What If (If Only.... #2)(34)

I lean back, draining more of my bottle in a few hungry sips.

“And you?” Maggie asks. “What do you need to deflect?”

My head tips back and bangs lightly against the couch.

“You don’t want that laundry list,” I tell her.

She slides off the edge of the recliner, Uno deck in hand, and takes the seat on the couch next to me. Sitting cross-legged and facing my direction, she shuffles the deck, then spreads it like a fan.

“Pick a card,” she says, and I laugh.

“I’m pretty sure that’s not how the game is played.”

She hums her amusement, a grin playing on her lips. “Deflecting already, I see. Just pick a card.”

“What happens when I do?”

She huffs out a breath. “Whatever number you draw, that’s how many questions I get to ask you, and you have to answer sans deflection.”

“You’re sexy when you speak French.”

She rolls her eyes, and I laugh again.

“What happens if I get a WILD card?” I ask, reaching for the deck and thinking of ways to make Uno much more fun than anticipated.

She slaps my fingers. “It’s not that kind of game, mister.”

I hold up both my hands in mock surrender, waiting to hear the rest of the rules.

“If you draw a WILD card, you get to ask me one question.” She pauses. “Anything you want,” she continues. “And I have to answer honestly.”

“Let me get this straight. I have to answer any number of questions, one through nine, depending on what card I pick, and you have to answer one, and only if I draw a WILD?”

She shrugs. “I don’t make the rules.”

With mock grudging I pick a card. “Yeah, actually. You do.”

Maggie bounces with excitement when she sees my card. A green four.

“Okay, okay. I’ll go easy on you the first time. One—what’s your middle name?”

I smirk and answer proudly, “Caldwell.”

She snorts with laughter, and I raise my eyebrows at the sound.

“Griffin Caldwell Reed? Does the name come with a Rolls Royce?” She drops the cards long enough to mime rolling down her window. “Pardon me, would you have any Gray Poupon?”

I nod my approval. “Old school. I like it. And it’s Griffin Caldwell Reed the second, if that helps.” She laughs even harder. “It’s my grandmother’s maiden name.”

“And if you have a son, he gets to ride around in the back of a Rolls, too?”

I lean against the arm of the couch and watch her laugh. She’s smiled for me before, but this vision of her is new, a Maggie filled with unrelenting happiness, if only for a few minutes. So I let her laugh, let myself watch, enjoying that I played a small role in making this beautiful girl snort.

“Is that your second question?” I ask. “What I’ll name my offspring should there ever be any?” The question is meant as a joke, but inwardly I flinch at the idea, at the thought of someone small and vulnerable relying on me to show them the way.

She shakes her head. “Okay. Um…favorite TV show.”

“Current or canceled?”

“Either.”

“Easy. Firefly.”

“Good one. I would have guessed Game of Thrones.”

“Reading the books first. Are you a watcher before a reader?”

“I don’t have the attention span for long books anymore.” She fidgets with the cards after she says this.

“Anymore?” I ask and wish I hadn’t. Because to know the answer means to dig deeper into who this girl is, and to know her—to really know her—would mean something, and what if I’m not capable of giving back?

She gives her head another shake, and a teasing smile takes over whatever it is she didn’t mean to admit with that last remark. “It’s not your turn to ask me a question yet. That was a freebee.”

I cross my arms. “I see how it is. Okay. Two questions left, and I promise you I’ll pick a WILD card.”

“Why do you deflect? I’m not buying the whole judgment thing.”

Well, I guess we’re going there.

“With my family?”

Her shoulders rise and fall. “In general, I guess. That’s a deflection, right?” She nods toward the empty beer bottle on the coffee table and then up at the breakfast bar, empty bottles from the week lined up to take to the recycling bin. My gut wrenches.

“I’m not a drunk, Maggie.”

“But it’s a good diversion, right? And what you looked like last week when we met…your eye? What happens when you go home to Griffin Cartwright…I mean Carrington…shit!”

“Caldwell?” I ask, trying to get her to smile, to get whatever is going off the rails back on, but she keeps going.

“Yes, Griffin. Yes. What happens when you go home to Griffin Caldwell Reed Senior looking like that?”

Her green eyes burn, and this whole line of questioning—I don’t know where it’s coming from. It’s like she’s trying to make me angry. And it’s f*cking working.

“Jesus, Maggie. You act like there’s an easy answer to shit you know nothing about. I think it’s time to deflect.”

Maybe it’s an overreaction, but this isn’t what I signed up for. Intimacy leads to judgment, and Maggie just proved that. I get enough of that at home. That’s what I was trying to make clear. But she’s just like everyone else, and she doesn’t even know me yet. So I drop the card on the couch and head to the kitchen. Looks like I won’t be leaving the dishes until morning.