Chapter 9 Opening the Door
Opening the Door
Liam
Ilay in bed, staring at the ceiling, hands behind my head, the room dark except for the faint wash of light bleeding in through the slats of the blinds.
I hadn’t moved in at least an hour. Sleep wasn’t coming. It hadn’t even tried.
My mind kept circling the same image, Claire, curled on the couch, her hand reaching toward mine. The soft weight of her fingers, the way her eyes flicked up when she asked, quietly, if I was okay.
And then me pulling back. Not harsh, but I'd closed the door.
She didn’t deserve that.
I exhaled hard through my nose, shifted onto my side, then onto my back again. The sheets felt both too warm and too cold.
My eyes opened to the same ceiling. I checked the phone. 3:32 a.m. I rolled onto my left side and stared at the wall. I woke again before dawn, the sky still dark through the blinds. I stared at the ceiling for a few more minutes. I wasn’t falling back asleep.
So, I gave up. Swung my legs over the edge of the bed and sat there for a minute, elbows on knees. My eyes burned, but not from lack of sleep.
In the bathroom, I turned on the light and blinked against it. Picked up my razor out of habit. The blade skimmed over my jaw with practiced precision until—
"Ouch."
Just under my chin. Shallow, but sharp. I grabbed a towel and pressed it against the nick. A bright dot bloomed through the fabric.
"Serves you right," I muttered.
I rinsed the razor, wiped down the counter, and stared at myself in the mirror a little too long. The circles under my eyes were darker than usual. My jaw was tight, my mouth drawn.
No wonder Claire looked worried. If a teammate looked like this, I’d have asked what was going on.
I tossed the towel into the laundry bin and rubbed the back of my neck.
"This might be a two-cup-of-coffee morning," I muttered to no one.
I stepped into the kitchen. I hadn’t set up the coffee last night. No filter. No grounds. Just an empty pot and silence where there should’ve been the slow drip and faint steam.
While the coffee brewed, I opened the fridge and reached for the milk. The basil and thyme Claire had picked up, were tucked in a glass of water on the top shelf, stems freshly trimmed.
I hadn’t even thanked her.
I kept my hand on the fridge door, staring at the herbs.
Then turned, grabbed a cutting board, and pulled out some peppers and onions from the crisper. Eggs. Cheese. I wasn’t really hungry. I just needed something familiar to do.
The knife clacked against the board with every cut. Fast. Rhythmic. Loud enough to carry.
If she was awake, she’d hear it. If she came out, I could offer breakfast. Ask about... what she thought. She’s a doctor. She’d know. About symptoms. About timelines. About what it might mean.
Footsteps. Soft ones. Just outside the kitchen.
Claire appeared in the doorway, hair mussed, sleeves pushed to her elbows, like she'd rolled out of bed and walked straight into whatever this was.
She blinked at the sight of me and the mess I'd made of the counter.
"Smells good," she said, voice scratchy.
I didn’t look up right away. Just slid the chopped onions off the board into the hot pan and let them sizzle. "Hope you're hungry."
She crossed to the counter and leaned against it, watching me for a beat.
I cracked two eggs into a bowl. I planted both hands on the rim and stared at the yolks.
Then, before I could overthink it, I said it.
"The call was from my sister."
Claire stilled. "What?"
I lowered the flame. The onions went quiet in the pan. They had that perfect faint caramel edge.
"The night I came back from the road trip. The call on the balcony... it was her."
Claire straightened slightly, eyes sharpening. "Is she okay?"
I hesitated. Then nodded once. "She's been having symptoms. Muscle weakness, clumsiness, and brain fog. The doctors are running tests, but... one of the possibilities they're looking at is Huntington’s."
She opened her mouth. "That's an autosomal dominant condition, which means—"
Her face changed.
She stopped midsentence. Blinking. Remembering who she was talking to.
Her expression softened. "Oh, Liam. I'm sorry. That’s terrifying."
I nodded, swallowing against the sudden tightness in my throat. I stirred the eggs without really needing to.
"She’s seeing specialists, but it’s slow. The testing process, the referrals. And she’s scared. I’m—" I shook my head. "I don’t know what I’m doing."
Claire stepped closer. Not too close. Just enough.
"Let me help. I’ll talk to her doctor. Or look at her records if she’s comfortable sharing them. I’ll make sure they’re not missing anything."
The knot between my shoulders eased, just a little. I hadn’t even noticed how tight it was.
I watched the butter melt in the skillet. "I was hoping you’d say that."
Her eyebrows lifted, just a little. "Then why didn’t you just ask?"
I let the spatula rest on the pan’s edge and looked at her for the first time since I’d said the words.
"Because you've got enough going on."
