What If (If Only.... #2)(70)

“Hey, man. Watch the door. It sticks in the humidity.” Miles tries to warn me as I push against the frame, but my haste drowns out the realization as my cheek crashes into the metal lever so conveniently placed at eye level.

“Fuck!” I yell, my hand flying to my face and coming away bloody.

“Shit!” Miles yells. “Didn’t you hear me? I said it sticks sometimes, and now that it’s snowing—the humidity—shit!”

I back into the shop again. This seems preferable to staying pinned in the entryway. Because I don’t know what else I’m supposed to do, and because I really don’t want to see how bad the damage is, I collapse onto a chair at the nearest table.

Miles is there with a wad of napkins as soon as I sit, and I take them gratefully, pressing them to the wound. I breathe in, the pain white-hot.

“Shit,” he says again. “I don’t even know why that thing is on the door. We never use it.” He runs a hand through his hair. “Come on,” he says. “I need to get you to the ER.”

I roll my eyes but don’t argue. I knew the second my face made contact with the metal that I wasn’t going home anytime soon.

Miles has the place closed up and me in his passenger seat in less than two minutes. He brings a clean rag dampened with cool water for me to hold on my face until we get to the hospital.

“Are you creative?” I ask him as we start driving. “I’m in the middle of blinding—and might I say sobering—pain right now, so I thought you might muster up some creativity as to how I almost lost an eye so I don’t have to say I walked into a door.”

Miles barks out a laugh.

“Not the reaction I was hoping for,” I say.

He shakes his head, his grin giving no sign of disappearing.

“Fucking ‘Swan Song’ he says. You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

I let my head fall against the seat, closing my eyes to shut out the pain.

“I’m not following. But I appreciate the laughter. That helps.”

“It’s just. You won’t get it. It’s a Gilmore Girls reference. It’s a Maggie thing.”

The mention of her name sends a different kind of pain rocketing through me.

“Shit.” I laugh with the realization. “Is that the name of the one where Jess gets the shit kicked out of him by a swan? I have three older sisters,” I tell him. “Megan, the bookworm, we call her Rory. All three of them are team Logan, by the way.”

At this Miles bursts into laughter. “Fucking Maggie,” he says, his smile broad and knowing. “In that episode, Jess won’t tell Rory how he got a black eye…”

“Fuck,” I say, not sure if I’m proud or ashamed at knowing exactly which episode he’s talking about, let alone him thinking I’m Jess—too proud to let Maggie see the real me. “I’ve hit rock bottom. Haven’t I?” I try to laugh at the whole situation, but it hurts too much—not just my eye, but everywhere.

Since I can’t sink much lower, I decide to lay it all on the table. “Can I ask you something?”

His smile fades immediately. He knows what’s coming.

“We’re friends,” he says. “Me and Maggie. The way she acted tonight, it’s self-preservation. I don’t agree with how she handled it, but I know where she’s coming from.”

“But you were more than friends once, right?”

His hesitation is answer enough, and I’m ready to take back the question. But I’d be a hypocrite to judge her when she never judged me. Not until tonight, at least.

“Look,” he starts. “Things have not been easy for Maggie. I was there when she needed someone, but it was only one time. We both knew we could only ever be friends, and that’s all we’ve been ever since. Not that it should matter, but it was six months ago.”

My shoulders sag with a sigh. I can live with this, but it doesn’t change what happened tonight.

“And you like dudes, too?” I remember that first night at the coffee shop, the blond guy he left with.

Miles laughs again. “I like people,” he says. “Everyone’s welcome in my book.”

We pull into the parking lot of the ER.

“I’ll come back to get you,” he says to me. “If you’ll be okay getting yourself inside. I have to make a quick stop at the bus station. Long story, and not mine to tell. And as far as what you should tell them about what you did to yourself? I think I’d start with the truth.”

“I’m in love with her,” I say. “How’s that for truth?”

“It’s a start.” He unlocks the doors. “You need me to walk you in?”

I shake my head. “I’m good. Thanks for the ride. I can call my sister to take me home.”

“Uh-uh,” Miles says. “You’re not going home. I’m taking you to Maggie. Plus, I need to make sure you’re okay—legal reasons since it was the coffee-shop door that attacked you.”

Despite the pain, I laugh. “What if she won’t talk to me?” I ask.

“She may not. But she’ll at least have to listen.”

I nod before getting out of the car. Then I make my way through the sliding doors of the emergency room, no creative story planned. Just the truth.