27. Liam
27
LIAM
My stomach churns like a washing machine on high spin.
Each step back and forth across the worn carpet of my room feels like trudging through mud. Emma's tear-streaked face plays on a loop behind my eyelids, her accusing words echoing in my head.
My heart hammers against my ribs, a frantic drumbeat urging me to rush back to the cottage, to pull her into my arms and apologize for everything.
Except…what exactly would I apologize for? The fear? The primal, bone-deep terror that seizes me at the mere thought of…a permanent future with someone? Kids? I called them a curse, and the hurt in her eyes at that word still burns in my memory.
But the thought of having a child isn’t the only thing that scares me. No. The truth, the terrifying, exhilarating truth, is that I want Emma. More than I've ever wanted anyone in my life. And that, that right there, is the scariest part.
Because wanting someone, letting yourself need them, is a recipe for disaster. At least, that's what my past experiences have taught me. It always ends in pain, a soul-crushing, all-consuming pain that leaves you raw and exposed.
The pain I feel now, the tightness in my chest, the ache behind my eyes—that is just a taste of what could be waiting for me if I let myself continue to fall for Emma…because it won’t stop—I’d want her more, need her more—and then one day, she’ll grow bored of me. But we’ll fall out of love as rapidly as we’d fallen into it, and the only thing left would be disaster.
And we’ll probably be unable to separate easily because we’ll have kids, and that will only make us hate each other’s guts the more.
“Liam! Wanna head downstairs? Dinner’s ready.”
Dad’s home. “Fuck,” I cuss out loud. “I am so screwed.”
He’ll be insistent on making sure I have dinner. I want to skip it entirely, but I don’t want him to suspect something is wrong.
Running a hand through my hair, I stumble toward the bathroom, my reflection in the mirror a haggard mess. Get ahold of yourself, Liam . Jesus. This pain, this fear, it is temporary. I have to believe that.
Splashing cold water on my face, I bury my head under the faucet, letting the icy water cascade down my neck and chest. The shock jolts me momentarily, but the knot of worry in my stomach remains. Damn it. I am so screwed.
Dad’s gruff voice calling my name from downstairs breaks through the fog of my thoughts again. I yearn to crawl back into bed, pull the covers over my head, and shut the world out. But facing my dad, answering his questions with a straight face—that is a challenge I can't avoid.
Drying my face with a towel, I take a deep breath and head downstairs. The second I walk into the kitchen, my dad's keen eyes meet mine. “Everything alright, son?” he asks, his brow furrowed in concern.
“Yeah, fine,” I mumble, shoving my hands into my pockets. Fine. Right.
He sets a steaming plate of food in front of me, the aroma of grilled chicken and roasted vegetables filling the air. The smell usually makes my stomach grumble, but today, the only thing churning is my insides.
“Wedding stuff coming along?” he asks, settling into his chair across from me.
I force myself to take a bite of chicken, the taste bland on my tongue. “Yeah,” I mumble around the mouthful of food. “Just finalizing some last-minute details.”
We eat in a mostly comfortable silence for a few moments. Comfortable, except for the elephant-sized worry sitting between us.
“So,” my dad begins, his voice laced with a hint of amusement, “tell me more about this bridesmaid, Emma. You seem to be spending a lot of time with her lately.”
The question catches me off guard. I hadn't expected him to pick up on it. “We're just working together on the wedding,” I say defensively. “Nothing more.”
He raises a skeptical eyebrow. “Working together, huh? Sounds like a convenient excuse for something else.”
A flush creeps up my neck. “Dad, it's not like that,” I protest. But even as I say the words, I feel a flicker of doubt.
“Look, son,” he says, his voice softening, “I'm not trying to pry. But you've never been one to spend so much extra time with someone you weren't interested in.”
He has a point. But can he really understand what is happening here? The precarious dance between desire and fear, the terrifying weight of wanting something more?
“It's…complicated,” I admit, the words tumbling out in a rush. “She's…great. Funny, smart, passionate about her work…”
My dad chuckles, a warm, knowing sound. “Sounds like you're describing someone you're more than just 'working with,' son.”
I avoid his gaze, staring down at my plate. “It's not that simple,” I mumble.
“Life rarely is,” he says with a sigh. “But sometimes, we make things more complicated than they need to be.”
He falls silent for a moment, then speaks again, his voice gentle. “You know, Liam,” he begins, “the first time I met your mom, there was this…spark. A feeling I couldn't quite explain. It scared the living daylights out of me, too.”
A flicker of surprise shoots through me. My dad, scared? It is a concept I hadn't considered.
“Love,” he continues, a smile gracing his lips, “it can be terrifying. It makes you vulnerable, opens you up to the possibility of great joy, but also…great pain.”
“Exactly!” I exclaim, a touch of desperation in my voice. “That's what I'm scared of, Dad. The pain.”
He leans back in his chair, steepling his fingers. “There's no guarantee in life, son. You could play it safe, avoid love altogether, and still get hurt. But the thing is, the potential for joy, for connection, for something truly beautiful… It makes the risk worth taking, wouldn't you say?”
