Jordan: Can’t wait to see you! It’s been too long. SO excited you’re bringing someone. Was starting to worry about you.
She sent the message an hour ago, and I haven’t responded. Because I still haven’t officially decided I’m going on this trip. Not until Miles pulls up in front of my building in his hundred-year-old Nissan do I make my final decision. Maggie saved me once before, at my parents’ house a week ago. Having her with me now has the same effect. When I’m with Maggie, I get the feeling—or maybe delusion—that I can do things I didn’t think I could. Though she said yes when I asked her to come with me, I haven’t let myself believe it. Not until I see her emerge from the car and watch Miles hoist her suitcase out of the trunk do I let myself admit this is real.
Me: On the road in a few. Text you when we get there.
I take Maggie’s bag from Miles and deposit it next to mine in the trunk.
“So…” he says.
“So…” I answer, extending my hand to him, and we shake.
“Take care of her,” Miles says, a note of authority in his tone, enough to show he cares but not make him sound like an asshole.
A throat clears, and we both look at Maggie, who bounces to keep warm in the late November chill.
“I think someone is forgetting his own ground rule,” she says pointedly, her eyes fixed on me.
I let out a laugh, remembering. I always kiss hello. I back up so I’m sitting on the edge of the still-open trunk. Then I grab the belt of her wool coat and pull her to me without hesitation as I position her between my legs and my lips find hers.
Fingerless gloves cup my face, and delicious, warm lips spread their heat to mine.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Miles says to us both, but laughter colors his words.
Maggie steps away from me, enough time for her to say good-bye to her friend, and then she’s back, her mouth opening this time to let me in, and our tongues tease, and taste, and somehow forget we’re sitting half outside a parked car until we hear the Nissan’s engine start, after two tries, as Miles leaves me with this girl, the girl who said yes.
“We should get on the road,” I tell her. “We’ll hopefully make good time since it’s still a holiday, but who knows what the Black Friday traffic will be like when we get to the city.”
Maggie pouts, and I almost throw her down on top of our suitcases, but I decide to be patient and hope she can be, too. It’s been a week since we slept together; Maggie had to work or study every night since Sunday, except last night when she spent Thanksgiving with friends, and I spent it with my family. Though we kept our standing library meet-up on Monday, that’s been it. On more than one night this week I wanted to make use of her number, but what right do I have to call her to come over? How do I tell a girl I’m not dating that sleeping with her next to me is better than not? So I splurged. We have a suite waiting for us at the Four Seasons. And hell if I’m not going to get us to the city in time to make use of it before we have to head to the Signature Lounge for the reunion.
I catch sight of her in my peripheral vision as I drive, her head leaning against the glass of the passenger-side window, eyes lazy but watching, observing. The corner of her mouth creeps up toward her cheek, and I wonder if she’s lost in thought rather than watching the road go by.
“You still with me?” I ask, and she blinks, her eyes seeming to focus on something in front of her.
“Hmm?” Her head turns toward mine. “Yeah. I’m here. Can’t really get too far away. How long’s the drive?”
I give her a quick look, thinking she’s messing with me, but she grabs her bag from the floor and opens it to show me a slightly crumpled paper bag from Royal Grounds.
“I brought breakfast, but if we get hungry for something other than pastry, I can Google some restaurants that are on the way. If you want.”
She’s not messing with me.
“Uh…a little over six hours,” I tell her and choose my next words carefully, gently. “Didn’t we just have this conversation, except instead of food we were talking about where and when we’d stop to use the bathroom?”
Her ivory cheeks turn a shade of pink, and she looks away, her eyes back to the window.
“Pippi?” I ask. “Are you okay?” Something is off. Maggie’s always so focused. I think about that text from Nat after Sunday brunch, Maggie not remembering Vi’s name. Now she’s blanking on a full conversation. Maybe she doesn’t want this. I pressured her into that brunch, right? Made it seem like it wasn’t a big deal, but how could it not be? I brought her home, let her see what no one else sees—me. The realization is a punch to the gut. What this weekend means to me is beyond the confines of our agreement, and I let my hope blind me to the possibility that Maggie might not want what I’m starting to admit I do.