What If (If Only.... #2)(19)

In a few easy strides I’m at the bathroom door, the echo of the water’s spray giving me the final boost of confidence to walk in because at least I won’t have to look him in the eye. But when I throw open the door, Griffin stands facing the mirror in only his gray boxer-briefs, his face contorted in pain as he dabs a cotton ball down the jagged scratch that lines his torso—the scratch that clearly, at some points, went deeper than the first layer of skin.

Shit. Like, the shittiest shitterson of shits. What is it about this guy that compels me to take care of him? And it doesn’t help my resolve that he’s practically naked because I full-on gawk for several seconds before finding my voice. Get a grip, Maggie. The boy is in pain.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

He braces himself on the counter, letting out a long exhale.

“You could have gone by now.”

“I know.” I should be gone, but instead I’m lifting my bag off my shoulder and tossing it to the ground. Next, my coat.

“You should go, Maggie. We both know that’s how this night should end.” He lets out a short, bitter laugh. “If you stay, I turn into exactly the guy you think I am. It won’t matter that I didn’t come to Royal Grounds looking for this. I’ll be that guy, the one Davis said I was.”

“Do you want me to leave?” I ask.

His answer is instantaneous. “No.” He sighs. “But I don’t want to be that guy. Not for you.”

“You don’t have to be anything you don’t want to be,” I say, stepping toward him and grabbing a clean washcloth from a shelf next to the counter. Isn’t that what I’ve been doing for two years? Fighting to get my life back, to not be helpless and dependent. Maybe that’s what connects us, not wanting to be defined as others see us. In one day, this stranger hasn’t once seen me as lacking. And despite all the signs that point to him being every bit of trouble he believes he is, that’s not who I see. I see someone lost, like me.

That’s why I stayed.

Steam pours from the shower, thickening the air between us, and I slide open the glass door to reach inside and wet the cloth.

He faces me now, his back to the sink, and I step in close, only enough distance between us for me to see what I’m doing.

When I see the bottle on the counter, I wince. “Rubbing alcohol? That’s hard-core.”

“Yeah, well, I just Googled tetanus on my phone. I don’t recommend clicking on Images if you ever get around to Googling it yourself.”

“Noted,” I say, my hand and the hot, damp cloth making contact with his chest under his neck, right above where the injury begins. “But you should clean it first before trying to disinfect it. Otherwise whatever contaminants were on that metal are still there unless you use enough alcohol to soak it. Plus, this stings a little less. I hope.” My hand drags the washcloth down the cut, gently as I can yet with enough pressure to wash away the dried blood—and feel the hard muscles of his abdomen.

When I reach the top hem of his briefs, I restart at the top.

“Thank you,” he says, his hand joining mine.

Instead of You’re welcome or some other appropriate reply, a giggle bubbles up from my throat.

With a furrowed brow, he asks, “Is that how your people respond to declarations of gratitude? Because around these parts, laughter is not the socially accepted norm.”

This does nothing except get me to laugh harder.

“Okay, now I’m developing a complex.”

I shake my head. “I’m not laughing at you. I’m laughing at me.”

He narrows his eyes.

“I was ready to leave,” I tell him. “I should have left.”

“But…”

“But you weren’t supposed to be standing here, looking like that.”

My hand motions up and down his body, but that’s not why I’m still here. I’m selfish, because I don’t want this night to end if it means not feeling special anymore. With Griffin, I find snatches of a Maggie who doesn’t rely on outside help to keep her day-to-day activities straight, a Maggie who takes pictures to preserve a moment rather than remind her brain what happened when it can’t recall on its own. From the minute he picked me up on the street, to walking into Royal Grounds, to now—not one second of our interaction have I forgotten.

But when sleep comes, and at some point I will surrender to it, the slate will be wiped clean. Maybe not all at once, but enough for me to lose the feeling I have right now, the one that won’t let me walk out the door.

I drop the washcloth on the counter and watch as his eyes follow my hands, as they lift my Royal Grounds T-shirt up and over my head. Next I slide my skirt over my hips and let it pool on the floor around my feet, toeing off my shoes and socks before stepping over the skirt and back to Griffin.

“You’re not laughing anymore,” he says, his voice hoarse and strained.

I can only shake my head while I watch his hands now. They find the front clasp of my bra, the straps falling over my shoulders as the cups open, removing the last barrier between his upper body and mine.

Griffin’s palms slide over my ribs and around to my back, pulling my chest to his. If he lets go, I have no doubt I’ll fall to the floor in a puddle, my legs too weak to support me.

I expect urgency as I wait for his hormones to kick in, but he just holds me, his head lowering to my shoulder until his lips are on my skin.