What If
Page 22
I do the same, grateful for one less thing to think about because yes, at this point in the evening or morning or whatever we’re going to call it, the effort to stand is one I don’t want to put forth at the moment. I wrap my arms around my knees. Griffin rests his elbows on his, arms crossed and hands dangling.
“I want you to know that however this ends…” He blinks slowly. “I mean, however this night ends…it still is a new beginning. For me, even if not for us.”
My tear ducts seem to have replenished because though his words make me smile—for him—my vision starts to blur, and one small stream escapes—for us.
“Whatever made you decide not to show up tonight, it doesn’t change how I feel, Maggie. It doesn’t change that I’ve changed, and so much of that is because of you. Whatever you thought of me when we first met, I’m not the same person I was then.”
I want to tell him the same, that all the parts of me that have grown I owe in some way to him, for wanting me, believing in me, and trusting me when I fought so hard not to let him get close. But letting him in also means letting him get hurt, and I don’t want to be the person who hurts him.
“I’m proud of you,” I say, smiling through the tears. “You’re going to find what makes you happy.”
He sucks in a deep breath and lets it out, long and slow.
“I told you I didn’t know what I wanted, but that was only partly true. I may not know what I want to do with my life, but I know who I want. I want you. You make me happy, Maggie.”
He scoots across the floor, our toes touching now. His thumb swipes at a falling tear on my cheek, which only makes them fall faster.
“What about tonight?” I ask. “Did I make you happy tonight? Did I make you happy in Chicago? Because this is what it’s like to be with me, Griffin. You don’t know what you’re taking on by saying these things.”
“You act as if every moment we’ve spent together has been as much of a mess as tonight has been. What about those nights at my apartment?”
My chest tightens at the thought of him lying on his bed, glasses on and book propped against his chest—the photo I left sitting next to my bed. That was perfect. But he doesn’t know about the first one, about me sneaking out because I got sick. So I bring up the obvious.
“What about Chicago?” I throw the question at him like a dare. Because he can’t argue against that mess.
“Do you want to know why I loved Chicago?” He inches toward me.
I should push him away, but the nearness of him overrides my logic, so I leave him open to fill the space. And he does.
“I love you, Maggie.” His lips brush mine as he speaks the words. Then he’s kissing me, and I’m kissing him back. Kissing him and filling with the guilt of knowing this is good-bye when he has to think otherwise. But the guilt will be here for a long while, so I push it down, allowing myself the minute or two of basking in those words—I love you, Maggie—hoping he knows with each touch of my lips to his that I’m telling him the same, that I’ve loved him since the date that wasn’t a date, that this is good-bye because I love him, too.
When he pulls away for air, I release my head from the cradle of his hands, sliding to my knees, then climbing to my feet. Griffin stands, too, but he doesn’t try to kiss me again. He knows. He sees it in my guarded stare.
“You don’t know me,” I say. “Not like you think you do. You wouldn’t feel the same if you did. I want so much for you, Griffin, but I’m not the one to give it to you.”
“I’ll decide that, Maggie. Don’t push me away because you think you know me, too. Let me into your life so I can prove you wrong.”
I reach behind me, my hand on the doorknob, ready to run.
“I need to go.” The realization hits that he came here with Miles, that Miles thought I’d let him stay. “I’ll have Miles drive you home.” His jaw ticks.
“Don’t worry about me,” he says, his tone flat. “Miles said I can crash at Paige’s since it’s so late. So that’s it? You’re going to walk away without giving me a chance.”
His voice pleads now, but I’m already turning the handle.
“I don’t want to hurt you, Griffin. But I will. If I don’t walk away now, I’ll only hurt you more.”
Because walking away now is hard enough. It’ll only get worse if we put it off.
The door opens, and I take a step back over the threshold and into my apartment.
“I’m sorry, Griffin.” The tears flow freely. At least I can give him that. I can show him this is anything but easy, but it’s for the best.
