Chapter 17 #2
Liam stands in the doorway, barefoot, clad in a white T-shirt, a departure from his typical black on black.
The white fabric makes his tattoos stand out in contrast. My eyes dip lower to find a pair of gray sweatpants.
Pausing, I send up a thank you to whoever invented gray sweatpants and I step into his house, setting Mutt at my feet.
Being face-to-face again makes the air feel thin and the urge to hug him is a physical ache.
My eyes do quick inventory, checking for signs that he’s sleeping and eating.
The only thing I see are shadows under his eyes that weren’t there the last time I saw him.
They’re so faint you probably wouldn’t notice if you weren’t paying attention.
I want to wrap myself around him and ask Are we okay?
Are you okay? Liam, reading the question in my eyes, gives a singular nod and pulls me into his chest. I hold tight, arms around his waist, willing him to hear without words how much I care about his well-being.
With my cheek pressed to his shoulder, his scent hits me all at once—cedar and tobacco—and I want to cry at the familiarity.
“Is everything okay?” he asks, his voice a low vibration that seems to settle right under my skin. We break apart, and he sweeps an arm, inviting me into the dim amber glow of his living room.
“I have so much to tell you, but first, what is that smell? Are you cooking?”
Liam grimaces. “Define cooking.”
I follow him into the kitchen and he gestures toward the microwave, which is currently lit up and humming. “I’m about thirty seconds away from a pepperoni Hot Pocket. It’s a culinary masterpiece. Want one?”
My stomach growls in response and I laugh a quick huff. “I think a Hot Pocket is exactly what my soul needs right now.”
He grins, that slow, lopsided tilt of his mouth that always makes my pulse do a nervous little dance and grabs a second one from the freezer.
While mine cooks, Liam leans a hip against the counter and I do the same, mirroring his stance to fill him in on everything that has transpired.
When I show him the news article from my aunt, he sucks a breath in through his teeth.
“Shit. This is messed up.”
“That’s one way to put it. He’ll never see freedom again.”
“And how do you feel about that?” Liam asks. “Honestly.”
I tell Liam about that dizzying moment back at the apartment, when it hit me that fear for my mom will no longer be part of my everyday life.
As I talk, Liam’s eyes go soft and he wraps an arm around my waist, tugging me flush against his side.
His lips press to my temple, lingering there, and my eyes fall closed as warmth blooms in my chest, heart flipping over itself in a clumsy, happy dance.
The microwave beeps, cutting through the moment and Liam releases me, though the warmth of him remains from that tiny kiss to my skin.
He hands me my plate and we head to the living room where we end up sitting criss-cross on the floor, our plates, two cokes on the coffee table and a can of Pringles in front of us.
Mutt wedges himself between us, hoping for crumbs.
It’s been years since I ate a Hot Pocket. It’s probably stuffed full of unnatural preservatives but tonight it might as well be a five-star meal, the processed tomatoey goodness burning my tongue causing me to gasp out loud. Doing a reverse blow, I suck in air to soothe the burn.
When every last bite has been consumed, Liam stands and gathers our plates, returning minutes later holding a plastic bag and a small pack of rolling papers.
He lays it all out on the table and I find myself mesmerized by the dexterity of his fingers.
He is a musician, after all, but I’m impressed nevertheless.
He drops the leaves into the paper, his thumb and forefinger coaxing it into a perfect cone.
“How’d you learn to do this?”
“Practice,” he said, finally lifting his gaze. “Lots and lots of practice.” The amber light of the living room turns his eyes a muted olive, like the silver-green of willow leaves catching the moonlight. He looks at me, his eyes dropping to my mouth for a lingering second before meeting mine again.
Then he’s back working on the joint, tucking one edge of the paper in to close it up. His tongue darts out to lick the loose edge of the paper and he finishes by twisting the end and holds it up like a trophy.
“You ready to meet my dear friend Mary?” He pulls his lighter from his pocket, the hiss of the flame loud in the quiet room. “Ladies first.”
“Full disclosure,” I warn, accepting the joint. “I’ve never smoked before.”
Liam’s mouth curves. “Never?”
Feeling self-conscious, I focus on the joint in my hand. “Nope.”
He takes the joint back, fingers brushing mine in the exchange. “I’ll show you how.”
The orange flame meets the end and Liam takes a long draw, then he leans in, close enough for me to see every shade of green in his eyes, that never stray from mine. My cheeks go warm and the rest of me follows.
Liam exhales a thin silver curl of smoke that drifts toward my mouth, and on instinct my lips part.
“Breathe it in,” Liam says quietly.
The smoke is warm and faintly sweet as I suck it into my lungs. My pulse climbs into my throat and I’m acutely, painfully aware of how little space exists between us right now.
Liam pulls back, watching me. “Well?”
I let out a breath that’s half laugh, half something else entirely. “I think I need to try that myself.” I pluck the joint from his fingers with more confidence than I feel. “It only counts if I’m the one actually doing it. Bucket list rules.”
“Bucket list rules,” he agrees.
I bring it to my lips and inhale, managing to hold it a full second before a strangled cough rips through me. I beat my chest, handing it back with watering eyes.
Liam takes a smooth, practiced hit and says nothing. But he’s smiling.
When it’s my turn again, I’m ready. The warmth hits my chest but no cough follows
“This,” I whisper, staring up at the ceiling as the edges of the room begin to glow, “was a very good idea.”
Liam glances over, a smirk on his face and he takes another hit of the joint. “Low-key illegal ideas usually are.”