What If (If Only.... #2)(55)

“What?”

He untangles his hand from mine and places it on my cheek, heat adding to heat.

“Tell me you see me differently, that you trust I’m not the guy I was before I met you.”

“Yes,” I admit. “That’s the part that scares me. You’re willing to give me something I never asked for, and what if I can’t do the same? What if you find out I’m different than you think I am?”

“I don’t understand.”

“Something happened,” I start. “I had to take a year off, and now I’m part-time and…”

“Food!” Duncan yells. “I was getting bloody hungry! Thanks, mate.”

The same server who took our picture arrives at our table with loads of appetizers, compliments of the reunion committee. Our pocket of privacy dissolves as everyone turns to the table and digs in to the array of dips—hummus and pita, black bean dip and plantain chips, and my favorite, guacamole.

Griffin’s eyes search mine for a moment, but I shake my head. We’ll have to finish talking later, and I realize I want to be sober when I tell him, and each sip takes me further from that possibility. Tonight can be fun without complication. We have six hours in the car tomorrow to unload baggage.

So we eat. And we drink, the set of Griffin’s shoulders relaxing with each new conversation and each pour of the second and modestly less-expensive bottle of champagne. I surprise him when I pull an Uno deck from my bag, something I found buried in my nightstand drawer, a reminder of one of the hardest times in my life. But after the second night I spent at Griffin’s, the date that wasn’t a date, seeing the deck evokes new memories. Memories that include him. Memories that, despite the constant threat, have yet to fade.

“Uno! Oh my God, I love that game!” This comes from Jordan who bounces in her chair with excitement.

“You guys want to play?” I ask, my words slow and methodical as I consciously try to avoid a slur.

Duncan and Elaina shrug in unison.

“We’ll teach you,” Noah assures them. “It’s easy. And really competitive if you want it to be.” He smiles, and Jordan pushes a dark wave of his hair from his forehead before she plants a kiss in the same spot, and he starts explaining the rules to our foreign friends, like the girl he’s head over heels for touches him like this, shows her love for him in this way, all the time. And I realize she must.

“Perfect,” Elaina says when Noah finishes. “I will kick all of the asses.”

We laugh as Griffin empties the deck from the box and begins shuffling.

“How about teams?” he asks. “Couple against couple?” He pushes back his chair, patting the spot on his lap. I don’t think twice about abandoning my chair for a more preferable seat.

But something about the jarring movement rocks my brain between my ears.

No. No, no, no, no, no.

I felt great. One-hundred-fifty percent fine. Better than I have in years. Yet when I look at my glass, my perpetually filled glass, I don’t know how many I’ve had. What I do know is champagne is the only beverage that’s passed my lips. Meaning no water, nothing to cut the speed of the alcohol’s effects, which I knew had the potential to be stronger than usual because of my blood thinners. I thought I was handling myself well enough without diluting. But the dehydration. I forgot about the dehydration.

“I’ll be right back,” I tell Griffin, attempting to stand from my position on his lap. The words don’t sound right, though. Too slow. Definitely slurred, and spots like sunbursts form in the corners of my vision.

My elbow gives out, and I fall back onto him. I bury my face in his neck and try to articulate the words, my palms sweating against his shoulders. The words don’t come, so I squeeze my eyes shut, blocking out any light that threatens to speed the progression.

“Maggie.” Griffin’s voice. I love that voice but right now wish he would just shut up. Quiet. I want quiet.

“Damn it,” he says, but he’s not talking to me. I can tell his head is turned. “She told me one of the reasons she doesn’t drink is because alcohol triggers her migraines. I’m a f*cking idiot for not slowing her down.”

“You need to get her back to the hotel.” Another male voice, unaccented. Noah, then. “My mom gets migraines. She needs dark, and quiet, and water. Maggie needs to get some water in her.”

I nod my head against Griffin and find my voice.

“Good idea.” I breathe against him. And then, “I’m so sorry.”

Minutes later I’m propped in Griffin’s arms in the elevator, and then he helps me into a cab. I’m too drunk and too close to losing my lunch all over the cab that I don’t bother to ask why we’re driving two blocks. Because duh. I’m a f*cking mess. That much I know.

Somehow I make it back to the room without hurling all over the cab, but the second we’re in the door, I run for the bathroom, slam the door behind me, and make it to the toilet with zero time to spare.

The experience is sobering but in no way a relief.

“Maggie? Are you okay? Please let me help you.”

Griffin’s voice is soft behind the door. He doesn’t knock, and this tiny gesture tugs at my insides…as does a bout of dry heaving.

His voice sounds again, but he’s not talking to me.