What If (If Only.... #2)(25)

“This has always been the plan, Griffin. Whatever you’ve been getting out of your system these past few months, it ends now.”

The finality in his tone tells me this isn’t open for discussion. I know my place, to simply stand and listen, so I do, my teeth clenched so hard I feel my pulse in my temples.

“This is more than your future we’re talking about,” he continues. “It’s the future of the company, the one you swore up and down four years ago you wanted to run. I didn’t get a thing handed to me growing up, so I made sure things would be different with my children. We’ve given you everything. Now it’s time for you to give back.”

Give back? I want to ask. I don’t remember signing a contract at birth saying I owed my parents for whatever they handed to me growing up. Who knows, though? The kid I was, hell even the teen I was, probably would have signed it anyway. It’s not like I haven’t enjoyed the perks, but I’m beginning to understand what it is I might be getting out of my system—that guy. The one who would have signed on to that deal.

He doesn’t say anything else. After a few long moments of holding eye contact, he pivots and leaves the room.

Finally, I’m home free, back in the kitchen where my sisters are putting the finishing touches on Nat’s spread, and I paint on the smile everyone expects me to wear. I snag a piece of bacon off a tray, and Nat slaps my hand, not before the food is in my mouth, though.

“Everyone’s supposed to contribute a dish, Griffin. This is the second brunch you’ve come empty-handed, which is shitty considering you cook better than those two.” She points a spatula at Jen and Megan who are already at the dining room table, mimosas in hand, ready to dig in.

“Earmuffs,” I whisper, stealing one more piece and stuffing it in my mouth, then donning the oven mitts to grab Nat’s famous egg soufflé to bring to the table.

“Fuck off,” she whispers.

Violet calls out from the half-open door to the porch, her voice a sing-song accusation. “I heard you!”

Nat’s shoulders slump in defeat, and I do my best to rein in my laughter, if only to save the soufflé.

My sister rolls her eyes, bested once again by an eight-year-old.

“I blame you, Uncle Griggs,” Nat calls after me, but I don’t turn around, don’t take the bait. My smile is no longer forced when I think of my precocious niece, when I hear Natalie mumble to herself:

“Merde.”





Chapter Eight


Maggie


I should be used to it by now, that leaving for the day is more like packing for a weekend vacation. But my upcoming exam and paper translates to extra supplies, which means an overloaded bag. Books? Check. A myriad of Post-its, colored note cards, and highlighters? Check again. Camera and my planner. I pet the top of my planner with sincere affection before fitting it into my bag. I was resistant at first to handwriting instead of putting my notes in my phone—until I saw how much more I remembered from the act of writing everything down. Now I’m a convert, or at least a hybrid.

My phone alarm sounds with my second reminder. If I don’t leave for the bus now, I’m going to miss it. And I’m thinking I should lay off the hitchhiking for a while.

Coat on, luggage over my shoulder, and I’m out the door and down the hall when I hear my name.

“Need me to lock up, Mags?”

Shit. Again? This weekend threw me off. He threw me off.

“Thanks, Paige!” I call over my shoulder to my neighbor. Why she’s always up when I leave is beyond me since she usually works nights, but I love her for it. Can’t imagine what I’d do if someone had easy access to my place. Never mind if something gets stolen, but mess with my organization or make me deal with change in the one place I never have to? I don’t think I could handle that.

I’m down the stairs and at the bus stop with minutes to spare, so I lean inside the covered depot and text Miles, apologizing for sleeping through our pastry-gorging Gilmore Girls session last night.

Me: What time did you leave?

Miles: Only stayed for one episode. Feeling better, sweetie? You were so out of it last night.

I barely remember answering the door to let him in. It’s been a while since a migraine like yesterday’s. Even after the meds kicked in, I was too wiped out to function, which also means I was too wiped to tell him about Saturday. Miles didn’t push, just let me doze while he popped in a DVD and hung out.

Me: Miss you. We’ll try again next Sunday?

Miles: Always , sweetie…but one thing I need to tell you…

The bus eases around the corner, and I scramble to find my bus card in my bag while not letting go of my phone. While Miles has a flare for drama, he’s not one to use it on me. But when the bus stops in front of me and he hasn’t followed up his previous text, I’m guessing he’s allowing for a dramatic pause.

I get on the bus, swipe my card, and fall into the nearest seat. Still no text, and I have no patience.

Me: WTF ? What do you need to tell me???

Miles: Shit. Sorry. Had to say good-bye to my guest.

I roll my eyes even though he can’t see me.

Me: You had a bootie call after you left me? It must have been midnight. Who ARE you? And tell me Andrew doesn’t say yes to you at that time of night?

I picture him laughing. It’s not like this is the first time we’ve had this conversation, because this is Miles. Miles loves everyone, and everyone loves Miles. It’s biologically impossible not to. There have been studies. His non-answer is the answer. I know he and Andrew are just having fun, but I find myself wanting to live vicariously through Miles, for him to find a happily ever after so I can sort of have one, too.