What If (If Only.... #2)(3)

I shrug. “He threw the first punch. I threw the last.” I don’t mention that, with the combination of Scottish whisky and my eye swelling shut, it was nothing more than luck that I even made contact. And I sure as hell don’t tell her it was because of a girl.

Nope. No mention of the *’s girlfriend who kissed me anyway or that the kiss was merely provocation for him to introduce his fist to my face.

It’s been almost two years since I said good-bye to the girl I never intended to fall for, especially when she was falling for someone else. Then the text came last night.

Jordan: How’s my favorite Minnesotan who used to live in Aberdeen? We’re going to see you at the reunion Thanksgiving weekend, right? Please say you’re coming! Miss you!

We. A hard word to miss. Not I, but we. It’s not like I don’t know that she and Noah are still together, that they’re the real deal. But I wasn’t. Real, that is. I don’t blame her. I never promised her a commitment. In fact, I offered the opposite—fun with no complications. And that’s the only way she ever saw me. It’s what I do best. I’m all about the fun.

I still haven’t responded, at least not to Jordan. No, I saved all my responding for a bottle of Drambuie and some chick on a mission to piss off her boyfriend.

Mission accomplished.

I remove Pippi’s hand from my face.

She reaches into her massive brown purse, emerging with a cotton ball and a small travel bottle filled with clear liquid. Flipping up the spout, she pours the stuff on the cotton ball and reaches for my face again. This time I do flinch.

“What the hell?” Before I can finish protesting, the cotton ball touches my skin, the cool liquid immediately soothing the angry-looking bruise.

Pippi smiles and then grabs my hand, gently guiding it toward my face so I can relieve her from cotton-ball duty.

“Witch hazel,” she says. “Soothes the skin.”

“And you happen to have it with you?”

“I happen to have a lot of things with me. Nothing wrong with being prepared. For whatever might happen. It’s helping, isn’t it? So don’t knock my preparation.”

She’s got a point. I nod. “Thanks.” I don’t know what else to say or how else to respond. No one’s ever taken care of me like this, let alone someone I barely know.

“You’re welcome.”

I’m vaguely aware of the cars honking as they pass us and realize we should get moving before they think we’re in trouble.

Again she reaches into that magic bag and retrieves…a camera? Before I have time to react, she snaps a quick photo of me, and immediately it prints from a small rectangular opening.

“I didn’t know they still made those,” I say, hoping she’s on the verge of telling me where I’m taking her.

Her fingertips grasp the photo, waving it lightly while she watches it develop.

“Wanna see?” she asks.

Our hands extend at the same time, and my fingers brush hers as I grab the photo. My skin against hers jolts something inside me. Again, that distant voice shouting its warning. And again, here’s me ignoring it.

“Two things,” I say as my eyes shift to the item in my hand. Why the f*ck am I smiling in this photo? “What’s with the camera?”

When I take a hesitant breath, she grabs the picture back from me and asks, “And the second thing?”

“Right. Uh, where am I taking you?”

I steal a glance at my phone. At this point I should panic at the time. But I don’t.

She lifts her bag. “Preparation, remember? And you’re taking me to Royal Grounds. The coffee shop. Are you late for something?”

Traffic is light now that I’m out of the city, so I back into the intersection, to the right turn I initially intended to make.

“No. I’m not late.” The total lack of sureness in my voice says otherwise, but for some reason I don’t care. “And you’ve gotta be shitting me. I was on my way to Royal Grounds.”

She shifts, leaning her back against the door so her whole body faces me.

“I’m almost always late, to the extent that people would probably be disappointed if I was on time.” She regards the photo in her hand. “I’m glad I’m not taking you out of your way, but just in case…” She opens the window and tosses out the evidence of her photo ambush of me. “If you try to kill me in the next two miles, that picture exists, and someone will find it—with both our fingerprints on it.”

I throw my head against the back of my seat and laugh, this time ignoring the pain. “Yeah, Saturday morning in the suburbs is prime murder-your-hitchhiker-on-the-way-for-coffee time. I thought you said you trusted my eyes.”

She shrugs. “You never can be too safe.”

Safe. I let the word hang in the air for a few seconds before responding. “And hitchhiking is safe?”

She sighs. “I like to think of myself as a creative transportation enthusiast.”

I roll my eyes. “That’s not a thing.”

“It’s a thing if someone does it,” she starts. “I’m doing it, so it’s a thing.”

“Is it a thing you do on a regular basis?”

Her smirk fades. “No.” Her eyes roam around the car. “Please tell me this is a hybrid or some newfangled electric beast.”