ready for our slumber party?” Paige strides out of the bathroom but grinds to a halt when she sees the three of us in front of the door. “I’m gonna take a stab at answering my own question and say no.”

  Miles nods to Paige and motions for her to join us. “Take her home,” he says, unlatching my arm from his. “I’ll be there soon.”

  Paige lays a hand on my shoulder and asks, “Are you sure?” I nod, letting her lead me past Griffin to the door. But I can’t keep from meeting his eyes one more time.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “I really am sorry. But it’s better like this.”

  Better for him, I tell myself. It would only be selfish to keep this going.

  Then I let Paige push through the door and take me to her car. She doesn’t interrupt my quiet sobs as we drive through the empty streets back toward campus. She simply lets me cry, her free hand holding mine, no sound but my intermittent sniffles and vents filling the car with what must be heat. But I never warm up, my insides holding on to their chill.

  When we get back to my apartment, I am hollow—no tears, no warmth. Paige piles blankets on top of me on the couch, then runs to her place for her giant pillows, the ones that will serve as bed cushions for her and Miles tonight.

  But something propels me to move with zombie-like slowness to my bedroom. I stand at the foot of the bed, scanning the wall that spells out exactly who I am—reminding me of who I’ll never be. Photographs and captions mock where they should comfort. I spin to face my bed, see the photo of Griffin lying in his on my nightstand—the perfect night and the photo I took just for me. Not to remember his name or a drink order. The picture is simply him.

  I take a few hesitant steps to my desk where my Polaroid sits, pick it up and look through the eye piece, first at the photo of Griffin, next at my bulletin-board wall. Then I slam the camera down on the desk’s faux-wood surface. Again. And again. I’m not sure what will give first, the desk or the camera, and when glass cracks and chips and spills out from where the lens should be, I know the desk has won.

  Paige runs back in, a response, I’m sure, to the sickening crunch of plastic parts succumbing to my last-ditch effort at control. My back is to her, but I feel her eyes on me, know she stands in silence in the frame of my bedroom door, waiting for me to speak. I crumple into a heap on the foot of my bed, my eyes stinging from the need to cry, but the tears will no longer come.

  “Oh, honey,” she says. “Your camera.”

  She means what’s left of it, which is nothing retrievable. I made sure of that.

  “No. It’s a stupid reminder of my stupid dependency on everything other than myself.”

  Paige sits next to me now, her arm around my shoulders.

  “This is you depending on yourself.”

  She motions to my wall filled with photographs and notes.

  I laugh, a bitter sound. “I look like I’m either a serial killer or the cop trying to solve the crime.”

  She giggles, nudging me with her shoulder. “You just made a joke. You should try it more often, laughing at all of life’s Fuck yous. It’s like your own Fuck you right back.”

  I bump her shoulder. “I’m okay. But I needed a tension breaker. It’s too late for me to scream without waking the neighbors, so the camera had to die.” I let my eyes fall on the destruction sprinkled across my carpet. “Fuck,” I lament. “My camera.”

  “We’ll clean it up tomorrow.” She rises from the bed, her arm still around me, and I stand with her and let her lead me back to the living room, depositing me on the couch before she gets comfortable on the floor.

  “Are you sure about all this?” she asks, curling up on the pillows and turning on the TV.

  “No,” I admit, knowing she’s talking about more than the camera. “But it’s what’s easiest for both of us. We’ll get over each other, and we won’t have to worry about what kind of mess I’ll get into next. If it’s too much for me to handle, he doesn’t deserve to bear that responsibility as well.”

  “How long’s it been since your gram went back to Florida?” she asks.

  “Six months. Why?”

  “Honey. If you weren’t doing so well on your own, would she really have left? Is it possible you’re setting these limitations for yourself because you’re scared? I don’t blame you. What happened to you is scary, but I think you forget that you survived it, that you kicked some ass to get to where you are now.”

  My defenses kick in regardless of whether or not Paige is right. “She left because I couldn’t bear to see her miss out on her life anymore. I told her to go.”

  “Maggie. I met your gram when she was here. Though I didn’t know your whole situation then, I could tell you were everything to her, and there’s no way she would have left if she was worried about anything—about you taking care of yourself, about you getting sick again. There’s also no way she cares any less about you simply because you needed more care. Why don’t you see that?”

  I shake my head. “You know what they say, right? You can’t choose your family. She has to still love me. It’s in the fine print. No matter how difficult I am, she has to be there for me. It’s not the same with Griffin. You know it’s not.”

