If Only (2 page)

“Hey. Jordan.”

He sits in the window seat at an awkward angle under the low ceiling. A petite blond sits on the aisle. When I head back, said blond writes something on Griffin’s hand, then stands to leave.

“Lovely meeting you,” she says in a lilting, British accent.

She smiles as she brushes past me without introduction, and I assess that if I ever got to know her, I’d confirm my suspicions that she’s a bitch.

“Hope you don’t mind,” he says. “I figured you might need more easy access to the toilet than me, seeing how we are only about one-eighth through our trip and you’re already breaking the seal.”

Wow, he’s smooth.

“Looks like you get easy access as well,” I say, my tone a little too snide to avoid notice.

He raises a brow. “Isn’t it a little early in our relationship to get jealous?”

“There is no relationship.” I grab his hand and flip it over to see his palm. “But Katie might be available.”

He stands up, climbing over me to get to the aisle. After reaching up onto the luggage rack, he sits back down with a water bottle. He pulls open the spout and sprinkles a few drops of water on his hand, wiping away Katie’s name and number. The whole time I watch, my mouth hangs open in the slight shape of an O.

“Why did you do that?”

Griffin’s eyes widen with exaggerated incredulity. “Did you see all those numbers? I don’t know how to dial that. My cell phone would probably reject anything more than ten digits. Besides, I sat here because I saw you smile, and I liked it. Kathy’s got nothing on your lips.”

“Katie.” I correct him, but the corners of my mouth turn up, betraying my annoyance. He liked my smile.

“Whatever,” he says.

“Do you say what you want when you want?” I find this both intriguing and terrifying.

“I say what I mean. You can’t go wrong with that. Most people find it charming.”

I hold up his hand, which is still marked with faded evidence. “You say charming. I say man-whore. Potato, potahto.”

Maybe my theory about man-whores in Illinois is wrong. They’re everywhere.

His hands fly to his heart in melodramatic protest.

“Even after I washed off her number? That hurts.”

Hard to ignore instinct when I see what I always see. I blame two years of being single on charming because it usually equals jerk with ulterior motives. It’s one thing to say I’m going to enjoy myself. And Griffin does look enjoyable. Getting involved with a guy who has strangers jotting phone numbers on his hand—not so much.

“What can I say? I call ’em like I see ’em.”

“Okay,” he says. “You think you know me? How about this? For the remainder of the ride, you can ask me whatever you want, and I’ll answer honestly. If, by the time we get to Scotland, you still hold your assessment of me, I won’t argue.”

I contemplate, my teeth scraping my bottom lip. It’s not like I’m looking for anything more than a guy like him could offer. What would be the point? If my judgment fails me and we, for some reason, fall madly in love, we still live several hours away from each other, an entire state in between. If an overpopulation of guys like Griffin is the reason for my dry spell, perhaps they can also be the solution.
He
can be the solution. I only need one.

“So you like my smile, huh?”

As soon as I say this I, of course, try not to smile, turning toward the aisle as I suppress the grin brought on by his earlier compliment. I’ve never been one to take compliments well. I enjoy getting them but have a hard time believing them, especially coming from someone as confident and forward as Griffin.

His shoulders shake with silent laughter. “I was expecting a much tougher question than that. Yes, Jordan. I like your smile. Specifically, I like the lips that make your smile.”

Trying to keep from smiling is one thing, but hiding my lips is damn near impossible. I bite my lip again.

“And that,” he adds, “is damn sexy.”

This snaps me back to reality. “Man-whore.”

“Hot-lips.”

We both laugh, and my shoulders relax. Despite what I might assume about him, things seem to be easy with Griffin from Minnesota.

“Okay,” I say. “Let’s get all the boring questions out of the way. Then we can move on to the fun stuff.”

He leans in close. Almost under his breath, he asks, “What’s the fun stuff?” His words smell like cinnamon.

My eyes widen, and he moves back toward the window, a perfect, albeit ridiculous, smoldering look plastered on his face. “You set me up for that, you know.”

I push him on the shoulder.

“What’s your last name?”

“Reed. What’s yours?”

“Brooks.”

“Any relation to Mel Brooks?
Spaceballs
. Classic.”