Work, Nolan’s place and babysitting two sous-chefs under eight.
"You don’t need my problems, too." I angled the bowl, let the eggs slip into the butter, and reached for the spatula.
Claire stared at me for a long moment, then stepped in a little closer, brow furrowed.
"Liam... you opened up your house to me. You let me stay here so I could be closer to my family. What I’m offering seems insignificant by comparison."
I didn’t know what to say to that. I shifted, suddenly aware of the heat from the stove and the way my fingers curled against the edge of the counter.
She rubbed her arm, gaze dropping for a second. “Sorry. That came out kind of dramatic.”
I shook my head. “No. It didn’t.”
We both stood there. The city hummed outside, and the eggs hissed in the butter.
Claire’s fingers skimmed the edge of the counter. My free hand stayed braced on the granite, knuckles pale. A muscle twitched in my jaw as I kept the spatula moving.
She looked at me, then down at the pan, then back again.
I cleared my throat, barely.
She stepped back half a step, her hands still on the counter. I stepped away from the stove and turned to face her fully, palms braced on the counter. My mouth felt dry.
Her eyes held mine.
I let out a soft exhale.
I should probably say something. She’d wave it off, I know. But still... she didn’t deserve the way I shut her out
"I'm sorry, Claire."
Claire gave me a small smile "Liam, “It’s okay,” she said softly. “You’ve got a lot going on.”
She reached for her mug, “What is her name?"
My shoulders dropped a bit, and I stood up a little straighter, "Maeve. She is my younger sister. But the way she acts, you would think she was my mother."
Claire laughed at that. "My brother would say the same thing."
I looked away, toward the far corner of the kitchen. I could get used to that laugh.
“She’s constantly checking in. Making sure I eat. That I get my flu shot. That I schedule a physical once a year.”
I pressed my hand flat to the countertop, then curled my fingers into a fist.
I just can’t lose her, too.
“Do you want me to get plates?" Claire’s voice cut clean through the tangle in my head. I blinked, realizing I'd been staring past her, right through the wall.
She was watching me, two forks already in her hand, waiting for an answer.
I nodded and stepped aside. “Top shelf.”
“Cabinet by the sink,” she finished for me, already brushing past to reach it. Her hand skimmed my arm for balance as she rose onto her toes. Her hand barely touched me, but I felt it everywhere.
She didn’t move away right after grabbing the plates. Just stood beside me, holding both plates in one hand, her shoulder nearly brushing mine.
I kept stirring the eggs, but I could feel her there, warmth at my side, soft breaths at my shoulder. The stove threw heat in front of me, but Claire brought a different kind of heat. The kind that made my pulse tick up and my skin tighten.
She just stood there. Unaware that my heart was trying to punch its way out of my chest.
I reached for the spatula and plated the eggs slowly. She was watching the pan, head tilted, eyes narrowed slightly in concentration. My eyes caught on the curve of her neck, the tiny pearl earring glinting in the morning light.
My hand brushed hers by accident, and the jolt that followed was instant.
"Is that enough?" I asked, trying to regain my composure.
"Liam, that's enough for this morning and tomorrow morning."
"Sorry," I laughed. "I keep forgetting you're not a six-foot-3three-inch professional hockey player who eats 5000 calories a day."
She walked to the counter. "Thanks for noticing."
I just smiled.
We sat side by side at the kitchen counter and ate in silence for a minute. The silence was comfortable.
Halfway through her eggs, Claire glanced up. "Before I reach out to anyone, you'll need to talk to Maeve. Get her permission."
I looked down at my plate, then back up. "Yeah. I figured."
She didn’t say anything, just waited.
I ran a hand through my hair. "She’s already overwhelmed. I don’t want to push."
Claire’s tone stayed even. "Let her decide that."
I stared at her for a beat, then gave a short nod. "Okay."
She set her fork down gently. "Just let me know when she’s ready."
She stood and took her plate to the sink, rinsing it and placing it in the dishwasher. Then she paused, like she might say something else, but didn’t.
"I’m going to make a few calls," she said quietly. "Give you a little space."
I nodded, watching her walk out of the room.
And then it was just me again. Me and the echo of her footsteps fading down the hall. And the pan cooling on the stove. And the space where her presence had been was still quietly humming.
I will have to call Maeve. Soon. Explain everything.
That a woman who looks like Nora is living in my apartment. Temporarily.
She’ll see the resemblance. Of course, she will. What if she thinks I invited Claire here because of that?
But I’m not trying to replace anyone. Claire’s a doctor, and it’s strictly about helping Maeve.
Except it’s not just that. Claire reminds me of the version of me who enjoyed connection.
Before I learned better.
I ran a hand down my face.
How the heck am I supposed to explain all this?