14. LIAM
14
LIAM
Now
I’m sitting on Natalie’s couch when she informs me that her friends are coming over to catch up on Love Island. The UK version, not to be confused with the American version, which is disrespectfully not as good.
“Did you ever think about going on the show?” she asks from the kitchen as she sets out an array of chips, dips, and a charcuterie board.
“Never,” I tell her. “We applied for George a few years back, though. Made it through the first two rounds of interviews.”
“What was the reason he didn’t get cast?”
“I don’t actually remember. I’ll text him and ask.”
“But really, you never thought about it?” I shake my head no. “You’re hot enough.” She winks at me.
“Never been interested. Plus, I’ve been tied up with someone.”
She points at herself jokingly.
I smile at her, and she smiles back.
“Is this you officially asking me to be your girlfriend?” She comes to sit on my lap. Bare legs sticking out of a pair of tiny cotton sleep shorts thrown over the side of the couch. And an oversized Chicago Cubs sweatshirt that smells of cherries.
“Natalie.”
“I know. I know. You don’t do labels.” She mimics me from when I first told her last fall after she brought up the conversation for the first time. We aren’t exactly exclusive, but we aren’t precisely not exclusive. I don’t sleep around as I used to; work consumes too much of my time, but no part of me wants to be committed to just anyone. “I still don’t understand why. Are you ever going to tell me about the girl who broke you?”
“You seriously want to hear about her?”
“Maybe.” She drags her bottom lip between her teeth.
“Fine.” I sigh, and she squeals, excited that I’m giving in to her.
“We were together for years. Thought it was going to be forever, and then one day, she told me she didn’t love me.”
“That’s hardly the details, mister.”
She pushes my chest with her pointer finger. I rub the spot, pretending she hurt me.
Natalie is dainty. A good bit shorter than me, and her figure is petite. With her in my lap right now, I bring my hands to her waist, and the two overlap as I encircle her.
“What do you want to know then?” I ask her.
“Was she beautiful?”
“Natalie—”
“I know I’m beautiful. Shit, I’m hot and probably more attractive than her. So you can tell me if she was beautiful, it won’t offend me.”
Her confidence is impeccable. And she is hot, but it’s the hotness that you sort of expect when someone is an influencer or model and life is out there for others to judge.
But who Natalie is asking about? That girl is the most beautiful in the world and is in this city somewhere. It isn’t even her physical beauty that I was attracted to all those years ago. She has the most beautiful heart and soul. She doesn’t reveal it often, but I found myself as one of the lucky ones to see the beauty inside. She’s absolutely, properly devastating in the best way possible.
When I saw her the other day, it was like that morning in the café. My heart skipped a beat, and a blast of yearning and attraction blazed through me. Emerson is still the most beautiful girl in the world .
I close my eyes, not wanting to see Natalie’s reaction, while I say, “Yeah, she is. ”
I open my eyes, and Natalie looks at me skeptically. She’s picking up on the present tense of how I described Emerson. Without a word, Natalie climbs off my lap and heads back to the kitchen. She opens a bottle of wine, pours herself a glass, downs it, and pours another.
I guess that’s the end of that conversation.
I should feel guilty about not asking her to be my girlfriend. We have fun together, but giving it a label, actually committing to her, feels like I’m cheating on Emerson. Obviously, it’s not. And she’s engaged now. The general idea of being committed to someone else feels like final closure from her. I’m not ready to feel as if I’ve entirely lost her or the idea that someday we’d return to each other.
After seeing Emerson happy with someone else last week, you would think that it would have been the sign that I could let go, cutting all of my ties to her for good. A part of me desperately wants to. A part of me still wants her and can’t fathom letting her go—ever.
My post-heartbreak system has worked for years. I’ll see other people. A few chats or nights and then move on to the next. Expectations clearly set beforehand that this can’t go anywhere.
It’s worked between Natalie and me for the past year—at least, I thought it was.
