If Only (10 page)

“The movie’s already starting. You might as well stay.”

I must enjoy torture.

“Are you sure?” he whispers.

“Shhhhh!”

I suppress a laugh and lean toward him so I can, if at all possible, reduce the volume of my whisper.

“Yes,” I practically mouth. “Or you’ll have the shusher to deal with.”

He agrees with a smile coupled with silence. Breathing in before straightening back into my seat, I smell spring.

Two hours later, the lights come back up, but I’m still facing the screen, unable to wipe the goofy smile from my face. I don’t want to look at Noah, conscious of at least three reasons why. First, he already didn’t like the book. If I turn to him and see further disappointment on his face after one of my favorite films, I’ll be crushed. But I will also be secure that anything I may have felt for him weeks ago was way off because how could I possibly have any connection with anyone who does not love
A Room with a View
? This brings me to reason number two. If I look at him and see approval, nay, enjoyment, I will need a lot more distance and one hell of a reboot. Reason number three is the hardest of them all. It doesn’t matter if he liked the movie or not. The nearness of him and the knot in my stomach says it all.

Students file out of the room, and I catch fragments of conversations, of girls swooning over George and scoffing at Cecil, divinely absurd as played by Daniel Day-Lewis. I laugh quietly, hoping Noah has filed out with the rest of them. When I work up the nerve to turn my gaze from the screen, he’s gone. My relief is expected. My disappointment is not. I think about what he said when he first sat down. He’s right. Regardless of societal expectations, it’s preposterous to think of Lucy with Cecil. It’s in this moment that I hear Mr. Emerson quoting Lorenzo the poet, arguing for the nature of man, for his right to choose happiness when it’s within his grasp. “
Don’t go fighting against the Spring
.”

I can’t breathe. My mouth dries up, and I can’t breathe, and everyone has left the classroom so if I do asphyxiate, no one will be here to help. Air. I need air. Air would be good right now.

I grab my bag and throw it over my shoulder. I don’t bother to put on my jacket. Outside first. Jacket after. I push through the classroom door and into the hallway, not stopping in the loo even after a two-hour movie. A little fresh air, and I will be able to think straight. I burst out onto the brick walkway and turn right to head back to High Street. My tunnel vision can see only my tiny room where I can curl up on my bed and process my crazy thoughts in my journal. This virtual visualization does not bode well for me, though, as it blinds me to unsuspecting actual people who might be in my line of fire, like Noah, who I plow into so hard that I knock him to the ground.

“Shit! God, Noah. I’m sorry!”

It’s Duncan’s birthday. It’s
A Room with a View
day! How is this turning into the worst day ever? His hands break his fall, and, thankfully, he doesn’t look hurt. I squat down to help him up.

“Damn, Brooks. Most people just say
excuse me
.” As soon as he says it, he catches himself. “I mean, Jordan. I’m sorry, I…”

“You’re bleeding,” I interrupt, lifting his right hand. A thick, red stream trickles slowly from a gash in his palm. The cut looks small, but it must be deep because—yikes—the cuff of his jacket is already stained with blood. A small piece of broken glass rests on the pavement where he landed.

Still squatting, I reach into my bag, searching for something to staunch the flow of blood. I knew someday there’d be a logical reason for my hoarding of fast-food napkins. Folding a wad into a manageable rectangle, I press it to his palm and then pull him up with me. For a moment we stand there, one of my hands holding his upturned palm, the other pressing the napkins firmly into the wound. Neither of us says anything, nor does he tear his hand away. Hand to hand, I wonder if he can feel my quickened pulse, if he notices my shortened breaths. After so long of barely speaking, his skin against mine sends a shock of sensation through me. But he’s bleeding, so I remove my hand from his, grabbing his free hand to replace mine.

“Come on. We need to wash you up. With your luck that piece of glass came from some drunk asshole’s beer bottle. Who knows what kind of saliva it’s been marinating in since it landed here?”

He tilts his head to the side, and, dammit, why do I still notice his quirks and find them adorable?

“What?” I ask. “Do you want to take the chance of drunk guy’s spit entering your blood stream?” I hope this maniacal theorizing masks my complete and utter horror at what I’ve done to him.

He lets me lead him back into the building.

The hall quiets as students make their way to the next session of classes. We stop outside the door to the loo. The women’s loo.

