What If (If Only.... #2)(47)

“You still with me?” I ask, and she blinks, her eyes seeming to focus on something in front of her.

“Hmm?” Her head turns toward mine. “Yeah. I’m here. Can’t really get too far away. How long’s the drive?”

I give her a quick look, thinking she’s messing with me, but she grabs her bag from the floor and opens it to show me a slightly crumpled paper bag from Royal Grounds.

“I brought breakfast, but if we get hungry for something other than pastry, I can Google some restaurants that are on the way. If you want.”

She’s not messing with me.

“Uh…a little over six hours,” I tell her and choose my next words carefully, gently. “Didn’t we just have this conversation, except instead of food we were talking about where and when we’d stop to use the bathroom?”

Her ivory cheeks turn a shade of pink, and she looks away, her eyes back to the window.

“Pippi?” I ask. “Are you okay?” Something is off. Maggie’s always so focused. I think about that text from Nat after Sunday brunch, Maggie not remembering Vi’s name. Now she’s blanking on a full conversation. Maybe she doesn’t want this. I pressured her into that brunch, right? Made it seem like it wasn’t a big deal, but how could it not be? I brought her home, let her see what no one else sees—me. The realization is a punch to the gut. What this weekend means to me is beyond the confines of our agreement, and I let my hope blind me to the possibility that Maggie might not want what I’m starting to admit I do.

She waves me off but doesn’t look at me when she speaks. “I’m fine,” she says. “I’m sorry. I guess I’m…nervous?”

I glance in her direction and catch her reflection in the pane of glass. I expect something along the lines of a shy smile, something that tells me no matter how nervous she is—and shit, I am, too—that she wants this, whatever this is we’re doing. But her eyes are closed, no trace of a smile on her face, so I focus on the road and try not to read too much into the look, or her questions that keep repeating. Because if I do, I’ll tell myself she’s having second thoughts, that she’s filling the silence with random chitchat in order to avoid anything else.

I have to say something, so to escape any further complication, I grab her hand from her lap and give it a squeeze.

This, at least, separates her from the window as her eyes go from our hands to my face.

“It’s okay,” I tell her. “I’m nervous, too.”

She releases her grip, and I exhale, prepared for her to pull away completely, to ride the hours we have left in silent contemplation of interstate cornfields. Instead she adjusts her grip, threading her fingers through mine and squeezing tighter.

“Oh thank God,” she says. “I mean, it’s not like it’s any different than spending the night at your place, right? We’ve done that before. But somehow it’s…”

“Different.” I finish her thought because I’ve been thinking the same thing.

I bring our hands to my mouth and press my lips to her fingers.

“And…” She hesitates. “This girl, Jordan, she’s kind of important, right? You haven’t told me much. Not that it’s my business because it’s not. I mean—”

This is why I haven’t said much. Because what do I say that doesn’t make me look like an ass, that doesn’t remind her who I was a couple weeks ago—and in her eyes, who I still might be?

“Shit,” I say, and now she does take her hand back.

“Oh.” It’s her only response, but the sound of the word says enough. Oh, you had feelings for this girl. Oh, it wasn’t important enough to tell me.

Oh, we don’t share important things because we aren’t… What the f*ck are we?

So I tell her the truth because—why not? Maybe this is what we need, proof of why, when it comes down to it, I’ve always chosen easy.

“She’s from Chicago. We dated while I was in Scotland. Our agreement was we’d keep things casual, stay in the moment rather than worry about the future, because what kind of future is there with someone you meet in a foreign country and who lives in another state?”

She says nothing at first, only watches me, her top teeth dragging slowly over her bottom lip.

“So that’s a bunch of bullshit, right?” she asks, an impassiveness to her tone, as if that could hide her judgment.

“What? Maggie, you asked, and I told you.” Which was obviously a mistake, the reason I didn’t say anything in the first place.

“It’s bullshit, Griffin.” Her voice stays calm but is peppered with anger. “We’re on our way to Chicago right now to see her, a trip that would be easy enough to make monthly, weekly if you really wanted to. It’s your stupid deflection—‘Hey look over here at these stupid reasons why we can’t be serious so I don’t let myself get invested.’ God. How happy you must be with all your casual relationships. It doesn’t sound like a lonely existence at all.”

Her voice trembles on the last sentence, and I veer across the three lanes of traffic to the exit ramp on the right.

“What are you doing?”

I don’t answer, only watch the road, exiting the interstate and pulling into the first gas station I see.