“No,” I say. “Or Albert Brooks.” His brows furrow. “Nemo’s dad?” I say, and recognition blooms. “But we’re all Jewish, so maybe?”

“Do you speak Hebrew?” he asks, and I shake my head.

“Not since I was thirteen. I’m better at French, but not much. How about you? Foreign languages?”

“Just a little Spanish, French, and German.”

I laugh, expecting him to say he’s kidding, but he doesn’t. Impressive.

“What’s your major?” Ew. So trite, but my curiosity is piqued after his admission that he speaks three languages. Then again, we need to get this out of the way so we can get to the fun stuff, if I can remember what that is.

“US History and Political Science. How about you?”

“English literature. Best reason to spend a year in the UK.” Hmmm. Talk about a mismatch of interests. Why the hell is he here if he’s an American history major? Oh, right. I can ask him this.

“What do you want to be, a politician?”

He laughs. “Uh, no. That would be my dad. What do you want to do, teach?”

“Uh, that would be my mom
and
my dad.” And that’s the magic question, the one my parents would love me to answer. “I don’t know,” I admit. “I love stories, living in someone else’s world for a while. Sure beats textbooks. I kind of always assumed the only option for a literature major was to become a teacher.”

“Ah, yes. Choosing a career because there’s no other option. I hear that brings great happiness.”

I look down at my hands, taking an interest in a hanging cuticle in lieu of defending myself because Griffin is right. He’s known me for less than a
Friends
episode of time and can already say what I avoid telling myself.

“Hey,” he says, his hand reaching for mine. “I was just messing with you. It’s not like I have a plan all mapped out.”

I look up, relieved to shift the focus back to him.

“Why are you here, then? I can’t imagine you’ll find much in your major in Aberdeen, Scotland.”

“Electives,” he says. “I’ve already fulfilled my double major requirements other than the few classes I’ll take senior year. Thank you, AP classes in high school. Means I’m here for the
fun stuff
.”

I swallow when he says this, trying to coat the sudden dryness in my mouth. On the one hand, we have nothing in common when it comes to academic interests. On the other hand, he must be pretty intelligent if he’s close to completing a double major already. And then there’s that maddeningly adorable grin. Okay, grin cancels out academic incompatibility.

He stares at me, his lips pursed into a taunting grin. I’m about to fill the awkward silence when he speaks.

“It’s my turn. Do you always get lost in your head?”

Thought he wouldn’t notice.

“That obvious?”

He nods.

“Do you really always say what you are thinking?”

He nods again.

“Always?” I ask.

“Always,” he answers. “I grew up with three older sisters, Jen, Megan, and Natalie. Speaking up was the only way to get noticed sometimes. And there’s a lot of power in being straightforward.”

Yeah, like unnerving those in your presence.

“Sisters, huh? Bet you learned a lot from them.”

He crosses his arms and rests his head against the window.

“Sometimes too much. If I could unlearn a thing or two…” He trails off for a few seconds. “But much I had to learn on my own.” He waggles his brows. “The fun stuff.”

I swallow again. Don’t they come by with a drink cart or something on trains? Every time his eyes find mine, I almost ask if he’s thirsty, too. But his voice never falters, nor does his gaze. Damn Sam and her power of suggestion.

I clear my throat, determined to call bullshit rather than let him feed me any more.

“Really? It was that easy being the youngest of four and the only boy? From womb to Lothario in one fell swoop?” I cross my arms and hold his stare, daring him to show me something real. Two can play this game.

“When did I ever say easy?” His tone shifts, no longer ribbing me with innuendo. Something wistful, even sad, replaces the bravado, and I want to take it back, tell him I was joking, because I don’t need real. I don’t want real. Ignoring my natural tendencies means quite the opposite of real.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I didn’t mean to imply anything about you or your family.”

He shakes his head. “You didn’t say anything wrong. Like I said, they taught me a lot, even if I didn’t want to learn it all. My youngest sister, Megan, was a senior in high school when I was a freshman. I watched her fall in love and subsequently get her heart ripped out. The usual. I knew the guy was a dick. It’s kind of a kindred thing. We can tell our own kind.”

