Chapter 12 Liam
LIAM
I got here way too early, twenty minutes early, to be exact. Long enough to question every damn life choice that led me here.
I swear I’ve memorized the entire menu twice just to have something to look at that isn’t the door.
I pick up my phone, thumb hovering, then finally type the simplest thing I can manage:
Liam: What do you get here? Coffee? Tea?
She replies within seconds.
Emma: European Nutella latte. Extra shot. Light foam. Thanks.
Liam: Nutella-flavored coffee? I didn’t even know that was a thing.
Emma: It’s a ‘must’, Callaghan. Don’t mess it up.
Liam: No pressure then.
Emma: Oh, tremendous pressure.
I shake my head, grinning like a fool, and get up to order the most elaborate coffee I’ve ever spoken aloud. Hazelnut. Cocoa drizzle. A sprinkle of whatever magic powder the barista winked about.
By the time Emma walks in, I’m sitting with the drink in front of me, trying to pretend I’m calm and composed instead of one wrong look away from having a heart attack.
She spots me instantly.
Her eyes go straight to the cup.
Then up to me.
And her whole face lights.
“No way. You actually nailed it?”
I try to shrug like it’s nothing, even though I had to watch three YouTube videos on how to pronounce “gianduja” before ordering.
“Told you I could handle the pressure.”
She sits across from me, wraps both hands around the cup, inhales like it’s holy, and smiles at me over the rim in a way that hits me square in the chest.
She takes a deep breath in before sipping, her eyes fluttering closed.
I know that look. The one she gets when something hits the spot, when she’s trying to make the moment last just a little longer.
That look almost always gave me a boner back then, and it certainly nearly does now.
Damn.
I shift in my seat, thinking about anything but her mouth. Like trash collection. Dog shit. Stinky hockey gear. Anything to kill the image of her licking that foam from her lip.
I should be angry.
I’ve told myself that a hundred times.
She walked away without a word, left me in the dark, no clue what I’d done wrong.
But I’m not mad. Not even close. I’m just so fucking happy to see her sitting across from me right now.
When she opens her eyes, she catches me staring. A blush creeps up her neck, and she tries to hide a smile.
“Sorry,” she says, glancing at her cup. “Guilty pleasure. They put European Nutella in this, and it’s sooo good.”
“What the hell is that?” I blurt.
Her eyebrows shoot up. “You’re kidding, right? You’ve never heard of Nutella? It’s like peanut butter, but with chocolate and hazelnut mixed in.”
I lift a shoulder. “Still no.”
She laughs softly, shaking her head. “Well, it’s huge in Europe. I mean, I’ve never been overseas, but a German patient told me about it once, so I hunted it down at the store, and honestly, it changed my life.”
She’s babbling now, bright and animated, and I could listen to it forever.
She talks about how she makes crepes with it, adds bananas and strawberries, and sometimes just eats it straight from the jar with a spoon.
2Her hands move as she talks, and that spark in her eyes—it kills me.
I can’t hide my amusement.
She catches it. “What?”
I chuckle, leaning back. “You’re like the Bubba Gump of… Nuthole or whatever.”
She bursts out laughing. “Nutella, you idiot. Nutella.” She’s still giggling as she shakes her head. “Nuthole. Jesus, Liam.”
My grin widens. I used to live for making her laugh like that when we were together.
“Also, Bubba’s last name wasn’t Gump, dude. Bubba Gump was the shrimp company they started together. You know I take my movie trivia seriously.”
“Ah, yes. I forgot,” I say. “Movies and food are serious business in Emma-land.”
I didn’t forget. I haven’t forgotten a single thing about the person she was six years ago. What I don’t quite know is who she is today. What is her life like now?
“I’m still a bit of a foodie,” she admits. “I don’t get out much to try new places, but I’ve gotten pretty good at cooking.”
“Your job keeps you busy?” I ask. “In the ER?”
“It does,” she says. “I have a decent schedule, though. I usually work three, twelve-hour shifts each week.”
“Oof,” I cringe. “That’s a long shift.”
“Oh, longer, usually. I rarely actually leave when my shift is over.”
“Why?”
“Oh, lots of reasons. A trauma comes in just as the shift is ending. You can’t just walk away when someone is bleeding out, right?
Or your replacement gets stuck in traffic, so you have to stay until they arrive.
Stuff like that. It happens eight days out of ten. That’s just the nature of the work.”
“And Talia?” I venture. “What’s she up to?”
“She also works at the hospital, though not at the same place. We work similar shifts but opposite days, so we’re usually ships passing in the night. We hang out on Sundays, usually.”
“I’m probably lucky I got taken to your hospital on your night, then,” I say.
