Miles shakes his head. “No, honey. You fell in love with him.”
I start to laugh. Or maybe it’s a sob. I’m not sure.
“I fell in love with him,” I admit. “But I hurt him.”
We pull into a parking spot in front of my apartment building.
“Not because you’re sick or because you’re broken or any less of the Maggie you were when I first met you. You hurt him because you’re scared,” he says, and I nod.
“I’m so scared, Miles. Not just of me losing him.”
“I know, sweetie. But making him lose you when he doesn’t have to? That’s not fair. He deserves better. You deserve better.”
He kisses my hand.
“We all are scared. But shutting us out? Keeping the people who love you at a distance—it doesn’t make it any less scary. Just lonely.”
“I don’t want to be alone,” I admit. He releases my hand so we can get out of the car. “I don’t want to let fear win anymore,” I tell him. “But it’s not going to be easy. I may need your help.”
Miles cups his hands around his mouth and hollers to the wind. “Did you hear that, Maggie’s fear? Maggie gets to win now!”
I slap him on the shoulder and then steer him toward the building, both of us laughing as we go.
Once inside, we head up to my place in silence. Walking in there elicits a new fear, a fear that I succeeded, that shutting Griffin out last night after he told me he loved me was the final push. I tell myself I’ll be okay. Because I have to be. I can be scared and be okay, too.
Paige’s door is ajar, which means she’s still home. Griffin has to be gone by now. I reach for my keys in my bag but note my door isn’t clicked shut, either. I slowly nudge it open to find Paige on the couch alone, drinking coffee and watching a Gilmore Girls episode.
She springs up to greet us, coffee sloshing over her hand. “Ow! Shit. Sorry, Mags. I’ll clean that up. But tell me, how’d the appointment go?”
She rushes past us to the kitchen to grab a roll of paper towels, and as my eyes follow her they stop at a sight on the counter—another coffee mug.
“Paige…” I draw out her name, the rest of my question catching in my throat.
When she spins around, paper towels in hand, she follows my gaze to the counter.
“Paige, was he here?”
I knew she was plotting something when she asked to have coffee over here, but after last night, I expected Griffin to leave without looking back.
“He was here, honey.”
Her expression should be sad, right? I fell in love with a guy and pushed him away every time he tried to get close. So what’s up with the goofy grin?
I glance at Miles, who wears a confused smile, but a smile nonetheless, and I turn back at her. Then I book it to my room for no reason other than thoughts of Griffin propelling me there.
When I flip on the light, the first thing I notice is my floor, no sign of the camera I destroyed littering the space between my bed and my wall. And then the wall.
A rainbow of Uno cards illuminates the space, all with messages scrawled in Sharpie, the handwriting foreign though I have no doubt whose it is.
The first one is pinned to the photo I took of Griffin the day we met, him in the driver’s seat and me outside his window at the café.
I was afraid I’d never see you again after you snapped this one.
Next is the one of him before we snuck into the theater.
This is when I knew you were trouble, that no matter what our agreement was, I was already yours, even if I wouldn’t admit it.
All of my captions on the pictures were to remind me of the time we spent together, in case I forgot. Because I knew, too, though I wouldn’t admit it, either, that I didn’t want to forget him.
But here’s the thing—I haven’t forgotten any of it, not one single moment of our time together. The photos were a crutch, or maybe a way for me to hold on to him even as I pushed him away.
The one of us in front of the tree at the John Hancock Center, the caption reads: Aberdeen reunion with Griffin in Chicago. But the note on the card next to it has me choking back a sob.
The guy I was a month ago would have run away so fast, but everything about you pulls me in. All of it, Maggie. When you’re healthy, when you’re sick. Full deck. I’m in.
My hand slides across the board to the end where there are no pictures but instead articles. “Brain Aneurysm Recovery: Symptoms and Setbacks,” “Short-term Memory Loss and How to Cope,” “Statistics for Aneurysm Survivors,” “Art Therapy for Psychological Health.”
There it is, two years of my life plastered across a bulletin board as I try to make sense of it while at the same time hiding myself from those who matter most. One card sits among the posted articles.