What If (If Only.... #2)
by A.J. Pine
To anyone who’s ever been afraid to take the road less traveled—what if?
Chapter One
Maggie
Where is it?
Shit. Shit. Shit. Where is it?
I always put my phone right back on the nightstand after I wake up. Step one is turning off the wake-up alarm. Step two—turn on bus alarm. But I can’t freaking remember if I turned on the bus alarm because I can’t find the phone, the one that should be sitting right where I’m looking.
It’s not that I don’t recognize the irony. Girl sets alarm on phone so as not to be late for bus. Girl can’t remember where she put phone from the time she woke up until right this moment.
It’s been a harrowing thirty minutes. Miles will feel like shit if he has to dock me a quarter-hour’s pay again. Then I’ll feel like shit for making him feel like shit. The usual.
I rifle through my drawers and medicine cabinet in the bathroom. Again. No luck. When I see the bus schedule I taped to the mirror, I flip it off for good measure. It doesn’t matter now if I know the time because I can’t leave without the phone. I am more than naked without it. I’m helpless.
In the kitchen, I half expect to find it in the freezer. Wouldn’t be the first time. Instead all I find are my pills sitting on the counter with a sticky note reminder that reads: Morning dose.
I thought I took them already, but I’m going to trust the Post-it. I always trust the Post-it. And a girl and her blood thinners are almost as good of a pair as a girl and her cell phone.
That’s when I hear the DEFCON 1-style alarm, the one specifically for my bus reminder, coming from my room. Here I thought the new alarm-tone would work in my favor, but I didn’t take into account that it wouldn’t matter if I didn’t know where my phone was.
The sound is muffled, but I chose that alarm for good reason. Even if the phone was buried six feet under, I’d at least be able to identify the land under which it was laid to rest.
I follow the sound back to my room, to my nightstand, exactly where it’s supposed to be. In the top drawer, under a small towel, is my phone, yelling at me that I’m getting close to missing the bus.
“I know!” I shout at it. “But you need to come with me, got it?”
Smooth move on my part. The towel triggers a memory from last night—Miles texting to say good-night as I washed my face before bed. I must have walked in here to return his text, patting my face dry with the towel that just stole most of my morning prep time. Shit. I may not remember my bedtime routine, but I do remember when towels weren’t such a threat to my daily routine. I laugh, the bitter sound audible even amid the noise still erupting from the drawer.
I grab the rogue cell, turn off the alarm, and pivot to leave the room.
After two years of putting my life back together, I’m still startled, sometimes, when I see the bulletin board on my wall. It’s the tool that keeps me going and also the reminder that in seconds—literal seconds—one angry blood vessel can alter the course of a girl’s life.
I run the tips of my fingers over the miniature Polaroids—one of each of my professors, captioned with their names and the courses they teach. Many more are of customers, and for a few seconds the tension eases at the recognition of those who are now regulars—Amber from the movie theater, George and Jeanie—the ones who never roll their eyes when I mess up an order or hesitate before greeting them by name.
“Maggie?”
I step from my bedroom and yank the door shut behind me.
“Right here, Paige.”
I give her a cursory wave as she stands in my open apartment doorway.
“Sorry. I let myself in when I heard the weird alarm. And the shouting. Is everything okay?”
I nod. “Just trying not to miss the bus. I’ll be late for work if I do.”
She glances behind her, down the stairwell, and when she turns back to face me, she cringes.
“What?” I ask.
She shrugs and tries to force a smile. “Do you mean the bus that just drove away? I could hear it from my room. I wish I had a car, Maggie. I really do.”
“Crap!” I grab my coat and bag, making sure not to let go of my phone, and push past Paige and down the stairs. Maybe I can catch it at the corner.
As I risk my life hopping down the stairs two at a time, I hear Paige yell from our hallway.
“Hey, Maggie! You forgot to lock up again! Want me to do it for you?”
“Yes!” I shout, and I’m out the door and running—for a bus that just turned the corner a block away and is now out of sight.
Shit.
…
Griffin
Don’t be late.
No Hi or Hey or anything other than an echo of my mother’s words from last night’s voicemail.
On the way.
I text back when I hit a stop light, shaking my head that Nat has stooped to Mom’s level.
Don’t they know? I’m a Reed. Anything less than ten minutes early is certifiably late, according to the family handbook. I’ve had twenty-three years of practice, going so far as being born a week ahead of my mother’s due date. If there’s one thing my family can depend on, it’s a Reed being on time. In my case, that’s about the only thing they depend on, except my sister’s text tells me I might not even have that going for me anymore.