Chapter 8 After the Call
After the Call
Claire
Igrabbed my coat from the hook, checking the weather on my phone. Light rain, mid-fifties. Not exactly ideal for sightseeing with Brooke and the girls, but we’d manage. The first two days had been crisp and sunny, exactly why I’d saved the museum for today.
The museum was surprisingly quiet for a weekend. Emma and Sophie had darted straight to the new dinosaur exhibit, leaving Brooke and me a few feet back by the railing, listening to their excited whispers echo off the high ceilings.
"You know you can move in with us anytime, right?" Brooke said, nudging me gently with her elbow.
I smiled. "I know. But you’ve got a full house already. And I know you are going back soon so the girls can finish out their school year. So you won’t be here that much longer."
“Admit it,” Brooke said, giving me that smile that meant she was about to stir the pot. “You just want to live with the hot goalie.”
My eyes snapped back to her. I could feel the heat creeping up.
Brooke angled her body toward me, smirking. “Oh, come on, Claire, I love my husband. But even I noticed how good-looking he is.”
I pressed my lips together.
Yeah, he is. Especially when he’s barefoot, hair damp, and makes you feel like you belong in his kitchen.
"What I will miss when I move back into your place is his cooking. I will deny it if you tell him, but Liam is a fabulous cook," I manage to respond.
"So, he’s hot and he cooks?" She grinned. "Okay, I take back my offer. You are not allowed to move back into our place."
We both laugh.
I looked down at the girls. Sophie was tugging at Emma’s sleeve, trying to mimic the roar of the animatronic T. rex. "You’ve got a good thing going," I said.
Brooke followed my gaze. "It’d be nice if you moved here. It’s hard doing this alone when Nolan’s gone all the time."
"My lease is month-to-month," I said, trying to sound nonchalant. "I’ve been thinking... maybe it’s time we all lived in the same city."
Brooke glanced at me sideways, but said nothing. Just bumped her shoulder against mine as Sophie let out a shriek of delight from across the room. “You’ve been smiling like that a lot lately.”
“I don’t know what you mean.” I took a sip of water and tried to act unbothered. But I could feel the smile she was talking about still hovering.
“When’s Nolan getting home?” I asked, as casually as I could.
Brooke narrowed her eyes. “This afternoon. Why?”
I shrugged. “Just wondering.”
Her expression didn’t budge. “Uh-huh. Wondering when your hot goalie roommate’s getting back?”
I groaned. “Will you please stop calling him that?”
“He is hot. And a goalie. I feel like that’s basic math.”
“His name is Liam.” I tossed a napkin at her, which she caught without flinching. “And great, now every time I look at him, I’m going to hear your voice saying hot goalie in my head. Thanks for nothing.”
Brooke laughed. “You’re welcome.”
I pretended to be annoyed, but the truth was I liked this version of us. A little teasing. A little sisterly chaos. A whole lot of subtext.
“Fine,” I said, dramatic sigh and all. “I rescind the offer I was going to make.”
She sat up straighter. “What offer?”
“Nope. Too late. You ruined it.”
“Claire,” she said sweetly, leaning in. “Don’t make me tickle it out of you. I have two kids. I know exactly where all the weak spots are.”
I held up my hands. “All right, all right. I was going to offer to watch the girls tonight. So you and Nolan could have actual, uninterrupted adult time. Maybe even sleep. Together. In the same bed. At the same time. Without kids in between. Imagine that.”
Brooke’s eyes softened instantly. “You’d do that?”
“Not anymore,” I said, smirking.
“Please,” she begged, pressing her palms together like a prayer. “Okay, what can I say to get you to un-rescind that offer?”
I raised an eyebrow, lips twitching. “You know that’s not a word.”
“Smarty-pants,” she muttered. Then added, with a mock bow, “Sorry, Dr. Smarty-pants.”
I shook my head, but I was already relenting. “Fine. One condition.”
Brooke perked up. “Name it.”
“You start calling him by his real name. Liam.”
The hot goalie.
Great, now that’s what Liam is even in my own head.
She opened her mouth, probably to protest, but I beat her to it. “Because now, thanks to you, I can’t even think about him without thinking my temporary roommate is a hot goalie.”
Brooke leaned her shoulder against mine again, smiling. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
I didn’t answer. But I was still smiling.
