“I know,” she says, lacing her fingers through mine and giving me a reassuring squeeze. “But there’s nothing wrong with making you better.”
I look down at our hands, not hesitating to squeeze my assurance back. Though what I’m assuring her of, I have no idea.
“Okay,” I say, and I lead her inside.
…
Maggie
“Oh thank God,” I say as we step through his apartment door. “I was half expecting lots of black leather, clean lines, maybe even a remote-control picture of a fireplace.”
Griffin laughs, tossing his keys on the kitchen counter.
“Okay, I spoke too soon. Granite countertops?”
I survey the rest of the space, which is smaller than I expected—a modest living room with dark hardwood floors, a plush red couch…and a leather recliner replete with drink holder. A flat-screen TV and coffee table strewn with textbooks and PlayStation controllers, and a small galley kitchen, with stainless appliances and granite counters. None of it is obnoxious. In fact it’s…warm.
“It was a model unit.” Griffin’s voice comes from behind, and I realize I’ve been giving myself a small tour, walking around the sparsely decorated room to stop at an end-table cluttered with picture frames.
“Those are my sisters—Natalie, Megan, and Jen. They said the couch had to be red, and I said the recliner had to have a cup holder.” He shrugs, and his whole face lights up with his grin. “Everyone wins.”
I watch him take off his coat and hoodie, then glance at my own body, still bundled in my wool coat, fingerless gloves covering my hands.
“They’re beautiful, your sisters.” All of them with the same sandy waves as Griffin in varying lengths. “You’re close with them?”
He nods.
“If it’s okay with you, I’m going to grab a quick shower, wash all the poisonous bacteria off my, uh, little injury, here. Grab whatever you want from the fridge if you’re hungry or thirsty. Or whatever.” He strides toward me, taking a picture frame I’d picked up from my gloved hand and placing it back on the table. Then he peels off my gloves, throwing them on the couch. “Just—don’t go anywhere, okay?”
Something in my gut twists at his request, as if he knows I might leave if he takes his eyes off me. Because that would be the smart thing to do.
But in his presence, rational thought escapes me, and I say the only thing I can. “Okay.”
He disappears down the short hallway to the bathroom. I reach in my bag for my phone to check the time, and the sight of the numbers reading half-past-four hits me with a wave of exhaustion. Our non-chase from the cops pumped me so full of adrenaline, I had no idea how wiped out I was. Collapsing on the couch, my eyes close, blinking back the threat of a headache. Of course. Why should this day be different from any other? Miles will give me shit about it tomorrow, not just the friendly teasing kind of shit for leaving with Griffin, but if I stave off this headache and actually make it to work by one o’clock, he’ll see the fatigue anyway, remind me of my limitations, that I can’t do what I used to do before…
He gave me an out. Goddammit. Fancy Pants gave me an out. I asked him to take me home, something I’m sure happens to him too many times to count, and now he’s going to play the gentleman card by leaving the room? Despite him asking me to stay, this is him letting me go—if I want to. But what I want to do and what I should do isn’t quite matching up. Something flutters in my gut, and I silently curse the feeling because I can’t want him to set me apart from the countless others. I can’t look for meaning in this gesture, in his ignoring his friends the whole night to fail miserably at creating his own foam art. In his giving my words, my wall, me—memories.
I should tell him. Then I’ll go. I should march into that bathroom and tell him none of this can mean anything, that in the sixteen hours I’ve known him, thinking about him more than sixteen times is crazier than, well, me. And I’m pretty sure I have some paperwork to back up the latter.
I snatch my gloves and stuff them into my pockets, making sure my bag is slung securely across my body. I can find my way home from here, but first he should hear what I have to say.
In a few easy strides I’m at the bathroom door, the echo of the water’s spray giving me the final boost of confidence to walk in because at least I won’t have to look him in the eye. But when I throw open the door, Griffin stands facing the mirror in only his gray boxer-briefs, his face contorted in pain as he dabs a cotton ball down the jagged scratch that lines his torso—the scratch that clearly, at some points, went deeper than the first layer of skin.
Shit. Like, the shittiest shitterson of shits. What is it about this guy that compels me to take care of him? And it doesn’t help my resolve that he’s practically naked because I full-on gawk for several seconds before finding my voice. Get a grip, Maggie. The boy is in pain.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
He braces himself on the counter, letting out a long exhale.