What If (If Only.... #2)(69)

“Oh, honey,” she says. “Your camera.”

She means what’s left of it, which is nothing retrievable. I made sure of that.

“No. It’s a stupid reminder of my stupid dependency on everything other than myself.”

Paige sits next to me now, her arm around my shoulders.

“This is you depending on yourself.”

She motions to my wall filled with photographs and notes.

I laugh, a bitter sound. “I look like I’m either a serial killer or the cop trying to solve the crime.”

She giggles, nudging me with her shoulder. “You just made a joke. You should try it more often, laughing at all of life’s Fuck yous. It’s like your own Fuck you right back.”

I bump her shoulder. “I’m okay. But I needed a tension breaker. It’s too late for me to scream without waking the neighbors, so the camera had to die.” I let my eyes fall on the destruction sprinkled across my carpet. “Fuck,” I lament. “My camera.”

“We’ll clean it up tomorrow.” She rises from the bed, her arm still around me, and I stand with her and let her lead me back to the living room, depositing me on the couch before she gets comfortable on the floor.

“Are you sure about all this?” she asks, curling up on the pillows and turning on the TV.

“No,” I admit, knowing she’s talking about more than the camera. “But it’s what’s easiest for both of us. We’ll get over each other, and we won’t have to worry about what kind of mess I’ll get into next. If it’s too much for me to handle, he doesn’t deserve to bear that responsibility as well.”

“How long’s it been since your gram went back to Florida?” she asks.

“Six months. Why?”

“Honey. If you weren’t doing so well on your own, would she really have left? Is it possible you’re setting these limitations for yourself because you’re scared? I don’t blame you. What happened to you is scary, but I think you forget that you survived it, that you kicked some ass to get to where you are now.”

My defenses kick in regardless of whether or not Paige is right. “She left because I couldn’t bear to see her miss out on her life anymore. I told her to go.”

“Maggie. I met your gram when she was here. Though I didn’t know your whole situation then, I could tell you were everything to her, and there’s no way she would have left if she was worried about anything—about you taking care of yourself, about you getting sick again. There’s also no way she cares any less about you simply because you needed more care. Why don’t you see that?”

I shake my head. “You know what they say, right? You can’t choose your family. She has to still love me. It’s in the fine print. No matter how difficult I am, she has to be there for me. It’s not the same with Griffin. You know it’s not.”

Paige cues up an episode of the Gilmore Girls. “Hmmm…” she muses. “Sounds like a load of bullshit to me. When does your life become yours instead of the fear of what it could be?”

My eyes widen, but she never takes her gaze off the TV, which is perfect. She can’t see my reaction, can’t know for sure that she’s right. Fear is a powerful thing. I’ve lived with it for a long time now.

She doesn’t push me any further, and I silently thank her for that. We watch without talking and wait for Miles to get home.

Maybe it is a load of bullshit, but it doesn’t matter. The damage is done and, eventually, Griffin and I will both get past it. We’ll have to.





Chapter Twenty-Five


Griffin


Miles stares at me, and I realize I haven’t moved since Maggie walked out, since she got in her friend’s car and drove away. I thought I came here to do what she did, to get the closure I needed and end this. But when I saw her, even with her arms wrapped around him—as if I needed more convincing that she was done with whatever we were doing—I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t be the one to say good-bye.

“Hey, man. I’m really sorry. Maggie told me how important tonight was to you.”

I hear him, but the words don’t sink in.

“It’s a bullshit word,” I say, finding my voice.

“Excuse me?”

“Sorry. It’s a bullshit word with no meaning. And it changes nothing.”

Miles shrugs. “You’re right. I’m…uh…I’m not sure what else to say here.”

The damp fabric of my shirt and jeans begins to register, as does the tremble of my insides.

“Those are hers, aren’t they?” I nod to the framed drawings on the back wall. “Maggie did those.”

Miles nods. “Maggie doing what she does best—observing life. I like to think of it as her wall of wishes,” he says.

“How are they her wishes if she’s not in any of them?” I ask. “I don’t understand.”

Miles huffs out a laugh. “No, man. I guess you don’t.” He sighs. “I wish you did.”

“I should go,” I say, my legs cold and unable to move, unwilling to admit she isn’t coming back.

“Let me give you a ride,” he says, but I shake my head.

“I need to clear my head. But thanks.” I turn to the door, already pushing it open into the flurries, the chill. I comfort myself with the knowledge I can text Nat if it gets too bad. She’s got the truck.