Chapter 20 #2
Liam’s ahead of me, and when he stops abruptly, my nose catches on the bone of his shoulder. He spins, cradling my head to his chest.
“Paige.” His body is shaking with laughter. “There’s a terrifying creature behind me.”
“Oh my God!” I stiffen, trying to peek over his shoulder. “Is it a spider?”
“You wish. Are you prepared?”
“I mean, as much as I can be?”
Liam steps away, revealing—
“Is that a fish tank?” I ask.
“Embedded in the wall of our bathroom,” he adds.
It’s the size of an elementary school child’s at-home aquarium, complete with neon rocks and plastic sea greenery. There are a few innocuous fish swimming about, but also, the oddest-looking squid-like creature I’ve ever laid eyes on. It’s glaring at us like we’re property invaders.
I burst out laughing. “I miss our ceiling mirror.”
“Do you want me to ask if they’ve got a land-dwellers-only room available?”
I shake my head, smiling at him. “I’m so tired. And I think these guys are going to mind their own business.”
We brush our teeth, turning off the bathroom light only to discover the tank has its own glow. In bed we do some googling, which reveals the tentacled thing to most likely be a cuttlefish.
“That’s what the plaque on our door said,” Liam reminds me. “Cuttle time.”
“Why is there an aquarium-themed hotel in Salt Lake City?” I whisper.
“Just be glad we didn’t have to stay at the C’mon Inn in Bozeman. Jacuzzis everywhere.”
“By everywhere, you mean—”
“You’re basically wading through the lobby.”
I giggle madly. Liam loops an arm over my stomach and slides my body against his, fitting me into his corners as if I’m a mold. Immediately, my body sensitizes.
The thing about the two of us we figured out early on is we’re both highly inclined to physical touch. I’ve always been that way, but I’d never found another person who liked touching me as much and as often as I liked touching them.
Until Liam.
Being told I couldn’t be that way with him when we started this has felt like a form of starvation after years of a mediocre diet. Because when Liam and I do touch—it’s like every experienceable emotion to ever exist in the universe is here in the room with us.
“I’ve been thinking about something,” he rumbles against my neck.
“Hmm?” I can’t actually form a real word at the moment.
Liam’s leg hooks around mine, tangling our ankles. “Paul. Your music executive contact.”
“What about him?”
“Did he suggest going after a record deal?”
I sigh. “How’d you guess that?”
Liam’s breath is too warm on my skin. “Like I said. I’ve picked up a thing or two.”
I shift, and so does he, enmeshing us further. This was a trap, I realize. A physical trap. He’d let me go if I wanted, but he also knows I don’t.
“I’m not a performer,” I say. “You know that.”
“I do,” he agrees, smiling into my skin.
“Even when you have to address three people at once, you trip over your words and start blinking a lot. But lots of singers aren’t stage performers, and maybe I just like the idea of a few of the songs you wrote about me existing in only your voice. Will you think about it?”
“Of course,” I promise him. “Are there any in particular you feel protective of?”
“‘A Song for Every Sorry,’” he answers quickly. “‘The Pitcher’—don’t tell me it’s not sophisticated enough to record, I fucking love that song—and the one you were working on in Bozeman.”
“‘Never Over’?”
“Yeah. That one.”
Little push. That was just a little, microscopic push, and if I’m honest, it was true to Liam’s character. I don’t want him to act different than he is. He’s always stretched me.
“Okay,” I promise him, already knowing that if he wants those songs in my voice, I will never give them up.
“Good.” His mouth presses once, right against the hollow of my throat. “How in love today?”
“Sixty-five.”
He smirks. “Almost to sixty-nine.”
“That ball,” I say, “is entirely in your glove.” He laughs in a short burst, but I feel immediate regret over the quip. “There’s no pressure. I didn’t mean it like that.”
“I know you didn’t. Believe me, Paige, I want to fuck you. Every day, every hour. But if we go there, I’m going to have an extremely hard time ever giving you space again.”
“Why would I need space?” I ask. Liam’s the one who revised our agreement, gave it three outcomes instead of the singular one I approached him with.
“You would need it,” he whispers, “if you come to the conclusion that you’ve outgrown me.”
My stomach cinches. Does Liam think I’m using him as a stepping stool?
That after this summer, I’ll achieve some higher plane where he is irrelevant, unneeded, a relic of the past?
When in reality, I’m already making plans for how we can do this, how we can make these lifestyles work in tandem forever?
How have our roles reversed so completely?
It feels as if there’s a culpability growing inside me, larger by the day. Every conversation we have, every explanation we offer one another, crystallizes the murky sentiment we’ve both harbored over the past four years.
I find myself better understanding his decisions all the time. And in return, I want to be absolutely certain that Liam feels like my reasons for being here, with him, are solely because I want to be here, with him.
This summer may have started out as one thing, but he has purified it into something else.
I turn in Liam’s arms, rest my brow against his. My eyes flutter closed, and I listen to the sound of his short breath.
“I am going to prove to you,” I say, “that I can’t outgrow the person who keeps me aimed toward the sunlight.”
We fall asleep tangled and wake up panting.