She rolled her eyes but reached out and gave my arm a squeeze. “You’re the best.”
“Don’t get used to it.”
Brooke stood and clapped her hands. “Okay girls, Daddy will be home this afternoon, so we’ve got about forty-five more minutes. Then we’ll grab some lunch and head back.”
Emma and Sophie let out synchronized groans, but they didn’t argue.
I lingered by the railing for a few seconds as Brooke herded them toward the next exhibit. Then I pulled out my phone and scrolled through the list I'd made, places to eat with young kids near the museum. I flagged a couple and checked the time. We were in luck; they were all open.
We grabbed lunch nearby, a chaotic but sweet mix of chicken nuggets, juice boxes, Brooke stealing fries off everyone’s plate, and my perfectly balanced meal of grilled salmon, green beans, and mashed sweet potatoes.
The drizzle had stopped, leaving the sidewalks damp and smelling faintly like wet leaves and stone. The walk back to our building was quiet, just the steady tap of my shoes and the occasional car splashing past. The girls held hands and yawned more than they talked.
When I stepped inside the apartment, it felt oddly still. No music. No clatter from the kitchen. Not even a Post-it on the counter. "Liam?" I called lightly, setting down my bag. No answer.
Then, from the living room, I heard Liam’s voice.
“When will you know?”
I walked past the doorway and caught a glimpse of him standing near the couch, phone pressed to his ear. He wasn’t moving, just standing there, shoulders slightly hunched, one hand at the back of his neck.
“When is that?”
His head turned just enough to see me, and for a second our eyes met.
Then he turned away.
My hand tightened slightly on the strap of my bag.
He slid the balcony door open and stepped outside, pulling it shut behind him. The sound of the door closing was sharp.
I stood in the hallway, coat in hand, not sure why I hadn’t kept walking.
Through the glass, I could see him pacing. One hand still on the phone, the other tucked into his pocket. He said something I couldn’t hear, then shook his head. He glanced back toward the apartment, toward me, and then walked farther down the balcony, out of view.
I stood there a moment longer, my farmer’s market score forgotten, pulse ticking at my temple. I didn’t know what the call was about. It wasn’t my business.
Still, I found myself staring at the empty balcony.
After a moment, I put the fresh basil and thyme on the kitchen counter and walked to my bedroom.
I opened my laptop and pulled up the annotated slide deck I'd submitted yesterday. A handful of editorial comments had come through, mostly formatting, a few suggestions about streamlining the messaging on slides nine through twelve. I made it through half of them before I glanced at my watch.
6:05.
I blinked. No pot clatter, no whiff of garlic or butter in the air. I usually treated Liam’s 5:30 dinner prep as my cue to start wrapping things up. Like an unofficial roommate alarm clock. But the apartment was still quiet.
"He must be out," I said softly, clicking through to one last comment.
I remembered I needed to be at Nolan and Brooke’s by seven to watch the girls. "I better eat something first."
I pushed my chair back and walked toward the kitchen. As I rounded the corner, I stopped short.
Liam was sitting at the counter, back to me. A half-eaten bowl was in front of him.
I froze, straightening my posture. Like I’d walked into a meeting I didn’t realize had started.
What should I say? Welcome home?
No. It’s his home.
How was the road trip?
They won both games. I already know that.
I shifted my weight and cleared my throat slightly, but he didn’t react.
That’s when I noticed the earbuds.
I didn’t want to startle him. I stepped past him toward the fridge, pulling out the leftovers from lunch. As I turned, he glanced up. I smiled. Opened my mouth.
He pointed to his ears and gave a little shrug.
Right. Listening to something.
I nodded, understanding, and turned back to the microwave. It hummed to life as I leaned against the counter, arms crossed.
No teasing. No raised eyebrow. Not even a Post-it.
The microwave beeped. I carried my plate to the dining table and sat down. Liam finished his meal in silence, rinsed his bowl at the sink, loaded it into the dishwasher, turned it on, and disappeared down the hall without a word.
I ate alone, chewing slowly.
After clearing my plate and wiping down the counter, I grabbed my keys and slipped out, the door clicking shut behind me.
When I got back, the apartment was dark except for the under-cabinet light in the kitchen. The coffee pot wasn’t set up for the morning. The dishwasher had finished its cycle, but the clean dishes were still inside, steam clinging faintly to the glassware.
