She waves me off but doesn’t look at me when she speaks. “I’m fine,” she says. “I’m sorry. I guess I’m…nervous?”
I glance in her direction and catch her reflection in the pane of glass. I expect something along the lines of a shy smile, something that tells me no matter how nervous she is—and shit, I am, too—that she wants this, whatever this is we’re doing. But her eyes are closed, no trace of a smile on her face, so I focus on the road and try not to read too much into the look, or her questions that keep repeating. Because if I do, I’ll tell myself she’s having second thoughts, that she’s filling the silence with random chitchat in order to avoid anything else.
I have to say something, so to escape any further complication, I grab her hand from her lap and give it a squeeze.
This, at least, separates her from the window as her eyes go from our hands to my face.
“It’s okay,” I tell her. “I’m nervous, too.”
She releases her grip, and I exhale, prepared for her to pull away completely, to ride the hours we have left in silent contemplation of interstate cornfields. Instead she adjusts her grip, threading her fingers through mine and squeezing tighter.
“Oh thank God,” she says. “I mean, it’s not like it’s any different than spending the night at your place, right? We’ve done that before. But somehow it’s…”
“Different.” I finish her thought because I’ve been thinking the same thing.
I bring our hands to my mouth and press my lips to her fingers.
“And…” She hesitates. “This girl, Jordan, she’s kind of important, right? You haven’t told me much. Not that it’s my business because it’s not. I mean—”
This is why I haven’t said much. Because what do I say that doesn’t make me look like an ass, that doesn’t remind her who I was a couple weeks ago—and in her eyes, who I still might be?
“Shit,” I say, and now she does take her hand back.
“Oh.” It’s her only response, but the sound of the word says enough. Oh, you had feelings for this girl. Oh, it wasn’t important enough to tell me.
Oh, we don’t share important things because we aren’t… What the fuck are we?
So I tell her the truth because—why not? Maybe this is what we need, proof of why, when it comes down to it, I’ve always chosen easy.
“She’s from Chicago. We dated while I was in Scotland. Our agreement was we’d keep things casual, stay in the moment rather than worry about the future, because what kind of future is there with someone you meet in a foreign country and who lives in another state?”
She says nothing at first, only watches me, her top teeth dragging slowly over her bottom lip.
“So that’s a bunch of bullshit, right?” she asks, an impassiveness to her tone, as if that could hide her judgment.
“What? Maggie, you asked, and I told you.” Which was obviously a mistake, the reason I didn’t say anything in the first place.
“It’s bullshit, Griffin.” Her voice stays calm but is peppered with anger. “We’re on our way to Chicago right now to see her, a trip that would be easy enough to make monthly, weekly if you really wanted to. It’s your stupid deflection—‘Hey look over here at these stupid reasons why we can’t be serious so I don’t let myself get invested.’ God. How happy you must be with all your casual relationships. It doesn’t sound like a lonely existence at all.”
Her voice trembles on the last sentence, and I veer across the three lanes of traffic to the exit ramp on the right.
“What are you doing?”
I don’t answer, only watch the road, exiting the interstate and pulling into the first gas station I see.
“Griffin. You’re freaking me out. What are you doing?”
Once stopped, I throw the car into park and turn off the ignition. When I face her, the fear in her eyes dissipates when she sees what’s in mine—not anger, not sadness. Just regret. Her hand reaches for my face, cupping my cheek.
“Did you fall in love with her anyway?”
I nod, the first time I’ve admitted this to anyone, including myself. Not saying the word, not acknowledging how I felt, helped me get back to old habits. Safe habits. But I thought I was safe back then, and I wasn’t. With Maggie, I knew that first night the danger I was in, but I lied to myself anyway.
“She was in love with someone else,” I tell her.
She shakes her head. “The guy with her at the reunion.” I nod again. “I’m sorry, Griffin. It wasn’t my business, and I…I shouldn’t have gotten so angry. That had nothing to do with you.”
My hand covers hers, holding it there, the heat from her palm warming me as the temperature in the car slowly drops.
“It is bullshit,” I tell her. “But it’s all I’ve ever known, and it’s always been enough.”
She keeps her eyes locked on mine when she asks the next question.
“Do you still love her?”