“Oh?”
“She’d have probably let me die,” I answer, grinning to show her I’m kidding.
Kind of.
Emma pushes her lips together, trying to hide her grin, but she loses the battle, “Well, she’s an OB nurse, so unless you’re having a baby, you’d probably be safe.”
“Well, no chance of that,” I say. “Phew.”
“What did happen?” she asks. “That night.”
I shrug. “I got jumped by two guys in a parking lot.”
“In the parking lot of the arena,” she says. “That was what the news said.”
“Yeah,” I say, rubbing the back of my neck. “It was just a fluke. Wrong place, wrong time. I was a little drunk and probably seemed like a good target.”
I think she has a sense that I’m not telling the whole truth because her mouth does this little downward twitch thing that I always equate to her being disappointed.
She rallies quickly, though, asking, “How’s life in the NHL?”
“I love it,” I say. This is something I can be honest about. “I hate that I can’t play right now. That part sucks, but I love playing professionally.”
“I, uh, read up on you the past few days. You left school early?”
“After sophomore year, yeah,” I say. “I got approached by an agent who told me I had a real shot at the draft. The Reapers ended up taking me in the second round. And honestly? When a team offers you that kind of opportunity, you don’t turn it down.
Hockey careers are short unless you’re one of the legends.
I figured I could always go back and finish school later if I wanted. ”
“Do you ever wish you’d just stayed and finished?”
“No,” I say honestly. “When someone shows up and says, Go do the draft, you don’t argue. You just show up. Would’ve been stupid not to.”
“I guess that makes sense,” Emma says, sipping her coffee. “I mean, I’m proud of you for making it to the NHL, but I would have been proud if you’d finished school, too.”
She watches me for a moment, studying me as if she’s weighing whether to go further. Then she asks gently, “How’s your mom doing? I remember she… struggled.”
I stare down at my coffee. “Yeah. Still does.”
Emma’s voice softens. “Is she getting help?”
“She’s in a care facility now,” I say. “Lakeside. They keep her comfortable. She’s not really herself anymore.”
Her brows draw together, and I can tell she’s trying to find the right words. “That must be hard, Liam.”
I nod, take a slow drink instead of answering. There’s nothing else to say.
I’ve had a lifetime to make peace with who my mother is, and I still haven’t managed it.
After a moment, she whispers, “I’m sorry.”
“Yeah,” I murmur. “Me too.”
We sit in the kind of silence that doesn’t need filling. Then I clear my throat, trying to lighten the air.
“You didn’t do art school, obviously,” I venture.
“Nope,” she answers.
“How did you end up veering toward nursing?”
Her eyes spark with mischief. “Well, I, too, got an early call to the NHL draft. And, as you know, when that call comes, you answer it.”
I snort, shaking my head. “Right. And how’d that work out for you?”
She grins, “But it turns out, I was not good on skates, and I did not get picked, but the window on my art education had closed, and I figured there’s always a need for nurses, so here I am.”
She beams at me, and I roll my eyes. “Wow. Deep career insight there.”
“No,” she says softly. “My mom got sick. You probably didn’t know that.”
I shake my head. “No. What happened?”
“She had all these weird symptoms for about a year, and nobody could figure it out. They ran every test imaginable, and all came back normal. Finally, one of her nurses suggested they test for a few rare disorders. Turns out she had one. They started her on experimental treatments, and she’s doing a lot better now. ”
Her smile is small but proud. “I was really inspired by her nurse, actually. So I switched gears. Figured I could do more good helping people than painting them.”
“Well, you were a hell of an artist,” I say. “You sure about that trade?”
“Thanks,” she says. “But I love what I do. I’m okay with how it turned out.”
I feel myself frown. What does she mean by that? If she’d stayed in Minneapolis with me, she’d have been in art school while I was in college. Her trajectory would have been way different. We’d have been together.
Is she saying she’s okay with the path her life has taken overall? Or is she only referring to the switch from art to nursing?
“Do you still make art?” I ask, trying not to let my overthinking brain take over.
“No,” she says. “Nothing serious anyway.”
“That’s too bad,” I say. “Why not?”
“I just don’t have time,” she answers, her shoulders stiffening a little. She runs a fingertip around the rim of her coffee mug.
“Well, you told me you work three days a week. You really don’t have time for hobbies you once loved? What’s holding you back?”
She looks sharply at me, and I recoil a bit.
Here’s the part where she might tell me I know nothing about her, or not to pry into her business
But no. She doesn’t say that.
“I don’t have time,” she says slowly, stopping to pause, clearly chewing on her answer, “because I am busy caring for my son.”