Chapter 9 Liam
The walk to downtown Ashford took fifteen minutes, and I spent all of them trying to convince myself this was what I wanted.
The last week had been weird.
Joint practices were running smooth—both teams at Kingswell's boathouse every morning, coaches mixing boat configurations. I'd been in a quad with Evan and two Kingswell guys on Tuesday, back in the double with Thompson on Wednesday. Different rhythms, different chemistry. Decent enough.
I hadn't been paired with Alex again.
The coaches kept rotating the partnerships. But I'd see him across the boathouse bay—carrying oars, helping launch someone else's boat, strapping into an erg. We'd make eye contact for half a second, then look away.
We hadn't talked since we rowed together.
Acting normal around him was exhausting. Pretending my chest didn't tighten when I heard his voice across the dock. Pretending I wasn't hyperaware of exactly where he was at all times—which boat, which erg, which corner of the locker room.
If I'd just ended it with Emily, I could actually feel okay about trying to talk to him. Maybe even hook up again. But no—I folded because I was too scared to hurt her. Too damn scared to tell the truth.
And I still hadn't told him about Emily. Every morning I told myself I'd just do it. Every morning I didn't because I couldn't close the door on him.
I couldn't stop wanting Alex.
But tonight wasn't about Alex. Tonight was about Emily. About trying and proving to both of us that this could work.
Why?
Maybe because it was safe. Because it was a good cover—this fake life I was living. So I wouldn't have to admit how much I wanted the feel of Alex's warm skin against mine, his body pressed against me, his mouth on—
Fuck.
All this because I couldn't admit that.
I found a film playing at the Starlight—a small indie theater downtown. The Salt of Tears, a French film about a guy torn between different women. Not exactly subtle, but Emily had mentioned back in September that she wanted to see it. Something about the cinematography being beautiful.
I remembered… that had to count for something.
The theater was tucked between a vintage bookstore and a coffee shop on Main Street. Velvet curtains, creaky floors, the smell of popcorn and history.
Emily was waiting outside. Jeans and a dark green sweater that made her eyes look lighter. Hair down, curling slightly at the ends. She smiled when she saw me—genuine, hopeful.
"Hey," she said.
"Hey." I kissed her cheek, quick and easy. "You look nice."
"Thanks." She tucked her hair behind her ear. "I can't believe you remembered I wanted to see this."
"Of course I did."
We went inside. Tiny lobby—worn red carpet and a concession stand that hadn't been updated since the 1970s. An older guy with a gray beard stood behind the counter, reading a paperback.
"Two for Salt of Tears?" I asked.
"Seven-thirty showing. Twenty-four dollars." He didn't look up from his book.
I pulled out my wallet. Emily reached for her purse, but I shook my head. "I got it."
The guy finally looked up, took my card, processed it with a machine that made concerning noises. "Theater three. Down the hall, last door on the right."
Emily was already at the concession stand. "Gummy bears?" I asked.
She turned and smiled—acknowledging the fact that I knew her favorite. I'd seen her eat them during study sessions, picking out the red ones first.
Medium popcorn, Coke for her, Sprite for me. The bearded guy moved slowly, scooping popcorn into a red-and-white striped bag. Emily stood close, her shoulder brushing mine.
This was nice. The kind of date we used to have before everything got complicated.
"Liam Moore?"
I turned.
A girl from my anatomy class stood near the entrance, holding hands with another girl I didn't recognize. Olivia something. Front row. Always asked too many questions.
"Hey, Olivia."
"I didn't know you were into French cinema." She looked genuinely surprised.
"First time. Emily wanted to see it." I gestured toward the poster.
"Salt of Tears is supposed to be really good." She squeezed her girlfriend's hand. "We're seeing the documentary next door."
"Cool. Enjoy."
They walked past us toward the other theater. Fingers interlaced. Completely comfortable. Natural. Like it was nothing.
I watched them disappear around the corner.
That could be me and Alex.
Walking into a theater together and holding hands in public. Not hiding. Just... being. It wasn't that big of a deal for them. But it was impossible for me.
"You okay?" Emily's voice pulled me back.
"Yeah. Fine." I grabbed the popcorn. "Ready?"
She studied my face for a second too long, then took her Coke and gummy bears.
Theater three was smaller than I expected. Maybe forty seats, half occupied. We found spots in the back row, off to the side—the kind of seats where you could see the screen but felt separate from everyone else.
The lights were still up. Previews for other indie films played on screen. Emily settled in next to me, our arms touching on the shared armrest. She opened her gummy bears and popped a red one in her mouth.
"Thanks for this." She smiled.
"Of course."
"No, I mean it." Something earnest in her expression. "You've been trying. I can tell. And I appreciate it."
The guilt hit harder than it should have.
Because yeah, I was trying. But I was also lying to her. About Alex, the closet, and, of course, Saturday night.
"I want this to work," I said.
Lie.
"Me too."
The lights dimmed and the title appeared in white text. Le sel des larmes.
Emily settled against me, her head on my shoulder, her hand finding mine in the darkness. I laced my fingers through hers and tried to focus on the screen.
The film was all muted colors and long shots of French countryside. The dialogue was sparse, heavy with subtext. The main character moved between different women, wanting all of them, unable to choose, slowly destroying everything.
Real fucking subtle.
Emily's thumb traced circles on the back of my hand. On screen, the main character kissed one of the women in a kitchen. It was all slow and intimate the way I wanted to kiss Alex.
Emily shifted closer, and her hand moved from mine to my thigh. She tilted her head up and kissed me.
Soft at first. Just lips. The way we'd kissed a thousand times before.
I kissed her back because that's what you do. Because we were on a date. Because we were trying.
She deepened it. Her hand moved higher on my thigh. Her tongue touched my lower lip and I opened my mouth, let her in.
Nothing.
No heat spreading through my chest. No pressure building low. No response where there should have been one.
Just guilt.
Emily's hand moved higher, confident now, expecting to find me… hard. Her palm pressed against my jeans and—
Nothing.
She hesitated. Her kiss faltered for half a second before she tried again, pressing harder, like maybe she could coax my body into cooperating.
It wouldn't.
My body knew what I was trying so hard to deny. Knew who I actually wanted and that less than a week ago I'd been with Alex and there had been no hesitation, no question, just pure want that I couldn't control.
Emily pulled back slightly. Breath warm against my mouth. "You okay?"
"Yeah." Automatic. "Just—tired from practice."
"We can stop if you want."
"No, it's fine. I'm just—" I swallowed. "Nervous. In public."
Even in the dark, I could see the hurt she tried to hide behind understanding.
"Okay," she said. "It's okay."
On screen, the main character was arguing with one of the women. French dialogue I couldn't follow, subtitles I wasn't reading.
Emily ate a gummy bear. Then another. And another. Not because she wanted them but because she needed something to do with her hands.
I stared at the screen without seeing it.
I care about her. I'm attracted to her. So why can't my body just fucking cooperate?
I knew why.
Because every time I closed my eyes, I could feel Alex's hands on me, hear the sounds he'd made, see the way he'd looked at me like I was everything.
Because Emily was safe and normal, and made sense.
And Alex was everything I actually wanted.
I shoved the thought down, grabbed a handful of popcorn I didn't want, and chewed without tasting.
We sat there in the darkness. Not touching. Both watching the film without seeing it. The story of a man who couldn't choose playing out in front of us like an accusation.
Emily didn't reach for my hand again.
I didn't try to take hers.
And the weight of what I couldn't say pressed down on my chest—heavy enough to hurt, too heavy to carry much longer.
My body had already made a choice even if my brain refused to admit it.
But I didn't know what to do.
So I did nothing.