“Wait here a second,” I tell him, and I pop through the door. After a quick check, I confirm the restroom’s vacancy and open the door wide and grab Noah by the elbow, pulling him inside.

“No way, Jordan. I can wash my own hand.” He turns toward the exit.

I grab his shoulder, and he stops.

“No offense, but you’re a guy, and cleansing can be subjective. You’re bleeding. It could get infected, and I don’t think you giving it a quick rinse will do the trick.”

His eyes meet mine in tacit agreement.

“Let me fix this, okay?”

I can do this. I can end the weirdness between us. He’s hurt because I can’t let go. If I can fix this, fix
him
, I can let go.

“Okay.”

Slowly, he walks back toward me and offers me his palm. I peel off the napkins and find that the bleeding has slowed, but it hasn’t stopped. Shit. Shit. Shit. I did this to him.

I turn on the tap and push up his sleeve, then pull his hand under the flow of water. He flinches, and I’m not sure if it’s because of the pain or the frigid water, but after a moment he relaxes and lets me continue.

I wet my own hands before pumping the soap. After working up a small lather, I pull his hand from the icy fountain. Gently and deliberately, I massage the dried blood and dirt from his palm. If the soap stings the wound, he gives no indication of it. He stands there, watching my hands glide delicately across his.

“It’s still bleeding,” I say, my voice tinged with worry. I place his hand back under the water, only slightly less frigid now. “Maybe you need to go to the medical center.” I loosen my grasp on his wrist, ready to pull away.

“Wait,” he says, grabbing my forearm with his uninjured hand. So I do, but he says nothing, fixing his eyes on mine, freezing me in his gaze.

We stand there, silent except for the sound of the water lapping over our entwined hands into the sink. They redden with the cold, but all I can feel is the heat rising from the pit of my stomach up through my body until beads of sweat form on the back of my neck. It’s a word, four stupid letters. He could have let me go, but he didn’t. His initiating touch sends my mind in all sorts of directions, and none of them are the right one.

Noah’s eyes leave mine, and I watch as they fall to my lips. If his gaze didn’t linger, I would have sworn I imagined it, but he watches my mouth, and I fight the urge to lick or bite my bottom lip because I’m with Griffin now. Things are easy and fun, and I never have to question his motives or what he’s thinking. But close proximity to Noah stirs up everything I thought I left in that classroom the day of the tour. And I question why he’s still holding me, why instead of focusing on his injured hand he’s focusing on my mouth. I ask myself how the imprint of a kiss can lie dormant for weeks only to be woken by one simple touch.

I jerk my hands from the sink, unintentionally throwing his hand off my arm. One of my hands reaches to cool the back of my neck. The other tamps down the knob of the faucet.

“You really need to get it looked at.” My voice strains above a whisper as I blot his palm dry and press another folded napkin over the gash.

“Thanks.” His voice hums, low and coarse. “Jordan, I…”

“Here!” I rummage through my bag and grab a small tin. Popping it open, I pull out a bandage and unwrap it, smoothing it firmly over the napkin.

He laughs, breaking through some of the tension. “What is that?”

I smile. “It’s a mustache bandage,” I say matter-of-factly, as if it is completely normal that his palm now sports a chevron. “Brian Fantana would be jealous.”

His smile fades to a deadpan expression. “Sex Panther. Sixty percent of the time, it works every time.” Then he can’t hold in the laughter. “You’re an
Anchorman
fan?”

I force a smile, not because I don’t like the movie—I love
Anchorman
—but this is one more thing for us to have in common, one more connection that can’t mean anything. So I lie.

“It was okay.” I crinkle my nose. “Not my favorite, but I remembered Paul Rudd’s mustache, so…”

“Oh,” he says, his shoulders falling slightly.

“The health center is right here on campus.” I don’t want him to leave, but he needs to.

“Yeah, I know.” He looks at his hand.

“I’m sorry, Noah.”

He shakes his head as if willing away a thought before looking up from his hand to me. His eyes are suddenly distant.

“It’s okay.”

But we both know it’s not.

I need to leave. Now. “You should go,” I say, pushing past him and through the door of the loo. I race outside and around the building, waiting until he exits and heads in the direction of the health center. But the physical distance does nothing to help. The memory of his hand in mine still lingers.