An hour later, her friends arrive.
Her friend Chloe is the last to arrive. “Em’s going to be late. She had to pick up her bike from the shop.”
“Rosen-awful couldn’t do it for her?” Natalie rolls her eyes.
“I know.”
We crowd into Natalie’s small living room. It is as if a rainbow had thrown up in it. Color and artwork are everywhere. The number of items in the space makes it appear even smaller than it is. She has a two-seater sofa and two chairs—enough space for four. There are seven of us here. I sit in front of her, between her legs on the floor .
We’re into a second episode of Love Island when someone knocks at the door.
“Kam, can you get that?” Natalie asks her friend, who is sitting in the white chair closest to the door.
She gets up and opens the door. I hear the sound of a bag dropping on the counter. Kam returns to the chair, and the brown-haired female who just arrived is behind her.
I tense in between Natalie’s legs. Quickly removing my head from where it’s resting against her bare knee.
“Emme, you made it!” Natalie claps gleefully.
Emerson stares between Natalie and me, between where I’m sitting and back to me. Her face is emotionless, but I know by the small furrowing of her brow that her mind is racing.
Emerson licks her lips. Her cheeks turn bright red. I watch her shoulders rise and fall with the deep breath she takes.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.” She mouths to herself, gaze dropping to the grainy hardwood.
She turns and rushes down the hallway.
“Em—” Chloe calls out for her.
“You know Emerson?” I turn my head to ask Natalie.
From the oversized white chair opposite Kam’s, Chloe watches us like hawks, observing every moment, every word, and every emotion.
“Yeah? She’s my best friend.”
Natalie looks at me like I’m stupid—and I am. She’s mentioned her before but always refers to her as Emme or Em. In my head, I assumed that her best friend’s full name was Emily, not Emerson. When I met Emerson six years ago, she was never anything but Emerson or States to me. How was I supposed to put the two together?
Wait.
It’s all coming back to me. How could I forget Emerson’s best friend’s name is Natalie? I don’t forget things about her. There is an entire portion of my brain that is reserved for her; storing facts and memories like that is its only function. But I forgot this?
I’m instantly disappointed in myself.
“How do you know her?” Chloe asks.
I debate saying that I don't. “Work,” I go with, a nice partial lie. Emerson didn’t show up to the meeting today. Her coworker informed me that she was sick.
She didn’t look sick when she was standing out here, though.
I glance between Natalie and Chloe.
Natalie appears unbothered by what’s happening, almost as if she doesn’t care or this isn’t a surprise.
But Chloe. She knows something. I think.
“I’ll go make sure Emme is okay.” Chloe shakes her head at Natalie, stands up, and rushes after her.
Quickly, I’m on my feet. As I head after Chloe, my socks catch on the wood floor, causing me to slip.
In the hallway, she stops me with a tattooed hand on my chest. Her eyes are closed, and her lips are turned inwards.
“You’re him.” Chloe opens her eyes and looks me up and down.
I nod. I’m unsure what she means, but I do my best to infer.
“My best advice for you right now is to either sit back down in the living room, not between another girl’s legs, or I don’t know. . . leave?”
“She’s engaged,” I let out.
“And I have black hair. Thank you for stating the obvious. But that doesn’t matter—”
“How?”
“She still loves you.” Chloe shakes her head and continues speaking, but I’m caught up in what she says. She loves me? Does Emerson still love me?
That’s. . . that’s impossible. To still love me means that Emerson had to love me already .
Chloe points in the direction of the living room. A herd of giggles and sighs come from the space, and I can only assume one of the boys gave a cute recoupling speech.
“Go,” Chloe demands. Her dark eyes are piercing and add a quite scary fierceness to the look she is giving me.
Before following her advice, I say, "She’s having a panic attack." Chloe nods, understanding my concern and warning. I walk back to the living room and sit down where Chloe was previously seated. Natalie glances over at me, but I avoid her gaze.