I think about his words, the image of Emma's tear-streaked face flashing in my mind. Love, with all its potential for heartbreak, is that what I am running from? Is the fear of losing her greater than the joy of having her?
“But what about the consequences?” I counter, my voice barely above a whisper. “What about the kids? They're the ones who get hurt the most when things fall apart.”
The weight of my own childhood, the fractured relationship with my parents, hangs heavy in the air. That is the pain I am so desperately trying to avoid, the pain I never want to inflict on anyone else.
My dad sighs, a flicker of sadness crossing his features. “Look, son,” he says, his voice serious, “what happened between your mom and me… That wasn't because of love. It was because of a lot of other things, things we both messed up.”
He pauses, then continues, his voice softer now. “Love, on its own, isn't a curse. It doesn't have to end in pain. But it does take work, effort, and a willingness to communicate, to compromise. And yes, sometimes, even with all that, things don't work out.”
“But wouldn't it be better to avoid the risk altogether?” I persist, clinging to my fear like a life raft.
He shakes his head. “Maybe in the short term. But in the long run, a life without love… Well, it's a pretty empty existence, son. Believe me, I know.”
“Because you still love mom after all these years?”
He sighs and picks up his fork. “Because I experienced both edges of love’s sword.”
“Love is a scary thing,” I say, almost to myself. “It only leaves a person vulnerable to greater pain.”
Dad chuckles. “True, but a lot of things come with risks. The amazing feeling of love makes the risk worth it.”
“Why?” I ask, genuinely curious.
“It’s powerful to truly love a human being,” he says, his voice soft. “It’s liberating and painful. It’s both sides of a coin.”
“But it’s not just about the lovers,” I argue. “It’s about the consequences that the fruits of that love have to suffer, like I did when you and Mom broke up. Love will never be enough…and that’s why I’d rather avoid putting those I love through the pain that comes after the dopamine called love is gone.”
He looks at me sadly. “Liam, you’re making a mistake.”
I stand abruptly, my chair scraping against the floor. “I’m sorry, Dad. I can’t do this.” I leave the table and storm into my bedroom, falling onto the bed and holding the pillow over my face as my heart races.
The conversation with my dad lingers in my mind. His words echo, but my fear overshadows them. I try to block out the image of Emma’s tear-streaked face, but it keeps coming back, gnawing at me.
Just over a month, and I’m already making her cry.
I toss and turn, the knot in my stomach tightening. I don’t want to hurt her, but I don’t want to hurt myself, either. I’ve seen what love can do—how it can destroy people. My parents’ marriage was a battlefield, and I was the casualty. I can’t put Emma through that. I won’t.
But even as I lie here, trying to convince myself that I’m doing the right thing, a small voice inside me whispers that maybe, just maybe, I’m wrong. That maybe love is worth the risk. That maybe Emma is worth the risk.
I roll over, staring at the ceiling. The ache in my chest won’t go away. I don’t know what to do. All I know is that I miss her already. I miss her smile, her laugh, the way she looks at me like I’m the only person in the world. And I hate myself for pushing her away.
I close my eyes, trying to find some semblance of peace, but it eludes me. My mind is a whirlwind of thoughts, my heart a battlefield of emotions. And in the midst of it all, one thing remains clear: I love Emma. And I’m terrified of what that means.
The low hum of conversation and the clinking of glasses wash over me as I push open the bar door. The smoky air feels like a thick blanket, and the blaring music assaults my ears after a twelve-hour shift fueled by stale coffee and sheer willpower. Sleep is a distant dream, my mind replaying the events of yesterday in a relentless loop.
I spot Damon at a corner table, surrounded by a group of boisterous guys. He looks up, a grin splitting his face as he catches sight of me. “Liam! The man of the hour finally arrives!” he booms, gesturing for me to join them.
I walk over, fatigue weighing heavily on my limbs. Despite the exhaustion, a sliver of a smile tugs at the corner of my lips. Good. Distraction. That's what I need right now. Anything to drown out the chaotic symphony playing in my head.
Reaching the table, I pull Damon into a hug, his familiar scent a momentary anchor in the storm brewing inside me. “Hey,” I mumble, forcing a lightness to my voice.
“Dude, where have you been? We've been waiting ages!” chimes in a guy with a shaved head and a handlebar mustache.
“Work got a little crazy,” I apologize, offering a weak smile. “Had to tie up some loose ends before this…celebration.”
“Loose ends, huh?” another guy with a mischievous glint in his eyes nudges Damon playfully. “Best man duties? Or something else?”
Damon chuckles, a knowing look passing between them. “Just wedding stuff,” he says, patting me on the back. “Don't worry, Liam's all business these days.”
I manage a laugh, the sound brittle and strained even to my own ears. Business. Yeah, that's what I am these days. All business and zero sleep.
Damon launches into introductions, rattling off the names of his friends as I shake their hands. Most of them are colleagues, a couple are childhood buddies, but all of them sport friendly smiles and booming laughter. A welcome change from the turmoil churning inside me.
