I see you, Maggie. I see you, and I’m amazed and scared…and I love you.
I spin toward my nightstand, where the one photo sits that matters most. Because it’s the night I fell in love with him. Griffin in his bed, shirt off and glasses on, reading a book. I move slowly toward the foot of my bed and slide along the edge, not sure I can take any more once I’m close enough to read. And when I’m there, the photo and the card in my hand, laughter spills out between the tears. Because there is no caption on this photo. I didn’t need one because I’ve always known what it means, and now so does Griffin.
You so totally love me, too.
Paige and Miles are at my door now, staring at me as I sob and laugh, a picture and sticky note clutched to my chest.
“You okay?” Miles asks.
I nod and shake my head as tears pour over my smile.
“I don’t know,” I say. “I think I will be, though.”
“Can I ask you something, then?” he says, and I nod as he produces an Uno card from his back pocket. “Do you always keep Uno cards in the freezer?”
Oh my God. He left them everywhere?
Now I’m laughing, full-on, big-bellowed laughing with the occasional snort.
They leave me then, alone in the room that is a portrait of me and thoughts of the person who saw it all, who saw me, who’s scared right along with me and loves me anyway. And yeah, I so totally love him, too.
On Monday morning I go back through my phone’s messages, reading the ones he sent Friday night—the night of his party. But there’s been no communication since then. I needed the weekend to collect myself, to build up the courage to face him. That would require him to show up, though, and I have no guarantee he will.
I hesitate inside the library’s entrance for a good ten minutes, only moving when the stares from the girl at the information desk make me more self-conscious than nervous. I decide on the stairs, taking them slowly—not only to avoid perspiring but also getting there too quickly—to the sixth floor. Not until someone bumps my shoulder do I realize I’m standing in the door frame of the sixth-floor study room with my eyes squeezed shut.
“Sorry,” the girl says as she passes. “I didn’t expect you to stop.”
I open my eyes because I’m in a public place and am expected to act like an adult. But if I try to respond to the girl’s apology, my flip-flopping stomach will leap out of my mouth.
This might happen anyway because as soon as my eyes regain their focus they lock on his. His beautiful chocolate eyes, despite the one that seems to be forever swollen and bruised.
He came. And he waited. And I can’t move or else that whole stomach leaving my insides thing is going to happen anyway.
Griffin smiles, and if I wasn’t stuck where I stand, I’d stagger at the sight of it. Then he’s moving, his chair sliding out behind him, his body hurrying closer to mine.
When he’s near enough for me to smell apples, he grabs my bag off my shoulder and repositions it on his.
“Hey, Pippi,” he says. “What took you so long?”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Griffin
I smile when I see the whiteboard calendar in the kitchen…and the girl wearing nothing but my Aberdeen T-shirt and boy briefs standing next to the espresso maker, the first item we bought together. When my lease is up in May, this will be our place, not that I don’t spend a majority of my time here anyway.
“I have my first AmeriCorps meeting tonight, a sort of meet and greet,” I say as I approach her. She takes a lazy sip from her mug before setting it on the counter.
“Bring them some basil, and they’ll fall head over heels in love with you.” She giggles, and I plant a kiss on her nose. “Here,” she says, lifting a mug brimming with foam. When I look at it, I see the heart she’s drawn in my drink.
I stand, my palms braced on the counter on either side of her.
“Thanks, Pippi. But I’m not really thirsty yet.”
She lets out a soft laugh as she sets my latte down, her elbow bumping the mason jar filled with loose change labeled “My Big Fat Scottish and Greek Wedding.” Because we’re going to make it to Greece. We’re going to make it lots of places, but first things first.
“Nice outfit,” she says, eying my only piece of clothing, my boxer briefs. “It goes well with your glasses.”
I stifle my own laugh, aiming to win this teasing standoff.
“I’d like it better if we matched,” I say, sliding my palms from the counter to her waist, taking great care to lift her T-shirt enough so skin meets skin.
Both of us take in a sharp breath, and my hands glide up her torso under her shirt until they find her bare breasts. At this she hums, and I know I’m a goner.
Maggie lifts her arms above her head, and in seconds the T-shirt is a goner, too.
“There,” I say. “Matching.”
She reaches for my glasses and folds them carefully before setting them on the counter.
“For their safety,” she says.