Miles: He did a number on you, too, sweetheart. It’s been two years. I think you’re ready for more.
Me: Love you, I text, so he knows the conversation is over.
Miles: Love you, too. Good luck on your test.
Wanting more and being ready for more are two completely different things. Miles can only pretend to understand, and he does it well. But he doesn’t really get it, what it would be like to be with someone like me. It has been two years, and I have a hard time being with me most of the time.
I got to be someone else Saturday night. Griffin gave me that. We played our parts for each other, and for a few spectacular hours, I didn’t think of alarms and planners. I got to take care of him instead of worrying I would need the caretaking, until I left. I did so well letting him see the old Maggie, not the one whose brain can’t multitask, whose body fights fatigue, food additives, and alcohol consumption with debilitating headaches, whose risk for a repeat of what happened two years ago increases simply because I’m still alive. Yeah, throw all that on the table for a guy who doesn’t do complicated—for a girl who can’t handle more complication.
My stomach twists at the thought of him seeing me yesterday. Or maybe it twists at the thought of seeing him. Period.
Fancy Pants has enough baggage of his own. He doesn’t need to add me to the list. And I sure as hell don’t need to add him to mine.
Biology. I’m going to focus on biology, my exam, and researching this afternoon for my psychology paper.
Biology. Not Griffin. Yeah. That’s a good mantra. Not Griffin.
If only my brain would obey. But I’ve had two years to learn that when it comes to my own thoughts, I’m not always in charge. I’ve learned to compensate for short-term memory loss, kept my life organized and manageable through maintaining routines. Even though, little by little, I’ve established some semblance of normalcy, Griffin is anything but normal. When I’m still trying to get my life back, I can’t afford a distraction like him.
…
Griffin
The same girl sits at the information desk from the last time I was here an hour ago. She was also there the time before that. Doesn’t she have a class to go to or something? She gives me the fucking side-eye this time, and I don’t blame her for being suspicious of a guy who comes into the library, takes a couple laps of each floor, and leaves. I decide this is the last trip before side-eyes calls security on me.
I find her on the sixth floor at a table by herself. Her back faces me, but I could pick her out of a lineup with that gorgeous red hair pulled over her shoulder, the freckles I now know are splattered across her pale neck.
I freeze for a second in the entryway, realizing I didn’t prepare for what would happen if I found her. Never mind I don’t have a Monday class and have been hanging out on campus all morning anyway. So, here she is. In the real world and not in the fantasy we created Saturday night. I guess it’s time to take a shot at reality.
Her head bobs slightly as she reads something out of a large reference book, her hair blocking her peripheral vision, but when I pull the chair out next to her, she doesn’t flinch. I smile as I sit, seeing the phone next to the book and the earbud cable running up and into her hair.
She’s dancing in her chair, and it’s probably the goofiest, most adorable thing I’ve ever seen, but my staring must give me away because her head jolts in my direction and she gasps.
“Shhhh!” A patron to her right must not be one for gasping.
“Sorry,” Maggie whispers but doesn’t take her eyes off me, and I grin as heat colors her ivory neck and cheeks.
The table is covered with books, colored note cards, but everything is organized, has a specific place, nothing like the table would look if I was working.
“Come downstairs to the coffee shop with me,” I say, knowing we can’t have any sort of conversation here. This also buys me time to figure out what, exactly, I’m going to say.
“I’m researching,” she says, but there’s almost no resistance in her voice, and I let out a breath of relief. There are so many ways she could have reacted to seeing me, especially since she left without a word yesterday. But she’s already gathering her note cards, paper-clipping them by color, a Post-it on top of each one detailing the subject of the pile. When she picks up her planner, a photo falls out of a guy who looks around our age. Something is written in the white space below his unsuspecting face, but Maggie grabs the picture as quickly as it falls.
“Who’s that?” I ask, hating that I sound like I’m accusing her of something.
“No one,” she says, her words pinched.
Because I know what I came here to ask her, I have to make sure I didn’t misread what I felt Saturday night.
“You don’t owe me any explanations, so…”