“Alright, guys,” Damon declares, once the introductions are done. “Tonight, we celebrate the end of an era! No more single life for this man!”
He raises his beer in a toast, and the rest of them follow suit. I clink my bottle against theirs, the cool glass momentarily numbing the knot of anxiety in my stomach. Tonight, I will be the best friend. The supportive shoulder. The man who is absolutely, positively thrilled for his friend.
And for the next few hours, I play the part. We down beers, share stories, laugh at dumb jokes. I tell embarrassing stories about Damon—with his permission, of course—and they retaliate in kind. It is a facade, a carefully crafted mask I wear to hide the turmoil within.
But the act, however convincing, can't erase the emptiness that gnaws at me. The boisterous laughter feels hollow, the beer tastes dull on my tongue. Everywhere I look, I see her—Emma's smile, Emma's laugh, Emma's eyes glittering with a mixture of hurt and anger. The other women in the bar, no matter how beautiful, pale in comparison.
The night wears on, and the haze of alcohol starts to settle over me. It’s a welcome numbness, a temporary escape from the thoughts that plague me. A beautiful woman with cascading blonde hair and a figure that could stop traffic sidles up to me, her crimson lips curved into a seductive smile.
“Hey there, stranger,” she purrs, batting her eyelashes at me. “Haven’t seen you around here before.”
“Just in town for a friend’s wedding,” I reply, taking a sip of my drink.
“Oh, a wedding. Are you next in line?” she teases, her fingers lightly grazing my arm.
I shake my head, pulling away slightly. “Not really…”
She pouts. “I guess I can’t whip you off to the altar immediately. But we can start somewhere. You look like you could use some fun. Care to buy me a drink?”
Confident. Sassy. Bold and beautiful. In the not-so-distant past, I’d have immediately taken an interest in this woman, but now, I feel nothing.
I force a polite smile, the emptiness in my chest echoing in my voice. “Thanks, but I'm good.”
Her smile falters for a moment, then returns, a touch of challenge in her eyes. “Come on, you told me you’re not yet taken.”
“Not exactly,” I admit, my voice low. “I’m not really available, either.”
Before I can respond, Damon walks up, throwing an arm around my shoulders. “Back off, Jenny. My sister’s making him an honest man.”
She raises an eyebrow, looking between us. “Oh, really? Good for her.” She smirks, a clear challenge sparking in her eyes. “Well, if things ever change,” she says, handing me a slip of paper with a phone number scribbled on it, “you know where to find me.”
With a wink, she sashays away, leaving me staring at the piece of paper in my hand. It is useless. A meaningless token from a meaningless encounter. The only number I want right now isn't scrawled on a flimsy piece of paper. The only number I want is etched in my memory, a constant reminder of the mess I've created.
I crumple the piece of paper, and Damon turns to me, grinning. “Can’t even enjoy a bachelor party without someone testing your faith, huh?”
I laugh, but it sounds hollow even to my own ears. “Seems like it.”
Damon studies me, his smile fading. “You’ve changed, Liam. Emma’s good for you.”
I grumble, taking another sip of my drink. “Everyone seems to want to tell me that these days.”
He chuckles. “Well, maybe we should stop bothering you about it.” He claps me on the back. “It’s clear that you both love each other, and that, along with the truth, is enough to figure out all of the rest.”
“You think so?”
Damon grins. “I know so. Come on, let’s get another round.”
I nod, but as I nurse my drink, I realize I don’t even feel the urge to flirt with other women. Before, I would have had my eyes out for the most beautiful lady in the room, but now, every woman I see is somehow compared to Emma and falls short. She’s captured my body and heart, and I’m powerless against it.
“Ready to drink to your fill tonight?” I say to Damon, raising my glass.
“To my last night of single life,” he cheers, clinking his glass against mine. But I’m not celebrating. I’m drinking to forget. I down the shot, feeling the burn as it slides down my throat. The alcohol dulls the edges of my thoughts, but it can’t erase them entirely.
The night goes on, a blur of laughter and music. I keep up the facade, playing the part of the best man, but inside I’m a wreck. I can’t stop thinking about Emma, how her face lit up when she smiled, and how her eyes filled with tears when I pushed her away. I want to make it right, but I don’t know how.
The party starts to break up around eleven, and we say our goodbyes. I step outside, the cool night air hitting my face. I take a deep breath, trying to clear my head. The stars are bright, the sky clear. It’s a beautiful night, but all I can think about is Emma.
I pull out my phone, my fingers hovering over her number. I want to call her, to hear her voice, but I don’t know what to say. I owe her the truth at least, but it doesn’t sound right to tell her on the phone, on the eve of her brother and best friend’s wedding. I shouldn’t allow my mess to smear Damon and June’s wedding. Besides, I need to see her in person, explain my actions and apologize properly while I can see the look on her face. I pocket the phone and start walking, my mind a whirlwind of emotions.
I’ll figure this out and find a way to make things right with her. But for now, all I can do is keep moving forward, one step at a time.