What If (If Only.... #2)(27)

“I’m researching,” she says, but there’s almost no resistance in her voice, and I let out a breath of relief. There are so many ways she could have reacted to seeing me, especially since she left without a word yesterday. But she’s already gathering her note cards, paper-clipping them by color, a Post-it on top of each one detailing the subject of the pile. When she picks up her planner, a photo falls out of a guy who looks around our age. Something is written in the white space below his unsuspecting face, but Maggie grabs the picture as quickly as it falls.

“Who’s that?” I ask, hating that I sound like I’m accusing her of something.

“No one,” she says, her words pinched.

Because I know what I came here to ask her, I have to make sure I didn’t misread what I felt Saturday night.

“You don’t owe me any explanations, so…”

“No, Griffin. I don’t owe you anything.” Her voice shakes, though, as she says the words, and I see myself as she must—the way I see my father when he speaks to me.

I lean in my seat and let my head hang back with a groan. When my eyes meet hers again I say, “I’m sorry, Maggie. You don’t owe me anything, and I’m a dick for insinuating that you do.”

Her posture relaxes, and though she doesn’t say anything else, she finishes packing up her books and study materials.

I raise my brows at her obvious activity. “So that’s a yes, then, to my coffee request?”

I let out a long, hopeful breath and wait for her to return my smile, but instead she chews on her top lip.

“I don’t want to give you the wrong idea, Griffin. But we can’t talk here. So, yeah. It’s a yes, but only to explain why we are a no.”

Baby steps. She’s not telling me to f*ck off. I guess that’s a start.

I buy her coffee, hoping I have at least as long as it takes her to drink it to figure this out.

She sips her latte, and I decide to wait, let her say something first.

“I’m sorry,” she finally says, “for not saying good-bye yesterday. I figured a clean break would be easier than an awkward farewell.”

Something in her tone doesn’t add up. There’s a strain to her words, and I don’t believe her. I think back to Miles and his slipup, and I’m sure she’s hiding something, but I don’t push it. Baby steps.

“It’s okay,” I tell her. “I get it.”

I hesitate, not wanting to bombard her with the plan I’ve got forming.

“Look, Griffin. Saturday was… It was wonderful. Spectacular, actually. But I thought I was clear. I’m not the dating type. You’re certainly not the dating type.”

I steel myself at her words, hoping she doesn’t see my slight wince. She’s right. I’m not the dating type. My friends made that clear. I made that clear. But here I am, ready to state my case.

“You’re right. I don’t do well with relationships. They’re messy and complicated, and I want nothing to do with any of that. But what if things didn’t have to get that far? What if we mutually agree to not date?”

Her brows furrow, and I have to concentrate on not leaning over and kissing the wrinkled skin between them. In a little over twenty-four hours, how did I forget how beautiful she is, how every little shift in her expression lets a tiny bit of the person she’s hiding seep out and into view?

“I don’t understand,” she says, but she’s listening—interested.

I lean forward on the table, hoping to convince not only by words but by proximity.

“You’re right. Saturday was…” I don’t have the words because I’ve never had a night like that, but telling her this will scare her away. Hell, it’s enough to scare me away.

“We weren’t dating, right?” I ask her, and she nods. “We made it clear we weren’t looking for anything more, but shit, Pippi. Why deny ourselves that kind of fun because we don’t want the baggage?”

I lean in closer, close enough to hear the tremble in her exhale, my lips a breath from hers. “No baggage,” I say. “Just more of this.”

I let my lips touch hers, waiting for her to pull away. She doesn’t. Instead she kisses me back, and everything about the feeling of her mouth on mine again tells me that neither of us believes the lie, but I’ll hide behind it if she’ll do it with me.

“No baggage.” Her voice is airy as she nods her agreement. “And when we think it’s getting complicated…not dating?”

“A clean break. No bad feelings. We just walk away.” I have to force the last sentence. Three trips to the library to find her are enough to prove I’m full of shit, but she doesn’t need to know that. When she’s ready to walk away, I’ll let her. Because it will be what’s best for both of us. All I know is that the need to see her again overpowers my logic. Or at least gives me the ability to ignore it.

She licks her bottom lip, and I’m ready to complicate things right here in the coffee shop, but I restrain myself, waiting for her to take the lead.

“The picture,” she says. “I’m not explaining, but do you believe me that he was no one important?”

“Who could be more important than me?” I ask, giving myself an internal fist pump. She doesn’t have to explain because she already told me all I need to know.