If Only by A. J. Pine Page B

hours ago, but now I hold fast to the small space in the booth, his stare planting roots in my chest.
    “I broke a glass I was washing, took a little bit of my hand with it. Nothing a few stitches can’t take care of.” Hailey intercepts his hand as he pulls it back from Griffin, covering the bandage with soft kisses. I hurt him, but she gets to fix him.
    My stomach turns at the lie and the seriousness of the wound. Only because I know the truth do I hear the betrayal in the waiver of his voice. With the volume level slowly increasing, neither Griffin nor Hailey detect the falsehood. Griffin responds with a generic, “That’s too bad, man,” and the table’s conversation turns to something else.
    Noah takes the easy way out. It’s better than explaining why I knocked him to the ground outside of class. Because the why is mine, not his. Excluding me from the equation leaves no room for questions. Ignoring the encounter altogether makes life easier for everyone. But my throat tightens at Noah’s choice to look me in the eye before the lie.
    “I’m getting us a round of shots!” I back out of the booth and away from the table as the ridiculous words leave my mouth. I don’t do shots. Never have. But I need an excuse to move and something more than cider to dull my senses.
    Elaina finishes an order as I approach the bar. After pocketing her generous tip, she places two shot glasses in front of me.
    “Who is that, getting his face sucked off by the blondie?”
    I slump onto a barstool. “The reason my answers about Griffin sound like questions.”
    “Okay. We need shots.”
    I nod, willing to do anything to keep Noah from getting to me.
    Elaina pours us two straight shots of vodka. I should tell her I’ve never had vodka before. I should tell her that other than watered-down American college beer, snakebites top my list of strong beverage. Vodka may affect me more than a gentle combination of lager and cider.
    Ignoring my inner monologue as it screams in wild protest, I pick up the shot glass and say “Fuck it,” before downing it in one gulp.
    My eyes burn, as does my throat. Elaina’s empty shot glass sits on the bar, and she laughs at me.
    “You have never had vodka.”
    “No!” It comes out as a whisper, probably because I’ve burned off my vocal cords. I clear my throat and restore some semblance of sound. “And don’t lecture me on drinking right now, not when I have to walk back to a table where a guy I wanted didn’t want me. Be on my side, please.”
    She crosses her arms and stares up toward the ceiling, contemplating her reply.
    “Elaina!” I whine.
    “Yes. I will be your ally. And I start by refusing to serve you anything else that comes in a shot glass.”
    I am grateful for both of these things.
    “Fine,” I agree. “But I need to bring a round back for the table.”
    Elaina rolls her eyes, but she obliges, making enough shots for everyone except me.
    “I make you lemon drops, not too strong. It’s still so early.”
    I lean across the bar and kiss her on the cheek. “Thank you, ally. Please come over to the table when it slows down.”
    She pushes me away, and I spin back toward the table, tray of lemon drop shots in hand. Whoa. Perhaps I spun too quickly because the room is now slanting ahead of me. Was it this slanty when we got here?
    “Oy, I’ll grab those from ya, lass.”
    Duncan whizzes by, relieving me of my tray-carrying duties.
    I scan across the slanty room to our booth, but don’t see Griffin. In fact, the booth sits empty. Griffin has no doubt joined the mob of Fyfe residents that stands around Duncan, the tray of shots deposited onto a high table at the other end of the bar.
    Good . I’d like to sit down. My first step toward the sanctuary of the booth takes me sideways. Hmm. Definitely wanted to go straight.
    An arm wraps around my waist, steadying me.
    “What do you say we get you a glass of water?”
    The deep, soothing voice sports a boyish rasp, and I smile