What If (If Only.... #2)(33)

“That we keep making the rules up as we go, until we figure this out.”

I don’t ask him what this means, needing to leave any sort of definition of us unspoken. My rule, but one I keep to myself.

I slide back against the arm of the couch, out of his grasp but facing him, my knees to my chest.

“My mom died when I was really young, before I turned three. I never knew my dad. Not even sure if my grandparents did. It’s not something they liked to discuss, and I never really asked much. My grandparents raised me, so I always felt like I had a complete parental unit, you know? I didn’t need to know any more because I was happy with what I had.”

He doesn’t interrupt. I could stop now, but I don’t. Regurgitating what I do know, the parts of my life that are solid in my memory, feels good even if the memories are painful ones.

“My grandparents were big on board games. My friends used to come over for family game night when I was younger. Uno was our thing. My grandpa was fiercely competitive. It was pretty funny to watch him play.” I pause, the memory of him as clear as glass. What would those first weeks, or months, of recovery have been like if he was around to help Gram out, if she could have had a break from the repetition, the monotony of teaching me the rules of the game over and over again, when I’d known them all my life? Would he have been able to let me win like she did, watch me make the same mistakes in the same hand because I couldn’t retain the information?

Griffin pulls my ankles so my legs straighten and drape over his lap.

“You okay?” The skin between his eyes crinkles with concern, which means I must have been hanging out in my head for longer than it felt.

“Huh? Yeah, sorry. Just thinking.”

“Are they still around? Your grandparents?”

His hand gently strokes my thigh, up and down, the movement soothing, reassuring.

“My grandma is.” I sniff back any more tears. This is not going to be how this night goes. I’ve let him see as much as he needs to, as much as I can handle him seeing. “But she’s in Florida now.”

“I don’t blame her,” Griffin says, not pushing the issue, letting his unasked questions go unanswered. “It’s f*cking cold out there.” He nods his head toward the window.

I laugh, and so does he, the mood shifting for now.

“You hungry?” he asks, and I nod. “Well, then we better get to work. You okay being sous chef?”

I swing my legs off his lap and stand, offering him a hand to pull him up after me.

“It’s only pizza, right? Is there really that much to do?”

Griffin’s eyes widen, and he staggers back in mock horror, clutching at his heart.

“If at the end of the evening you still feel that way, I will have failed you. Now go wash your hands. You’re in for a treat.”

I know. You don’t have to convince me.





Chapter Eleven


Griffin


Maggie sprawls on the recliner, her bottle of water resting next to her in the cup holder. I offered her one of my IPAs, but she doesn’t drink. Something else about additives. I didn’t press the issue, and only now that I pick at the last piece of pizza do I notice I’ve barely had a sip of mine.

“So you cook,” she says, shifting to her side to face me on the couch. “Like, you made me pizza from scratch. This beautiful pizza. With basil that you grew.”

She retrieves her mini Polaroid from the side table, providing photographic evidence that the two of us put away an entire pizza.

“I cook,” I say. “Usually only for myself. Or on rare occasions, my family.”

“Why only rare occasions?” She asks the question still looking at the photo. “They must love it.”

I start gathering our plates from the coffee table. “Because sharing food with my family means spending more time with my family.”

She yawns and stretches, her arms reaching above her head. Her Royal Grounds T-shirt moves with her, revealing a patch of porcelain skin above her jeans. I cough and clear my throat as I move toward the kitchen.

“Let me help.” Maggie lowers the footrest of the recliner, but I shake my head.

“Haven’t you been doing shit like this all day? How about you shuffle the deck?”

This request somehow revives her, and she springs to life as she reaches for the pile of games that were moved to the floor so we could eat.

“What’s wrong with spending time with your family?” she calls across the room. “I was raised by my grandparents, but I’ve always had this romanticized notion of a big family, all these people to love.” She laughs. “People who have no choice but to love me back.”

Her words sound like she’s making a joke, but the wistfulness in her voice says otherwise. How do I tell her about my family without shattering her vision?

I pile everything in the sink, deciding to ignore the mess until morning. Back on the couch, I grab the bottle of beer I’ve been ignoring and allow myself a nice, long swig before answering.

“Your sisters seem great. Looks like you guys get along,” she adds.

“We do,” I say. “Things are different, though, when we’re all together in the same place. The big family thing—it does have its perks. More people to love, sure. But it also means more people to judge your every move. With me and my sisters, it’s like a game of deflection. Someone asks Natalie a question about my niece’s dad—deflect to Jen. My parents want to know when she’ll be done playing the role of student and ready to be an adult. She’ll pass the torch to Megan, who’s missed more than her share of family gatherings this year for a guy no one has met.”