“Maggie, don’t.”
“Mags.” I hear Miles behind me, the disappointment in his voice too much on top of Griffin’s hurt.
“I can’t,” I tell them both. “Not yet. I just can’t.”
I let the door swing wide as I head for the only place I can be alone, yet the one place Griffin remains, even if he isn’t here—my room.
I don’t turn on the light so I don’t have to see his face in any of the photos on the wall…or the one on my nightstand of him reading in bed. I collapse on my bed, his words still echoing in my head.
My eyes closed and sleep already winning the fight, I whisper to the darkness, “I love you, too.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Griffin
When I wake up, the first thing I notice is the partially obstructed vision in my right eye. Then there’s the pain, the skin swollen and stretched and stitched together. But the other pain is worse, my insides twisted and knotted and fuck. Everything about last night comes rushing in, and I close my eyes, begging sleep to take me for a little while longer so I don’t have to deal with today. Today’s an asshole.
But the smell of coffee rouses me further, as does the fact I can see from the couch that Paige and Miles left the front door wide open. Her kitchen is empty, which means the coffee isn’t here. Neither is Paige.
I find the bathroom and decide to first take care of business and then not avoid the mirror. When I meet my own stare in the glass, I laugh, wincing as I do. Sunday brunch is in twenty-four hours.
Tomorrow is the last time you go home looking like you don’t give a shit, like your life’s not worth wanting something more.
I’m pretty sure that thought comes from my reflection because right now the only thing I have to say to myself is a big old Fuck you.
There’s that coffee aroma again. And Paige’s open door. I know where she must be but am not sure I want to follow.
Cotton mouth along with the hope of something filling my stomach enough to take my pain meds helps propel me out the door and through Maggie’s, which also sits wide open.
Paige sits on the couch, mug in hand, flipping through Maggie’s DVR.
“She’s not here. Neither is Miles. They’re at her six-month checkup, and I’m butting in where I don’t belong.”
My feet stay rooted in the doorway. I shouldn’t be here if I haven’t been invited. Yet I know being this close means finding out some kind of answer, an answer Paige wants me to have.
“Tell me to leave, Paige.” But I can see in her eyes her mind is made up. I only have to step the rest of the way through this door to make up mine, but the violation is too big. I can’t do it.
She sets her mug down on the table and strides past me into the kitchen, filling a second mug from the coffee maker.
“My coffee maker is broken,” she says, handing me the mug. “I told Maggie I wasn’t letting you leave without making you a cup…without letting you in.”
She sighs, leading me far enough into the apartment so she can kick the door shut.
“She didn’t fight me on it.”
“But she didn’t ask you to let me in.”
“Semantics. Either way, she knows you’re here. Do what you will with that, but I suggest you take a quick tour. Then you can be on your way and make whatever decision you want to make.”
I let the mug warm my hands, my body still recovering from the time I spent outside last ni
ght.
“What am I going to find?” I ask, my throat tightening as reality sets in. All I’ve wanted is to know Maggie the way I let her know me. But what if she’s right? What if what I find changes how I feel?
“You already found her, honey, the real Maggie. What’s in there is only the missing pieces. That’s all.”
And that’s enough.
I move through the living room, smiling at the pillows lined up on the floor, extending from either side of the couch. Miles and Paige’s beds. I would have thought I’d be jealous to see something like this, pillows on a floor an indication of how much more of her they’ve always been able to see. Instead I’m filled with a kind of warmth, of knowing even without three sisters looking out for her, Maggie has her family.
A narrow hallway boasts two small doors. The one on my right opens to a bathroom much like the one I was in at Paige’s place. The other opens to what must be Maggie’s bedroom. Blackout shades block the morning sun, so I flip on the light.
The first thing I see is a wall covered by a giant bulletin board. I step closer, looking at one of the many photos pinned to the board, reading the caption: Douche-bag customer who never tips. I laugh, hearing her voice in my head. The next one is of an older man, smiling proudly with one of Maggie’s beverages in his hand. This one reads: George: loves my latte art.