I hung my coat, kicked off my shoes, and stood there for a moment, listening. His door was closed.
The next morning, I woke up earlier than usual. I lingered in my room, half expecting to hear the sound of the kettle or the low thump of cabinets opening and closing. Nothing.
When I finally stepped out, the kitchen was spotless. No clatter of utensils. No faint scent of coffee.
There was only one mug on the counter. His, washed and drying on the rack.
I opened the fridge. The basil and thyme I’d bought were tucked into a glass of water on the top shelf, stems carefully trimmed. I stared at them for a second, then closed the door.
A few hours later, I tried breaking the silence.
“Hey, I saw you trimmed the basil and thyme. Is that the right way to store it?” I asked from the kitchen, keeping my tone light.
He was at the table, laptop open, but didn’t look up. “Yeah,” he said without inflection, eyes still on the screen.
Not unkind. Not sharp. Just… flat.
I nodded, even though he probably didn’t see it.
Later, I passed him in the hallway. He stepped aside politely. Said nothing.
I opened my mouth. Closed it again.
There was nothing to push against. Nothing to argue with.
Just space where he used to be.
I was still skimming through the last round of feedback when I heard a dull thud. Something heavy hitting the floor near the entry. Then came the soft metallic click of the door handle and the quiet latch of it closing behind him.
I glanced at my watch. Just past four.
From Nolan’s schedule, I knew there was a home game tonight.
I watched the third period on my laptop.
The commentators were polite about it, but it was there, subtext between the stats.
“Callahan’s off his rhythm tonight.”
“Something’s distracting him.”
I didn’t know what it was. But I knew it had started with that phone call two days ago. I’d heard his voice change. Afterward, he didn’t offer an explanation, and I hadn’t asked.
We barely saw each other anyway. But the shift was there: He’d stopped cooking, stopped leaving sticky notes on the kitchen counter, stopped being the version of himself that felt, weirdly, like mine.
So I didn’t go to bed.
I made tea and opened a journal article I’d been avoiding for weeks, one that had nothing to do with hockey or roommates or whatever this was turning into.
I made it five pages.
The next thing I knew, the front door clicked open.
I stayed still. Stalling. I needed a second to work up the nerve to say something.
Normally, I wouldn’t. Normally, I’d tell myself it wasn’t my place. That asking wouldn’t change anything.
But this felt different.
Because I noticed. And because… I wanted him to know that I noticed. That someone did.
Footsteps. A pause. Then—
“Advanced Neuromuscular Diagnostics,” he muttered, barely above a whisper. “No wonder you conked out.”
The couch shifted as he leaned in. Then the soft rustle of a blanket being pulled over my legs. I held still, not sure if I was dreaming.
The scent of him, something clean and faintly herbal, hit me just before I opened my eyes.
He was right there, crouched beside the couch, close enough that I could see the flecks of gold in his green eyes.
I didn’t remember them being that intense.
Or his eyelashes being that unfairly long.
Why is it always the guys who get the good lashes?
I blinked. “You’re back.”
He nodded. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”
“You didn’t.”
He stood, like he was about to walk away.
Before I could stop myself, I reached for his hand. “I was waiting for you.”
That stopped him.
“I saw the game.”
He didn’t answer. Just stood there, half in shadow from the hallway light.
“Liam,” I said. “What’s going on?”
His posture shifted. Not big, but enough. Like a drawbridge being raised, piece by silent piece.
I’d seen him hold his body like that on the ice—calm, collected, bracing for impact.
“It’s nothing.”
“You’ve been off since that call.”
He looked at me then, just for a second. I could see something flicker behind his eyes, something that almost cracked.
Then it was gone.
“It’s not your problem, Claire.”
He pulled his hand back, gentle, but final. He lingered for a moment.
Then he turned before I could answer, already heading down the hall to his wing.
I sat up slowly, blanket still bunched in my lap.
Right. There it was.
Whatever that was between us—me noticing things, him noticing that I noticed—it didn’t mean anything. I’d gotten it wrong. Again.
Both hands rested on the edge of the cushion, shoulders tight. Like I was about to stand up, but really, I was just absorbing what just happened.
Logic kicked in, eager to fill the space his silence left behind.
This is why I don’t do this.
Connection. Intimacy. Wanting to be let in.
It never includes me.