17. Liam
17
LIAM
Birdie puked. There’s vomit on her shoes, and she’s doubled over, struggling to catch her breath, the remnants of whatever composure she had left splattered on the pavement.
Not exactly an elegant exit, but at least she made an impression.
Tears are streaming down her cheeks, her breaths coming in shallow gasps, and I wish I could wave a hand and take this moment away for her. Erase it, rewind it, do anything to spare her from this.
For a moment, I just stand there, trying to figure out the best approach. She’s already embarrassed enough, and the last thing she probably wants is me charging in like a bull in a china shop.
But she needs me, needs something steady to hold on to, so I push forward.
“Birdie, baby,” I murmur, keeping my voice low and gentle as I crouch down beside her. “Hey, you okay?”
Her watery eyes dart to mine, filled with both misery and mortification. She shakes her head faintly, and I can see the effort it’s taking for her to stay upright.
“M—migraine,” she stutters out.
“Okay,” I say softly, inching closer without crowding her. “Let’s get you sorted out, yeah? No rush, no judgment. Just me and you.”
She wipes at her eyes with the back of her hand, smearing what’s left of her makeup. “They think ... I’m a mess?”
I shake my head, already reaching for her arm to help her up. “Nah, it’s not like you planned to projectile vomit all over the sidewalk.”
She lets out a wet, shaky laugh. “Un ... helpful.”
“Yeah, I’m not exactly great at this stuff,” I admit, sliding my arm around her waist to steady her. “But I can be good at getting you out of here. Let’s go.”
Birdie leans into me, her body trembling. The migraine’s clearly wrecking her, and I don’t know how long these things usually last, but I know enough to get her anywhere other than here.
“Okay, okay,” I mutter as I scan the street. “Let’s just get you to my car.”
“Your . . . dad.”
“We don’t need to explain anything to my dad or Claire right now,” I say gently, shifting my grip to support more of her weight. “You just need to lie down.”
She shakes her head weakly. “But they’ll won—”
“Screw them,” I cut in, keeping my tone firm but soft enough not to jar her. “They’ll live. You’re the priority right now, Birdie. You’re about to collapse out here. Let’s get you somewhere you can rest.”
She hesitates, then nods, her eyes closing as if the simple act of agreeing takes too much energy. I guide her carefully toward my car, keeping my movements slow and steady, making sure she doesn’t have to do more than shuffle along.
When we reach the car, I open the passenger door and ease her inside, tilting the seat back so she can lie down. She covers her eyes with her arm, trying to block out even the dim streetlights.
“Just breathe,” I say, crouching beside her and brushing a stray strand of hair from her face. “We’ll figure everything else out later. How’s the pain?”
“Better,” she mumbles, her voice thick with exhaustion. “I just need ... dark. Quiet.”
“Got it.” I shut the door gently, then slide into the driver’s seat. “We’ll be at my place in ten. I’ve got blackout curtains and aspirin. And you can sleep it off there, okay?”
“Okay,” she whispers, her breath hitching.
I reach over, squeezing her hand briefly before pulling away. I’m not good at physical or emotional comfort, but if I can get her through this, maybe that’ll be enough. My chest tightens as I feel her pain, and it’s like there’s a weight pressing on me, freezing up my words.
Birdie’s strong, but that doesn’t mean she has to be invincible all the time. She’s always trying to prove that she’s got it together, but she deserves someone to lean on when things get hard. Even now, she’s trying to apologize, trying to hold it together.
She doesn’t have to do that, not with me.
I grip the wheel a little tighter, focusing on the road ahead, each turn bringing us closer to my place. The hum of the engine and the rhythm of the tires on the pavement steady my thoughts. Right now, that’s what matters—getting her somewhere safe, quiet, where she can rest.
It hits me that I could’ve taken her back to her own place—probably should’ve. But for whatever reason, my mind jumped to this, to bringing her to my house. Maybe because I didn’t want her to be alone, or maybe because I didn’t want to leave her. Either way, this felt like the only option that made sense.
We pull up to my place, and I cut the engine. Chase is gone for the night—probably off at some party, making the most of his Friday. That’s one less thing to worry about. I unbuckle my seat belt and turn to Birdie.
She’s already trying to push herself up, but her body sags and trembles with exhaustion. “Hey, easy,” I say as I rush to her side. “Let’s take it slow.”
I help her out of the car, and we pause on the porch together. She needs to catch her breath, to steady herself. So, for a moment, I just let her lean against me. It’s quiet, grounding, and I hope it’s enough to give her even a sliver of peace.
When her breathing evens out, I glance toward the bench tucked against the porch railing. “Come on, let’s sit for a second,” I murmur, easing her down onto it. She leans back, her shoulders slumping.
“I’m gonna take these off before we go in,” I add softly, crouching down to unbuckle the strap on her shoe. She shifts forward, fumbling with the clasp herself, but I gently bat her hands away. “I got it, don’t worry.”
She lets out a tired huff. “So embarrassing.”
“It’s really not,” I reply simply, sliding her puke-stained shoes off and setting them aside by the door. “It’s life. Happens to the best of us.”