I smile at that one, having heard her talk about George and Jeanie. There are more like this, all of the captions some sort of reminder about the people in each photo. Soon I find myself looking for my own image, some sort of evidence to give me hope. When I find the one she took that first day, all it says is Griffin/Fancy Pants. Not much to go on there.
My eyes move next to a section of the board sporting not photographs but articles—one on the benefits of art therapy, another on surviving traumatic brain injury, the lasting and sometimes chronic aftereffects of brain surgery.
Sticky notes adorn the board as well, adding follow-up text to a photo’s caption or a reminder of something she doesn’t want to forget about one of the articles. I flash back to that night at Royal Grounds, the trainee’s notes behind the counter.
Maggie. We could have figured this out.
I want to believe we would have found a way if she would have told me. What evidence did I ever give her, though, that I was capable of handling this when I was so good at showing her I could barely handle myself? When I turn toward her bed, I see the first glimmer of hope. On her nightstand are the only pictures without explanations, one of me from that night at my apartment. Our best night. And next to them is a sketch—Maggie and me at a table in the coffee shop, her hands resting on a mug and one of mine raking through my hair. I laugh. She knows me so well. The two people in the sketch laugh, too, a happy version of us in a scene that hasn’t happened—yet. Maggie’s wall of wishes. All I can do is hope that this is one she still wants to come true.
Then I glance at her desk, and that’s where I find it—a worn red box of Uno cards.
…
Maggie
My heel taps the floor of the car, and Miles places a hand on my knee to steady me.
“Tell me again what the neurologist said,” he demands, a stupid, goofy grin plastered across his face, the same one I’m wearing, too.
“He said my scan shows no clots. And when I told him about my class-load and my work-load and my grades, he said there’s no reason I can’t take a full schedule next year.”
“Aaaand…” Miles knows this. He sat there when the doctor relayed the information to me, but it doesn’t take away from the excitement of repeating those words again.
“He also said I can drive. Any medical provisions have been removed, and I can take the driving test and get a new license any time I want…which means never.” Because my doctor would have okayed me to drive a year ago, but all I think about is what would happen if I zoned out in traffic. Or worse. What if I develop another clot, and it bursts while I’m in a vehicle?
Miles reads my silence, like he always does. “Enough with the What ifs, okay? What if zombies attacked right now?”
I punch his shoulder, with love of course. “There are survival kits and guides for that. It’s not the same.”
But I can’t help the perma-grin on my face. Something about making it this far, about surviving the past two-plus years… I look at Miles, think about Paige trying to set me straight last night, and everything clicks into place. I’m not the person I was before I got sick, but I’m also not the girl lying in a hospital bed, relearning how to live. I can do so much now that I couldn’t a year ago, and maybe—hopefully—a year from now, I’ll be able to do more.
“I’ve been thinking, and maybe, just maybe everything that happened last night could have happened to anyone. People get lost, right?”
Miles lets out a long sigh.
“Yes, sweetheart. It could have happened anyway.”
I squeeze his hand. “And I’ve experienced the headaches long enough to know that staying up all night or…or hell, drinking—I know better. I can avoid so many of my symptoms if I pay better attention to myself. I’m an idiot. I let him distract me.”
Miles shakes his head. “No, honey. You fell in love with him.”
I start to laugh. Or maybe it’s a sob. I’m not sure.
“I fell in love with him,” I admit. “But I hurt him.”
We pull into a parking spot in front of my apartment building.
“Not because you’re sick or because you’re broken or any less of the Maggie you were when I first met you. You hurt him because you’re scared,” he says, and I nod.
“I’m so scared, Miles. Not just of me losing him.”
“I know, sweetie. But making him lose you when he doesn’t have to? That’s not fair. He deserves better. You deserve better.”
He kisses my hand.
