“How long’s it been since your gram went back to Florida?” she asks.
“Six months. Why?”
“Honey. If you weren’t doing so well on your own, would she really have left? Is it possible you’re setting these limitations for yourself because you’re scared? I don’t blame you. What happened to you is scary, but I think you forget that you survived it, that you kicked some ass to get to where you are now.”
My defenses kick in regardless of whether or not Paige is right. “She left because I couldn’t bear to see her miss out on her life anymore. I told her to go.”
“Maggie. I met your gram when she was here. Though I didn’t know your whole situation then, I could tell you were everything to her, and there’s no way she would have left if she was worried about anything—about you taking care of yourself, about you getting sick again. There’s also no way she cares any less about you simply because you needed more care. Why don’t you see that?”
I shake my head. “You know what they say, right? You can’t choose your family. She has to still love me. It’s in the fine print. No matter how difficult I am, she has to be there for me. It’s not the same with Griffin. You know it’s not.”
Paige cues up an episode of the Gilmore Girls. “Hmmm…” she muses. “Sounds like a load of bullshit to me. When does your life become yours instead of the fear of what it could be?”
My eyes widen, but she never takes her gaze off the TV, which is perfect. She can’t see my reaction, can’t know for sure that she’s right. Fear is a powerful thing. I’ve lived with it for a long time now.
She doesn’t push me any further, and I silently thank her for that. We watch without talking and wait for Miles to get home.
Maybe it is a load of bullshit, but it doesn’t matter. The damage is done and, eventually, Griffin and I will both get past it. We’ll have to.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Griffin
Miles stares at me, and I realize I haven’t moved since Maggie walked out, since she got in her friend’s car and drove away. I thought I came here to do what she did, to get the closure I needed and end this. But when I saw her, even with her arms wrapped around him—as if I needed more convincing that she was done with whatever we were doing—I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t be the one to say good-bye.
“Hey, man. I’m really sorry. Maggie told me how important tonight was to you.”
I hear him, but the words don’t sink in.
“It’s a bullshit word,” I say, finding my voice.
“Excuse me?”
“Sorry. It’s a bullshit word with no meaning. And it changes nothing.”
Miles shrugs. “You’re right. I’m…uh…I’m not sure what else to say here.”
The damp fabric of my shirt and jeans begins to register, as does the tremble of my insides.
“Those are hers, aren’t they?” I nod to the framed drawings on the back wall. “Maggie did those.”
Miles nods. “Maggie doing what she does best—observing life. I like to think of it as her wall of wishes,” he says.
“How are they her wishes if she’s not in any of them?” I ask. “I don’t understand.”
Miles huffs out a laugh. “No, man. I guess you don’t.” He sighs. “I wish you did.”
“I should go,” I say, my legs cold and unable to move, unwilling to admit she isn’t coming back.
“Let me give you a ride,” he says, but I shake my head.
“I need to clear my head. But thanks.” I turn to the door, already pushing it open into the flurries, the chill. I comfort myself with the knowledge I can text Nat if it gets too bad. She’s got the truck.
“Hey, man. Watch the door. It sticks in the humidity.” Miles tries to warn me as I push against the frame, but my haste drowns out the realization as my cheek crashes into the metal lever so conveniently placed at eye level.
“Fuck!” I yell, my hand flying to my face and coming away bloody.
“Shit!” Miles yells. “Didn’t you hear me? I said it sticks sometimes, and now that it’s snowing—the humidity—shit!”
I back into the shop again. This seems preferable to staying pinned in the entryway. Because I don’t know what else I’m supposed to do, and because I really don’t want to see how bad the damage is, I collapse onto a chair at the nearest table.
Miles is there with a wad of napkins as soon as I sit, and I take them gratefully, pressing them to the wound. I breathe in, the pain white-hot.
“Shit,” he says again. “I don’t even know why that thing is on the door. We never use it.” He runs a hand through his hair. “Come on,” he says. “I need to get you to the ER.”
I roll my eyes but don’t argue. I knew the second my face made contact with the metal that I wasn’t going home anytime soon.