What If (If Only.... #2)(71)

…

Maggie

Bang! Bang! Bang!

My eyes spring open, and I bolt upright on the couch. My heart thuds against my rib cage, but when I look at Paige on the floor next to me, she barely stirs.

The sound comes again, not the terrifying bang that must have been a product of drifting off. Only a quiet tap, tap, tap against my door. Miles.

“Coming!” I whisper-shout, trying not to wake Paige. When my eyes adjust, I focus on the microwave’s clock to check the time. It’s after two in the morning. Where the hell has he been?

I have my answer when I open the door, gasping at the sight of Griffin standing next to Miles, his beautiful eye, the one so recently healed, now an angry mix of purple and red. Coarse, unforgiving black thread holds the skin together where it split. The dark patch under his other eye tells of his weariness, and I have to brace my hand against the wall before my knees give out. Everything in me pulls and twists, urging me toward him, but I cement my feet in place and steady myself enough to speak.

“Miles, you didn’t…”

“God, Maggie. No. Just, no. I can’t believe you’d even think—”

Griffin shrugs and interrupts. “I was drunk, and I don’t have the best track record, so I don’t blame her for going there. But no.”

His eyes shift to mine, pinning me where I stand. Good thing I don’t want to move.

“This is a self-inflicted wound,” he continues. “Unintentional, but self-inflicted nonetheless. Believe me, I’d give Miles the credit if I could.”

Miles coughs into his hand. More like half coughs, half speaks two words, “Swan Song,” before sauntering into my apartment.

“All you have to do is listen,” Miles whispers as he passes, and my heart leaps in my throat.

Griffin toes the carpet with his worn and weather-soaked Chuck. I can’t let him in, not when the only privacy we’d have is in my room, the last place I want him to see now.

“Will you?” he asks, lifting his head from the study of the hallway floor. “Will you listen?”

My feet release the lead weights holding them in place, and I move out into the hallway with him, shutting the door behind me. I have to fight my instinct to touch his face, to want to fix him like I tried to do so many weeks ago.

Instead I lean my back against the door, arms crossed, my features impassive. Every bit of my expression a lie.

“I’m listening,” I say, hoping he’ll make this quick so we can have the closure we need.

Griffin backs up to the opposite wall and proceeds to slide down to a sitting position.

“Mind if I sit?” he asks and then laughs. “It’s been a long night.”

I do the same, grateful for one less thing to think about because yes, at this point in the evening or morning or whatever we’re going to call it, the effort to stand is one I don’t want to put forth at the moment. I wrap my arms around my knees. Griffin rests his elbows on his, arms crossed and hands dangling.

“I want you to know that however this ends…” He blinks slowly. “I mean, however this night ends…it still is a new beginning. For me, even if not for us.”

My tear ducts seem to have replenished because though his words make me smile—for him—my vision starts to blur, and one small stream escapes—for us.

“Whatever made you decide not to show up tonight, it doesn’t change how I feel, Maggie. It doesn’t change that I’ve changed, and so much of that is because of you. Whatever you thought of me when we first met, I’m not the same person I was then.”

I want to tell him the same, that all the parts of me that have grown I owe in some way to him, for wanting me, believing in me, and trusting me when I fought so hard not to let him get close. But letting him in also means letting him get hurt, and I don’t want to be the person who hurts him.

“I’m proud of you,” I say, smiling through the tears. “You’re going to find what makes you happy.”

He sucks in a deep breath and lets it out, long and slow.

“I told you I didn’t know what I wanted, but that was only partly true. I may not know what I want to do with my life, but I know who I want. I want you. You make me happy, Maggie.”

He scoots across the floor, our toes touching now. His thumb swipes at a falling tear on my cheek, which only makes them fall faster.

“What about tonight?” I ask. “Did I make you happy tonight? Did I make you happy in Chicago? Because this is what it’s like to be with me, Griffin. You don’t know what you’re taking on by saying these things.”

“You act as if every moment we’ve spent together has been as much of a mess as tonight has been. What about those nights at my apartment?”

My chest tightens at the thought of him lying on his bed, glasses on and book propped against his chest—the photo I left sitting next to my bed. That was perfect. But he doesn’t know about the first one, about me sneaking out because I got sick. So I bring up the obvious.

“What about Chicago?” I throw the question at him like a dare. Because he can’t argue against that mess.

“Do you want to know why I loved Chicago?” He inches toward me.

I should push him away, but the nearness of him overrides my logic, so I leave him open to fill the space. And he does.