Her name isn’t part of my mantra, so I’ve already lost it.
“Won’t you try the mimosa, Maggie?” Griffin’s mom sits across from me, the pitcher raised and ready to pour.
“No, thank you. I don’t drink.” The words come out like an apology, and I want a do-over. But when I look around the table, Griffin to one side of me, his niece on the other, everyone’s glass is filled, the young girl’s flute containing only OJ, I assume, but she drinks from the flute, modeling the adults.
The silence means they’re waiting, as if what I said needs to be explained.
“I get migraines,” I tell them, hoping the half truth will suffice. “Alcohol is a trigger for some people, and I’m one of the lucky ones.” I shrug, like it’s no big deal, like I never went to a frat party for the cheap beer or Jell-O shots. Now that’s not even an option. I’m the girl with the ready-to-go syringe for when the headache comes on too fast, the daily blood thinners I take increasing the effect of alcohol in my system at an exponential rate.
“Dude. That sucks.” This from the young niece at my right.
“Vi?” Griffin half chastises her from the other side of me, and I try to file away her name, or nickname at least. What did it stand for?
This isn’t the place to whip out an instant camera and start snapping pics. It’s not something I do with strangers. Griffin was different. I was able to take that first shot under the pretense of safeguarding my life from a would-be Saturday-morning serial killer. After that it just felt okay to do. It felt right.
“Are you a student?” The question comes from the end of the table, from the oldest sister. Megan. No, Jen. Nat has the daughter. Jen, Megan, Nat.
“Yep. I’m a Gopher.”
“What are you studying?”
I turn right, to Megan at the other end.
“I’m double majoring in art and psychology.”
Griffin’s hand moves under the table to rest on my knee. He gives me a reassuring squeeze, a tacit You’re doing great. I wish there was some way to say back, You have no idea.
“What will you do with that double major?” Straight across from me, Griffin’s father asks the question nicely enough, minus the hint of condescension in the word do.
Griffin interrupts. “Something fantastic. From what I’ve seen, she’s an amazing artist.”
My breath catches in my throat when I let my eyes go to his, warmed by this interjection, but for a few long moments unsure of why he would say this. Of how he knows.
“Art therapy,” I respond absently to Griffin’s father. Then I turn back to Griffin. “But you’ve never seen my work,” I say, feeling the heat rise up my neck as my palms begin to sweat. Maybe he’s seen my sketches at the coffee shop, but he doesn’t know they’re mine. Does he?
His head angles toward mine, and he whispers in my ear, “Right. Our little secret. I think I’d call your work fence-hopping amazing.”
I force a nervous laugh, but then slide my chair from the table.
“I’m sorry. Can someone point me toward the nearest bathroom?”
“Maggie?”
He stands with me, and the worry in his eyes must mirror the same in mine.
“I just need a minute. Please.”
I feel the entire table of Reeds staring at me, but I only look at Griffin.
“Through the kitchen and on your right,” he says, and I’m gone as soon as he says the words.
I must hold my breath for the whole walk to the bathroom because once I’m closed inside, I’m hyperventilating.
I fumble in my bag for my phone and text Miles.
Me: Talk me down.
As always, he replies immediately.
Miles: Do I need details?
I shake my head, but then realize he can’t see me.
Me: No. Just tell me Griffin’s family doesn’t think I’m crazy for bailing in the middle of a convo to hide in the bathroom.
This time there is a delay before he responds.
Miles: Griffin’s family??? Okay. Right. No deets. Just talking you down. Here it is, Mags. You’re impossible not to love. Get the hell out there so they can fall in love with you.
I sigh, my breathing less labored now.
Me: I thought he was different. Thought things were clearer with him, but I still forget. I forgot him.
Miles: What about a trigger?
Miles knows about triggers, something that jogs my senses into remembering. Yes, Griffin’s words were all I needed, fence-hopping amazing. He brought me right back to that night, to every piece of an evening I never want to forget.
Me: Yes. Freaking triggers. Don’t want to need them or lose my shit in front of a table of seven when I have a little trigger event. It’s been two years. Can’t my brain just work like everybody else’s already?
Miles: 7 ??? Fuck it. Go back out there. Stop hiding. And trust me when I tell you that you don’t want your brain to work like mine. ;-) Love you.
Three light knocks sound on the door.
“Maggie?”
Not Griffin. That much I know. And how long have I been gone that I’m getting the worried knock?