Maybe Once, Maybe Twice(37)

It was just the back of his hand. No one should put this much hope inside something so small. But I did. I couldn’t unfeel him.

That night on the subway ride home, Garrett’s skin buzzing against mine played like a film reel behind my eyes, with one verse echoing in my head. It was as sweet as the maple-flavored beer on the back of my tongue, and I shifted my body away from Drew so I could text it to myself.

Hope’s always the last friend to leave



Garrett was back in my heart. Who was I kidding? He never left.





20

THIRTY-FIVE




THE FLOOR NUMBERS IN THE elevator climbed, and I held on to the guitar around my neck like it was a life raft, until PH lit up bright red. It wasn’t just the possible life-changing moment that had my sweaty palms clenching for solid ground, it was the fact that the elevator was going to open, Asher Reyes would smile at me, and I’d forget how to breathe—which wasn’t ideal when tasked with digging deep into my diaphragm to belt a folksy love ballad.

The elevator chimed, and I cleared my throat, reminding myself that I couldn’t let Asher melt me, because I was here to be a force of nature: a hurricane that he and his producer wouldn’t be able to look away from, not a puddle on the floor. I stepped into the airy industrial loft, with the smell of fresh roses and crisp lavender swirling in my lungs—thanks to the enormous vase of flowers on the marble kitchen island. All at once, Asher came into view, walking right by me, holding a steaming mug of tea as he crossed the living room.

“Hey,” I said.

He jumped, startled, spilling half the mug of tea on the front of his white linen button-down shirt.

“Shit.” I winced and ran to grab the hand towel hanging from the oven door.

I don’t know what possessed me to press the towel onto his hard, pounding chest, without thinking about the consequences. But I did. I could feel his heart thumping beneath me, and my breathing slowed as I dared my eyes upward. It was worse than I could have imagined. He was staring fixedly at me, and I watched him swallow hard, golden eyes locked on mine. I sucked in my reddening cheeks, slowly removing my trembling fingers from his body, handing him the towel and backing away.

“Sorry.”

He stared at me, unblinking, holding the towel to his shirt.

“That’s okay. It’ll dry.”

He set the towel on the counter with a grin and leaned against the honed marble. I held my guitar tighter, lifting my hand in the air. Yeah. I fucking waved, like a toddler greeting a stranger in the supermarket. He slowly lifted his hand up in a little wave, and then his hand went to his soaked chest as he steadied his eyes on me. The last time we saw each other, he did All The Things to my body, but I wasn’t sure if it was as intense for him. There was no question now. I didn’t even need to ask him why he looked like he was about to reach forward and tug me against his wet chest. It was the same reason I wanted to let him. Teenage Maggie Vine was standing in front of Teenage Asher Reyes. Had any time passed? Shouldn’t rational people fill in the blanks of adulthood before picking up where they left off? Did the blanks even matter? The acknowledgment of how absolutely surreal and fucked-up it was that we were both able to do this to each other was a light switch to my soul. I felt my bony legs weakening. Asher Reyes was, as Train would say, back in my atmosphere.

I looked past his angular lines, trying to focus on anything else besides how magnetic he was. The living room was open to the kitchen, with the sun blaring through silk sheers—gorgeous cream beams against white brick. It was a blank canvas, unlike my apartment, which was a chaotic pile of messy patterns. I let my eyes float back to Asher, finding his attention fixed on the Gibson in my hand. He tilted his neck at me, surprised.

“That’s your dad’s guitar.”

All I could do was nod. How did he even remember— No. NO. NOPE. I shook my head and straightened my spine. I would not sob onto his ripped torso, telling him that my dad died two weeks after we broke up. I wanted to. I was dying to see if he still held me the same way. I hugged my guitar tighter to my chest—a reminder that my career was in both our hands. I didn’t come here to press play on a tape that had been paused for eighteen years. I came here for my career. If only he’d stop looking at me like he wanted to press play because I wanted to press play and dear God what would that film look like because I’d watch it every fucking day— No. NO. NOPE.

“You—” I left my mouth open, unsure how to finish the sentence I’d started. He took a step forward and stared at me harder, waiting. “You aren’t allowed to talk until after I sing,” I finished.

“Huh?” he said with a baffled laugh.

“That’s a word,” I said, my eyes darkening.

Asher fought a smile, miming stitching up his mouth and throwing away the key. He nodded to the door in the corner of the loft, which led outside to an expansive wraparound patio.

Thankfully, the outside breeze blew the lust out of my lungs as I folded my hair behind my ears, with wide eyes taking in Asher’s private patio. No one should have this amount of square footage to himself in Manhattan. It was the kind of space that made you think the impossible was possible. It was the romantic’s side of reality, and I loved it instantly. One side housed a gorgeous dining area with twinkle lights, while the other looked like a modern meditation garden atop faux grass—full of colorful poufs, candles, and low couches. Asher kept his mouth shut as he outstretched his palm, pointing to a lanky man standing by the patio’s edge. Asher’s co-producer turned toward us, tucking his phone into his jeans and adjusting his thick wire-frame glasses. He forced a flicker of a quick smile, as if being polite wasn’t his default.