  Paige cues up an episode of the Gilmore Girls. “Hmmm…” she muses. “Sounds like a load of bullshit to me. When does
your life become yours instead of the fear of what it could be?”

  My eyes widen, but she never takes her gaze off the TV, which is perfect. She can’t see my reaction, can’t know for sure that she’s right. Fear is a powerful thing. I’ve lived with it for a long time now.

  She doesn’t push me any further, and I silently thank her for that. We watch without talking and wait for Miles to get home.

  Maybe it is a load of bullshit, but it doesn’t matter. The damage is done and, eventually, Griffin and I will both get past it. We’ll have to.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Griffin

  Miles stares at me, and I realize I haven’t moved since Maggie walked out, since she got in her friend’s car and drove away. I thought I came here to do what she did, to get the closure I needed and end this. But when I saw her, even with her arms wrapped around him—as if I needed more convincing that she was done with whatever we were doing—I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t be the one to say good-bye.

  “Hey, man. I’m really sorry. Maggie told me how important tonight was to you.”

  I hear him, but the words don’t sink in.

  “It’s a bullshit word,” I say, finding my voice.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Sorry. It’s a bullshit word with no meaning. And it changes nothing.”

  Miles shrugs. “You’re right. I’m…uh…I’m not sure what else to say here.”

  The damp fabric of my shirt and jeans begins to register, as does the tremble of my insides.

  “Those are hers, aren’t they?” I nod to the framed drawings on the back wall. “Maggie did those.”

  Miles nods. “Maggie doing what she does best—observing life. I like to think of it as her wall of wishes,” he says.

  “How are they her wishes if she’s not in any of them?” I ask. “I don’t understand.”

  Miles huffs out a laugh. “No, man. I guess you don’t.” He sighs. “I wish you did.”

  “I should go,” I say, my legs cold and unable to move, unwilling to admit she isn’t coming back.

  “Let me give you a ride,” he says, but I shake my head.

  “I need to clear my head. But thanks.” I turn to the door, already pushing it open into the flurries, the chill. I comfort myself with the knowledge I can text Nat if it gets too bad. She’s got the truck.

  “Hey, man. Watch the door. It sticks in the humidity.” Miles tries to warn me as I push against the frame, but my haste drowns out the realization as my cheek crashes into the metal lever so conveniently placed at eye level.

  “Fuck!” I yell, my hand flying to my face and coming away bloody.

  “Shit!” Miles yells. “Didn’t you hear me? I said it sticks sometimes, and now that it’s snowing—the humidity—shit!”

  I back into the shop again. This seems preferable to staying pinned in the entryway. Because I don’t know what else I’m supposed to do, and because I really don’t want to see how bad the damage is, I collapse onto a chair at the nearest table.

  Miles is there with a wad of napkins as soon as I sit, and I take them gratefully, pressing them to the wound. I breathe in, the pain white-hot.

  “Shit,” he says again. “I don’t even know why that thing is on the door. We never use it.” He runs a hand through his hair. “Come on,” he says. “I need to get you to the ER.”

  I roll my eyes but don’t argue. I knew the second my face made contact with the metal that I wasn’t going home anytime soon.

  Miles has the place closed up and me in his passenger seat in less than two minutes. He brings a clean rag dampened with cool water for me to hold on my face until we get to the hospital.

  “Are you creative?” I ask him as we start driving. “I’m in the middle of blinding—and might I say sobering—pain right now, so I thought you might muster up some creativity as to how I almost lost an eye so I don’t have to say I walked into a door.”

  Miles barks out a laugh.

  “Not the reaction I was hoping for,” I say.

  He shakes his head, his grin giving no sign of disappearing.

  “Fucking ‘Swan Song’ he says. You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

  I let my head fall against the seat, closing my eyes to shut out the pain.

  “I’m not following. But I appreciate the laughter. That helps.”

  “It’s just. You won’t get it. It’s a Gilmore Girls reference. It’s a Maggie thing.”

  The mention of her name sends a different kind of pain rocketing through me.

  “Shit.” I laugh with the realization. “Is that the name of the one where Jess gets the shit kicked out of him by a swan? I have three older sisters,” I tell him. “Megan, the bookworm, we call her Rory. All three of them are team Logan, by the way.”

  At this Miles bursts into laughter. “Fucking Maggie,” he says, his smile broad and knowing. “In that episode, Jess won’t tell Rory how he got a black eye…”

  “Fuck,” I say, not sure if I’m proud or ashamed at knowing exactly which episode he’s talking about, let alone him thinking I’m Jess—too proud to let Maggie see the real me. “I’ve hit rock bottom. Haven’t I?” I try to laugh at the whole situation, but it hurts too much—not just my eye, but everywhere.