I rest my hand on his arm. “You’re not a dick.”

“No?” He pulls his arm away, runs his hand through his shaggy waves, and looks up to avoid my eyes. “My sisters call me a serial monogamist. I don’t cheat. Never have. Only one girl at a time, but I’m not looking for forever. I’m great with right now, but beyond a month or two, things get complicated.” His eyes come back to mine. “So maybe I am a dick, but I’ve never once tried to hide it.”

Shit. A man-whore with a heart.

“Isn’t it lonely, to never really connect with someone long-term?”

His consummate grin reappears. “You’re thinking about it the wrong way. It’s kind of hard to be lonely when you’re never alone. Plus, no complications, no loose ends. It works.”

“For now,” I say, not wanting to push the issue. Maybe he’s on to something. Logan and I connected long-term. At least I thought we connected, but on more than one occasion, even if he was right next to me, I never felt lonelier. That’s how I knew. Whatever I was looking for, I hadn’t found it. Ever since him, I’ve continued to look, probably for something that doesn’t exist.

“Now is all that matters.” He shrugs, like everyone lives by his motto. “Hey. What’s with the side eyes?”

“Katie was ready for you
right now.
” I throw his words back at him. “You’ve got girls so willing to give you what you want, they’re writing phone numbers on your palm. I’m not that kind of girl…”

I stop myself from saying any more, from bringing an analysis of Jordan-before-Scotland into the mix.

“You’re
not
like that,” he says, “which is exactly why I like you. You’d never write your number on a guy’s hand.”

I throw back my head and laugh. “Though I’ve had ample opportunity. If I told you how many guys have thrust a palm and a pen in my face, just begging for digits…”

“No,” Griffin says, shaking his head. “They don’t. Wanna know why?”

At first I think he’s teasing me, but his eyes narrow on mine. The corners of his mouth stay even. My laughter dwindles into silent anticipation of his answer.

“Because they know you’d say no.”

I squirm in my chair, wishing I could put more distance between us.

“You’re not a Kathy.”

“Katie,” I remind him.

“Whatever,” he says. “You’re the commitment type. I can see it.”

“What do you mean you can see it? Maybe I’m totally a Katie. Maybe I’m all about
right now
.” But I have to force the words. I want them to be true, want this year to be what it should be—a place for reinvention, for me to break free of the restraints I’ve put on myself for too long.

My breaths grow shallow. What I wouldn’t give to text Sam this second, ask her what sort of wizardry she pulled to drop this guy in my path. “Here he is,” she’d say. “Mr. Right Now. Strike while the iron is hot!”

But instead of striking, I opt for distance. Time to take a break.

“I think I’m going to be off to the loo. Again.” I stand in the aisle.

Griffin pulls his phone from his pocket and holds it out to me.

“Your…what did you call them…digits?” he asks.

This is my opportunity. Give him my number and prove that I can be a Katie. I can have fun for now and say “Fuck it” to worrying about what comes next, prove he doesn’t have me pegged. My hand twitches at my side as I contemplate reaching toward him. But I cross my arms over my chest instead, not able to do this one little thing to invoke change.

He shrugs, fishing a pair of earbuds out of the same pocket and plugging them into the phone. “If I’m asleep when you get back, feel free to wake me with a number on my palm, or with your lips, whatever you deem necessary.”

I lean in and push his shoulder hard this time, and his only response is a quick laugh before he closes his eyes and snuggles up against the window.

Maybe I will.

Chapter Two

I take my time getting to the toilet. That really is a fitting name for the room as there is barely anything else in it other than the aforementioned receptacle and a dollhouse-sized sink. I need to weigh my options here. First, I met a really cute guy. And he’s flirting with me. Second, I know
no one
in Aberdeen…except for the cute guy. Cute guy is American, funny, has good teeth—and girls doling out their numbers after nothing more than an introduction. I can work with most of this.

The loo door says O
CCUPIED
, which does not bode well for my waiting because I have to pee. Now. Thankfully, I hear the sad excuse for a sink inside. Good, my wait will be short. As the lock clicks open, the train jostles enough that the bathroom’s occupant stumbles out, pinning me up against the doors that lead back into my train car.