What If (If Only.... #2)(29)

“But?” he asks, anticipating my next word.

I sigh. “But I want you to be patient for a little while longer. Until I figure this out.” Whatever this may be.

Miles hops off the counter and crosses to where I sit. He leans his forehead against mine and rests it there for a few seconds.

“Ya gotta start living again.” His deep voice is gentle, and his shoulders slump. “I’ll admit it.” He straightens to meet my gaze. “I used to worry what life would be like for you after the whole almost-dying thing. But you came back, Mags. And you’re kicking ass at being alive. I just want to see you live.” He nods to my drawings on the back wall. “You’re hiding in there,” he says. “And in here.” He taps my forehead lightly with his index finger.

“I’m okay,” I tell him, and it’s as close to the truth as I can be. I’m as okay as I may get. That much is true. If I could get okay-er? If I knew that was a possibility, I might do something foolish. I might allow myself to hope.

“I almost believe you.” He backs away, the lull of the dwindling patrons interrupted by the whoosh of the door opening, the threat of the impending Minnesota winter evident in the wind gust as it enters along with the person at the door.

“Huh,” Miles starts, as we both lock eyes on Griffin Reed, who as soon as he enters is flagged down by the occupants of one of the few tables of people left. The two girls with the bottomless pot of coffee. He kisses each of them, on the cheek, but still. My insides riot at the sight of it. He hasn’t even looked at me yet, but it’s not like he doesn’t know I’m here, right?

Miles grabs my hand and squeezes it, a sign that I have not mastered the art of caging my reactions when I’m thrown emotionally off kilter.

But something shifts when Griffin’s gaze turns in our direction—his and those of the two girls at the table. The familiarity. The resemblance. Maybe it would have clicked if there were three girls instead of two. If I had seen a smile on either of their faces before Griffin’s arrival. Because they share it, that smile. All three of them. Not to mention different shades of the sandy hair that, at least for Griffin, offers the perfect contrast to his deep chocolate eyes.

I exhale, long and shaky, but my stomach no longer threatens to leap out of my throat. My hand relaxes in Miles’s grip.

“You okay?” he asks, and I nod as I watch Griffin leave the two girls behind, their eyes trailing after him as he makes his way to the counter.

“Uh-huh,” I say. “I think so.”

Miles leans in close to whisper in my ear. “Remember,” his voice both teases and pleads. “Remember how to live.”

He lets my hand go and greets Griffin with that raised chin thing guys do, and Griffin responds with a, “Hey, man.” Then Miles is gone, busying himself with the preliminary closing routines.

Griffin sits on a bar stool, and I stare at him for a second, noting the difference.

“Your eye,” I say. “It looks good.” The lack of evidence of a night gone wrong transforms him into someone else entirely, if only by appearance.

“Managed to stay out of trouble this week.” His grin lights up his face, lights up the whole goddamn room because this revelation seems to mean something to him.

My hand fidgets in my apron pocket, but tonight it’s free of any requisite photos. No reminders needed, not of him. I haven’t forgotten the touch of his skin on mine, or our kiss in the library coffee shop, one that dripped with possibility. I can’t remember if I locked my apartment door this morning, but I remember him. And there’s nothing more terrifying than the strength of this memory because with it comes ideas I’ve trained myself to live without: Want. Need. Hope.

“Can I make you a drink before we shut everything down?”

He shakes his head. “I didn’t come here for a drink, Maggie.”

My cheeks burn. The use of my name instead of Pippi throws me. It lacks the playfulness of the nickname, evokes a strange intimacy. I hesitate longer than I should to respond, and Griffin fills the silence.

“I didn’t know if I should come here tonight,” he says. “I sat in my apartment, ignoring texts from my buddies about where to meet them because all I wanted to do was see this girl who didn’t want to give me her number.”

From anyone else this would sound like an admission, but not Griffin. In the short time I’ve known him, he hasn’t held back. What he thinks, he says.

I find my voice again. “This girl…she sounds like a pain in the ass.”

He laughs, and I feel the tension melting between us. We can do this. Our non this.

“She is, now that you mention it. I wasn’t even sure if she worked tonight, but there was no way to ask her.”

I grab a stack of sticky notes from my apron and jot down a phone number, then slap it to Griffin’s chest. His brows rise.

“Not my number. The coffeehouse number. You know, so you can call and check who’s working on any given day or night.”

He opens his mouth to respond but is interrupted as his female counterparts approach him on either side.

“We won’t creep on your visit any longer,” the girl to his right says as she starts spinning back and forth on the stool next to him.

“But glad we got to see you for a few.” This from the other girl who, although still standing, barely matches Griffin’s height where he sits.