  Since I can’t sink much lower, I decide to lay it all on the table. “Can I ask you something?”

  His smile fades immediately. He knows what’s coming.

  “We’re friends,” he says. “Me and Maggie. The way she acted tonight, it’s self-preservation. I don’t agree with how she handled it, but I know where she’s coming from.”

  “But you were more than friends once, right?”

  His hesitation is answer enough, and I’m ready to take back the question. But I’d be a hypocrite to judge her when she never judged me. Not until tonight, at least.

  “Look,” he starts. “Things have not been easy for Maggie. I was there when she needed someone, but it was only one time. We both knew we could only ever be friends, and that’s all we’ve been ever since. Not that it should matter, but it was six months ago.”

  My shoulders sag with a sigh. I can live with this, but it doesn’t change what happened tonight.

  “And you like dudes, too?” I remember that first night at the coffee shop, the blond guy he left with.

  Miles laughs again. “I like people,” he says. “Everyone’s welcome in my book.”

  We pull into the parking lot of the ER.

  “I’ll come back to get you,” he says to me. “If you’ll be okay getting yourself inside. I have to make a quick stop at the bus station. Long story, and not mine to tell. And as far as what you should tell them about what you did to yourself? I think I’d start with the truth.”

  “I’m in love with her,” I say. “How’s that for truth?”

  “It’s a start.” He unlocks the doors. “You need me to walk you in?”

  I shake my head. “I’m good. Thanks for the ride. I can call my sister to take me home.”

  “Uh-uh,” Miles says. “You’re not going home. I’m taking you to Maggie. Plus, I need to make sure you’re okay—legal reasons since it was the coffee-shop door that attacked you.”

  Despite the pain, I laugh. “What if she won’t talk to me?” I ask.

  “She may not. But she’ll at least have to listen.”

  I nod before getting out of the car. Then I make my way through the sliding doors of the emergency room, no creative story planned. Just the truth.

  …

  Maggie

  Bang! Bang! Bang!

  My eyes spring open, and I bolt upright on the couch. My heart thuds against my rib cage, but when I look at Paige on the floor next to me, she barely stirs.

  The sound comes again, not the terrifying bang that must have been a product of drifting off. Only a quiet tap, tap, tap against my door. Miles.

  “Coming!” I whisper-shout, trying not to wake Paige. When my eyes adjust, I focus on the microwave’s clock to check the time. It’s after two in the morning.
Where the hell has he been?

  I have my answer when I open the door, gasping at the sight of Griffin standing next to Miles, his beautiful eye, the one so recently healed, now an angry mix of purple and red. Coarse, unforgiving black thread holds the skin together where it split. The dark patch under his other eye tells of his weariness, and I have to brace my hand against the wall before my knees give out. Everything in me pulls and twists, urging me toward him, but I cement my feet in place and steady myself enough to speak.

  “Miles, you didn’t…”

  “God, Maggie. No. Just, no. I can’t believe you’d even think—”

  Griffin shrugs and interrupts. “I was drunk, and I don’t have the best track record, so I don’t blame her for going there. But no.”

  His eyes shift to mine, pinning me where I stand. Good thing I don’t want to move.

  “This is a self-inflicted wound,” he continues. “Unintentional, but self-inflicted nonetheless. Believe me, I’d give Miles the credit if I could.”

  Miles coughs into his hand. More like half coughs, half speaks two words, “Swan Song,” before sauntering into my apartment.

  “All you have to do is listen,” Miles whispers as he passes, and my heart leaps in my throat.

  Griffin toes the carpet with his worn and weather-soaked Chuck. I can’t let him in, not when the only privacy we’d have is in my room, the last place I want him to see now.

  “Will you?” he asks, lifting his head from the study of the hallway floor. “Will you listen?”

  My feet release the lead weights holding them in place, and I move out into the hallway with him, shutting the door behind me. I have to fight my instinct to touch his face, to want to fix him like I tried to do so many weeks ago.

  Instead I lean my back against the door, arms crossed, my features impassive. Every bit of my expression a lie.

  “I’m listening,” I say, hoping he’ll make this quick so we can have the closure we need.

  Griffin backs up to the opposite wall and proceeds to slide down to a sitting position.

  “Mind if I sit?” he asks and then laughs. “It’s been a long night.”