“We all are scared. But shutting us out? Keeping the people who love you at a distance—it doesn’t make it any less scary. Just lonely.”
“I don’t want to be alone,” I admit. He releases my hand so we can get out of the car. “I don’t want to let fear win anymore,” I tell him. “But it’s not going to be easy. I may need your help.”
Miles cups his hands around his mouth and hollers to the wind. “Did you hear that, Maggie’s fear? Maggie gets to win now!”
I slap him on the shoulder and then steer him toward the building, both of us laughing as we go.
Once inside, we head up to my place in silence. Walking in there elicits a new fear, a fear that I succeeded, that shutting Griffin out last night after he told me he loved me was the final push. I tell myself I’ll be okay. Because I have to be. I can be scared and be okay, too.
Paige’s door is ajar, which means she’s still home. Griffin has to be gone by now. I reach for my keys in my bag but note my door isn’t clicked shut, either. I slowly nudge it open to find Paige on the couch alone, drinking coffee and watching a Gilmore Girls episode.
She springs up to greet us, coffee sloshing over her hand. “Ow! Shit. Sorry, Mags. I’ll clean that up. But tell me, how’d the appointment go?”
She rushes past us to the kitchen to grab a roll of paper towels, and as my eyes follow her they stop at a sight on the counter—another coffee mug.
“Paige…” I draw out her name, the rest of my question catching in my throat.
When she spins around, paper towels in hand, she follows my gaze to the counter.
“Paige, was he here?”
I knew she was plotting something when she asked to have coffee over here, but after last night, I expected Griffin to leave without looking back.
“He was here, honey.”
Her expression should be sad, right? I fell in love with a guy and pushed him away every time he tried to get close. So what’s up with the goofy grin?
I glance at Miles, who wears a confused smile, but a smile nonetheless, and I turn back at her. Then I book it to my room for no reason other than thoughts of Griffin propelling me there.
A rainbow of Uno cards illuminates the space, all with messages scrawled in Sharpie, the handwriting foreign though I have no doubt whose it is.
The first one is pinned to the photo I took of Griffin the day we met, him in the driver’s seat and me outside his window at the café.
I was afraid I’d never see you again after you snapped this one.
Next is the one of him before we snuck into the theater.
This is when I knew you were trouble, that no matter what our agreement was, I was already yours, even if I wouldn’t admit it.
All of my captions on the pictures were to remind me of the time we spent together, in case I forgot. Because I knew, too, though I wouldn’t admit it, either, that I didn’t want to forget him.
But here’s the thing—I haven’t forgotten any of it, not one single moment of our time together. The photos were a crutch, or maybe a way for me to hold on to him even as I pushed him away.
The one of us in front of the tree at the John Hancock Center, the caption reads: Aberdeen reunion with Griffin in Chicago. But the note on the card next to it has me choking back a sob.
The guy I was a month ago would have run away so fast, but everything about you pulls me in. All of it, Maggie. When you’re healthy, when you’re sick. Full deck. I’m in.
My hand slides across the board to the end where there are no pictures but instead articles. “Brain Aneurysm Recovery: Symptoms and Setbacks,” “Short-term Memory Loss and How to Cope,” “Statistics for Aneurysm Survivors,” “Art Therapy for Psychological Health.”
There it is, two years of my life plastered across a bulletin board as I try to make sense of it while at the same time hiding myself from those who matter most. One card sits among the posted articles.
I see you, Maggie. I see you, and I’m amazed and scared…and I love you.
I spin toward my nightstand, where the one photo sits that matters most. Because it’s the night I fell in love with him. Griffin in his bed, shirt off and glasses on, reading a book. I move slowly toward the foot of my bed and slide along the edge, not sure I can take any more once I’m close enough to read. And when I’m there, the photo and the card in my hand, laughter spills out between the tears. Because there is no caption on this photo. I didn’t need one because I’ve always known what it means, and now so does Griffin.