Once she’s free of them, I slip an arm around her shoulders and guide her carefully inside. The living room is dimly lit, and the quiet hum of the fridge from the kitchen fills the space. Chase is gone for the night—thankfully—so the house feels peaceful, still.
I steer her toward the bathroom, grabbing a little Dixie cup and filling it with mouthwash. “Here,” I say, holding it out to her. “Swish this around. Might help with the taste.”
She accepts it, her fingers brushing mine briefly, and takes a shaky sip. As she leans over the sink, rinsing her mouth, her short hair falls forward, strands slipping into her face. Instinctively, I reach out, brushing it back and holding it gently out of the way.
Her shoulders stiffen for a moment, but she doesn’t pull away. When she straightens, dabbing her lips with a tissue, her eyes meet mine, wide and searching.
“Thanks,” she says softly, her voice raw and small.
I drop my hand and step back, giving her space but staying close enough to steady her if she needs it. “Anytime,” I say, and there’s a tightness in my chest I can’t quite shake. “Come on. Let’s get you to bed.”
I guide her toward my room, knowing it’ll be more comfortable for her than the couch. The blackout curtains are already drawn, and I quickly cut the lights. The room is quiet and dim, the perfect retreat for someone who just wants the world to stop spinning.
“Just rest for a while,” I say, helping her to the bed. She crawls under the blankets, pulling them tight around her shoulders, and I slip out to the kitchen. A moment later, I return with a glass of water and a couple of aspirin. Propping up a few pillows behind her, I hand her the glass and place the pills on the nightstand.
“It’s not much,” I murmur, “but it might help.”
She takes the water with trembling hands, and I watch as she settles deeper into the blankets, almost disappearing beneath them, like she’s trying to cocoon herself from the weight of the night.
“I’ll be right outside if you need anything.”
I step back, lingering in the doorway for a moment. There’s something about seeing her there, curled up in my bed, that tugs at something deep inside of me. It’s not just about wanting to take care of her—it’s the quiet trust she’s giving me, even at her lowest.
I pull the door mostly shut, leaving a small gap in case she needs me, and head back to the living room alone. I sink onto the couch, staring at the ceiling as the night stretches on, the sound of her steady breathing faintly reaching me through the walls.
Eventually, I grab my phone, the glow of the screen almost too harsh after the dim light of the room. A flurry of texts from the family group chat stares back at me.
Mom
Where did you disappear to?
Dad
Is it your personal mission to embarrass us?
Do you even understand the importance of appearances at an event like this?
I don’t have the energy for them right now. Not after everything tonight. With a sigh, I power down the phone, tossing it onto the coffee table before grabbing a sudoku book and a pen.
There’s something soothing about mind puzzles, about numbers fitting together in a predictable way—logic with rules I can actually rely on. Usually, they’re enough to clear my head, to give me a sense of control when everything else feels off-kilter.
But as I scan the grid, the house feels oppressively quiet. The steady hum of the fan does little to fill the silence, and no matter how hard I try to focus, my thoughts keep drifting. All I can hear is Birdie’s soft, pained breaths from earlier, echoing faintly in my mind.
Hours pass. I’ve filled out a few pages, but the quiet continues to press in, heavy and unrelenting. I try turning on the TV for background noise, but it feels too loud, too intrusive, so I switch it off again.
By the time I glance at the clock, it’s well past midnight. My eyes are heavy, and I’m half-asleep, sprawled across the couch with the sudoku book still open on my chest, the pencil dangling from my fingertips.
That’s when I hear the soft shuffle of footsteps behind me.
I turn, blinking against the dim light, and there she is—my Birdie, standing at the end of the hallway. Her short hair is mussed from sleep, sticking up in every direction, and her cheek is marked with faint pillow lines. She’s wrapped in one of my oversized hoodies, the sleeves swallowing her hands.
“Hey,” I say softly, sitting up and setting the book aside. “Shouldn’t you be resting?”
She shrugs, fingers tugging at the hem. “Couldn’t stay asleep. Head’s still pounding, but it’s a little better.”
I stand and cross the room to her. “You need anything? Water? More aspirin?”
“No, just . . .” She pauses, her voice dropping. “Didn’t want to be alone.”
The words hit me square in the gut, and for a moment, all I can do is stare. Not only is she embarrassed and sick, but she’s also lonely. It’s the last thing I want her to feel.
I reach out, resting a hand lightly on her shoulder. “You’re not. Come sit with me.”
I guide her to the couch, grabbing a blanket and draping it over her as she sinks into the cushions. She curls up against me, tucking her legs beneath her.
“You okay here?” I ask, my voice low.
She nods, her eyes already half-closed. “Yeah. Thanks, Liam.”
I don’t say anything else, just grab the sudoku book again and pretend to focus on the numbers. But out of the corner of my eye, I watch as she drifts back into a fitful sleep, her breathing evening out little by little.
In a weird way, this feels exactly like where we were supposed to end up tonight. Not at the gallery, not surrounded by strangers, but here—curled up on the couch together after a long, messy night. And though I’d rather she not be sick, there’s something oddly comforting in being the one she leans on.
The one to make her feel safe.