Chapter Nine

We make it to the Blue Lantern by six o’clock. I have to force Griffin and Duncan to ditch their whisky and video games, promising the obvious—the pub has whisky.

Elaina and Daniel wave from behind the bar, pointing us to a booth in Elaina’s serving station. The large, round booth seats at least six, if not eight. The dark wood table complements a darker, quilted-leather lining the high backrest. We never make it here early enough to acquire such coveted seating. But tonight Elaina saved it for us. A couple sits at the bar table kitty-corner from the booth, and I swear the girl glares at me. I laugh. They probably tried to sit here and were ousted by Elaina.

The three of us slide in, first Duncan, then Griffin, and me on the end. Elaina brings a round of snakebites before we look at the small table menu. Griffin swallows a third of his pint in one swig.

“Hey,” I say, my hand grasping his wrist. “You’re drunk already. Be careful.”

I think of the bottle of whisky back at Fyfe, and how much of it he and Duncan drained before we left. I laugh a little to myself, unable to shake my tendency toward caution.

“Careful,” he says, his eyes fixed on mine, “would be hesitating before doing this, wondering if you want it as much as I do.”

My mouth opens to ask what the hell he means, but he covers it with his own. My surprise melts as I sink into the kiss. Griffin’s lips are soft and sure, and he tastes like cinnamon and whisky. His hand cups the back of my neck, and I hook a finger over the top of his jeans, my skin teasing his. Warm breath trickles from his mouth to mine, sending a shiver all the way to my toes.
This
, I can do this. Kissing Griffin is easy, and I want nothing more than for everything else to fade away, but when I close my eyes, surrendering to the moment, it’s not Griffin I see. Instead I’m back in the women’s loo, Noah’s wrist in my grip, his bleeding hand under an icy flow of water. And I hate my lips now, the ones Noah watched so intently, the ones that want to
want
to kiss the guy they’re kissing without interruption. Because, God, I
have
been happy, and I know Griffin has been, too. But I’ve also held back, kept any shred of
serious
at bay. Griffin is a guy a girl could fall for, but he made it clear that he doesn’t fall back. That’s why Noah got to me today, because I keep Griffin at the safe distance we agreed upon. Maybe it’s time to stop being so safe.

I pull away first, Griffin’s satisfied smile enough to tell me that maybe he’s done being safe, too. I smile at him, happy none of my doubt escaped into that kiss. If it did, the alcohol keeps him from noticing.

An hour, a couple of drinks, and lots of greasy food later, the crowd at the Blue Lantern picks up. One of Duncan’s mates, a tall, dark, wiry boy from Germany named Barrett, joins the group. I make him promise to keep the whisky imbibing to a minimum.

“Isn’t anyone else coming?” Duncan asks Barrett. “Everyone in Fyfe knows it’s a party tonight.”

Barrett laughs. “It’s not eight o’clock yet. People are eating, Duncan. I have no doubt everyone in Fyfe saw your note posted in the lobby.”

A note? More like a full-color flyer that Duncan made inviting anyone who knew him to the Blue Lantern to, in his printed words, “keep him pissed till morning.” As if mention of said
note
invokes the crowd, bodies start spilling through the pub door, and Duncan knows and greets nearly every single patron who walks in.

Elaina is far too busy to tend to our table now, so I offer to get our small group the next round. Our cozy little dinner has turned into a full-on party, as if all of Aberdeen were invited. I push through the growing crowd to the bar, where I find a very frazzled-looking Elaina manning every tap behind the counter.

“This is bullshit,” she hisses above the din. She sounds angry. And Greek. “The kitchen is backed up, so Daniel has to help them out. The other bartenders don’t come in until nine o’clock! I am taking back my
maybe
!”

Uh-oh. Time for damage control.

Before I can say anything, she slides a pint into the hand of a waiting patron. He hands her back a ten-pound note. “Keep the change, love!”

There’s no way that pint cost more than four quid. I raise my eyebrows at her, waiting for a reaction. She doesn’t smile, but her sigh relinquishes her anger.

“Fine.” The word is clipped. “If the tips stay like this, I will forgive him for slamming us when we are not properly staffed.” She maintains her stoicism for only a few seconds more. Then a gleeful smile appears. Elaina may work her ass off tonight, but she’s going home with some serious cash.