What If (If Only.... #2)(18)
This time I don’t let her finish, covering her mouth with mine again. She doesn’t argue, her lips parting in a smile over mine as I maneuver to unclick her seat belt and guide her out of the truck and up against it. My hands pull the rubber bands out of her braids, tangling in her wild waves while her arms wrap around me, fingers resting above my jeans. In seconds they’re moving, climbing up and under my jacket, my hoodie, and then my T-shirt. My breathing grows ragged as the aching need, the one I keep trying to ignore, grows. And when her hands make their way to my chest and down my torso, I gasp—and flinch.
“Shit!” Maggie slips out from under me, her eyes wide with recognition. “I’m sorry, Griffin. I totally forgot!”
All I can do is bang my forehead against the door of the truck. Her beautiful, amazing, soft hands are on me, and I flinch from a goddamn scratch. Okay. Maybe it’s a little worse than a scratch.
Maggie’s fingers trail through my hair. Then she rubs my back, the small gesture caring and intimate.
“Can we get you cleaned up and then maybe continue with our…um…discussion on happiness?”
“I’m fine.” I groan, stepping away from the truck to face her.
“I know,” she says, lacing her fingers through mine and giving me a reassuring squeeze. “But there’s nothing wrong with making you better.”
I look down at our hands, not hesitating to squeeze my assurance back. Though what I’m assuring her of, I have no idea.
“Okay,” I say, and I lead her inside.
…
Maggie
“Oh thank God,” I say as we step through his apartment door. “I was half expecting lots of black leather, clean lines, maybe even a remote-control picture of a fireplace.”
Griffin laughs, tossing his keys on the kitchen counter.
“Okay, I spoke too soon. Granite countertops?”
I survey the rest of the space, which is smaller than I expected—a modest living room with dark hardwood floors, a plush red couch…and a leather recliner replete with drink holder. A flat-screen TV and coffee table strewn with textbooks and PlayStation controllers, and a small galley kitchen, with stainless appliances and granite counters. None of it is obnoxious. In fact it’s…warm.
“It was a model unit.” Griffin’s voice comes from behind, and I realize I’ve been giving myself a small tour, walking around the sparsely decorated room to stop at an end-table cluttered with picture frames.
“Those are my sisters—Natalie, Megan, and Jen. They said the couch had to be red, and I said the recliner had to have a cup holder.” He shrugs, and his whole face lights up with his grin. “Everyone wins.”
I watch him take off his coat and hoodie, then glance at my own body, still bundled in my wool coat, fingerless gloves covering my hands.
“They’re beautiful, your sisters.” All of them with the same sandy waves as Griffin in varying lengths. “You’re close with them?”
He nods.
“If it’s okay with you, I’m going to grab a quick shower, wash all the poisonous bacteria off my, uh, little injury, here. Grab whatever you want from the fridge if you’re hungry or thirsty. Or whatever.” He strides toward me, taking a picture frame I’d picked up from my gloved hand and placing it back on the table. Then he peels off my gloves, throwing them on the couch. “Just—don’t go anywhere, okay?”
Something in my gut twists at his request, as if he knows I might leave if he takes his eyes off me. Because that would be the smart thing to do.
But in his presence, rational thought escapes me, and I say the only thing I can. “Okay.”
He disappears down the short hallway to the bathroom. I reach in my bag for my phone to check the time, and the sight of the numbers reading half-past-four hits me with a wave of exhaustion. Our non-chase from the cops pumped me so full of adrenaline, I had no idea how wiped out I was. Collapsing on the couch, my eyes close, blinking back the threat of a headache. Of course. Why should this day be different from any other? Miles will give me shit about it tomorrow, not just the friendly teasing kind of shit for leaving with Griffin, but if I stave off this headache and actually make it to work by one o’clock, he’ll see the fatigue anyway, remind me of my limitations, that I can’t do what I used to do before…
He gave me an out. Goddammit. Fancy Pants gave me an out. I asked him to take me home, something I’m sure happens to him too many times to count, and now he’s going to play the gentleman card by leaving the room? Despite him asking me to stay, this is him letting me go—if I want to. But what I want to do and what I should do isn’t quite matching up. Something flutters in my gut, and I silently curse the feeling because I can’t want him to set me apart from the countless others. I can’t look for meaning in this gesture, in his ignoring his friends the whole night to fail miserably at creating his own foam art. In his giving my words, my wall, me—memories.
I should tell him. Then I’ll go. I should march into that bathroom and tell him none of this can mean anything, that in the sixteen hours I’ve known him, thinking about him more than sixteen times is crazier than, well, me. And I’m pretty sure I have some paperwork to back up the latter.
I snatch my gloves and stuff them into my pockets, making sure my bag is slung securely across my body. I can find my way home from here, but first he should hear what I have to say.