32. LIAM
32
LIAM
Three Summers Ago
Twenty minutes into The Royals’ second episode, my phone rings. A glass of red wine and sushi takeout sit on the table beside my couch. This show, The Royals , is absolute garbage, but Emerson loves to watch it for whatever reason. I’m watching this rubbish for her. Add it to the list of ways I try to stay close to her, bridging the distance between us.
At first, I thought she watched it since it’s a satire on our government till the first five minutes of the first episode when William Moseley appears on the screen—her childhood crush. I’ve never seen The Chronicles of Narnia , but she claims Peter was hot. Googled him. Can’t say I disagree with her. Aging like fine French wine, too.
My phone rings again; this time, it is a FaceTime from Emerson. I swipe the screen and note the time in Chicago. It’s three there; she must be on her way to her date.
“He canceled on me! This was supposed to be our third date, but he canceled!” She immediately talks, “And his reason. S-t-u-p-i-d. Stupid. Guess why he canceled?”
“Hello. I’m good, long day but cheery. How are you?”
“You aren’t helping. Liam. Guess.” Damn, she’s cross tonight.
“He didn’t like the restaurant that you picked out?”
“Noooope. He canceled because I didn’t. . .” There’s a pause before she answers. I can’t tell if she’s embarrassed or hurt by the reason. “Put out after our second date,” she whispers closely to the phone. “A second date? Come on, everyone knows that you have to give it at least three dates, which is tonight! Ridiculous! He literally couldn’t even wait four more hours to get lucky.”
“Oi, you see, I thought you had to go to two countries and agree to spend the next four weeks with the girl to get lucky.”
“Ha. Ha. You’re so funny.” Her mouth purses together, and she glares at me through the phone. She’s genuinely upset, I conclude.
“I’m sorry that happened, States. You seemed excited about the potential with this one, yeah?” Immediately, I knew it was the wrong word choice. One? More like ten? She’s been dating lately, or at least trying to. Emphasis on the trying. It’s not going well, as you can imagine, based on her frantic video chat.
“Yeah, this one.” She rolls her eyes and sigh-laughs.
“Don’t roll your eyes at me.” That warrants a laugh.
“You’re right, though. Did you take a screenshot!?”
“Documenting the moment. Liam Hayes was right,” I say.
Emerson shakes her head at me and rolls her eyes again.
“As I was trying to say, this one, just as I think that with every other one?” A look of despair washes over her face. “What am I supposed to do to have this excitement reciprocated?” She shakes her head. “How do I get a guy to see potential in me?”
Something in my gut stirs—and it isn’t the sushi. I want to scream, sound alarms, or teleport through this phone to let her know I see potential with her. Always have since we met. The level of chemistry between us and the ease with which we function is rare. There’s limitless potential with Emerson. This guy, hell, any guy, must be a twat not to see it.
I guess I’m also a twat then because I do see it and haven’t done anything about it.
“We aren’t doing this again.”
“Then tell me how to make it stop!” Emerson demands.
“Want to know how to stop? Easy. Stop choosing dimwits on those dating apps.” I’ve asked her before if I can log into her apps. She always tells me what a terrible idea that is and that she can’t trust me with her password. That’s probably true; I’d delete her profile.
“Aren’t you on dating apps?” She asks.
“Yeah. And? I’m me.”
“Oh, right. I’m Liam. I’m perfect. All it takes is one flash of my perfect smile and a wink of my perfect eyes, and she’s in my bed and then down the aisle. Hmm, I forgot,” she says sarcastically.
“Exactly,” I joke.
“Don’t let it go to your head, pretty boy. It can’t get much bigger.” Emerson winks at me.
“Did you want to sleep with him?” I ask her, circling back to an earlier statement that’s taken up residence in my mind. He couldn’t wait four more hours to get lucky.
Sex doesn’t come up between us often. If it does, I’m usually with George when she calls. I don’t know why she doesn’t bring it up. I don’t talk about it because thinking about her having sex with anyone else makes me jealous.
I don’t enjoy thinking about her with anyone else ever. I only want to think about her with me.
“Easy or honest answer?” That’s her thing with me. She gives me the easy answer first—the one she’d give anyone else—and then the truthful answer that’s reserved for me.
“Always.”
“Easy: yes. Honest: with him, I don’t think so.” She shrugs it off. However, her body language and the pink hue on her cheeks make me believe she’s only horny. She wouldn’t say yes unless she were. “There, for whatever reason, wasn’t a. . . spark. Trevor was nice. We kissed on our previous date. It was just blah.”
I break out in a bit of laughter. “Emerson.”
“Liam.”
“Are you horny?” I ask her.
“And if I am? It’s not like you’re here.”
Right. I’m not. Even if I was, would we?
“Want me to fly to you? Or we could. . . ya know, once you get home.”
“No. I’ll be fine,” she groans. I don’t consider it rejection because I didn’t think she would even go for it.
Her definition of fine includes her irrational fear of dying alone and not only being horny.
A couple of months ago, on the phone, Emerson told me she believes she’s going to die alone. Since then, she’s been on this dating kick, trying to find ‘the one.’ I’m happy she is—supportive friend reporting for duty—even though it feels wrong because I want to be the one.
“You sure?” I ask. “I can be there tomorrow.”
“I promise,” she replies.
Emerson rambles on about work, telling me about the new brand they signed today. Some luxury travel bag? I’m piecing together what she’s saying. It’s hard to hear her with the wind and the city in the background.
I miss her—so much that the Emerson fog is rolling in pretty thick today. Usually, talking to her helps clear the fog, leaving sunny skies. I don’t think it’ll clear up anytime soon, though.
“We should book our summer trip,” I interrupt her.
“Liam, I thought I told you that I’m not sure if I can this summer,” she reluctantly says. “I have three big shoots that I am traveling for, and this new client will add a few more.”
“I know, but think about it, please.” Why are you begging? I worry she can hear the desperation in my voice and probably see it on my face, too. “You are too busy. Doesn’t a break sound nice?”
“Of course it does, but it also sounds like logistics, activities, food, etc. Why don’t you and the boys go yourselves this year to celebrate the opening of your Madrid location?”
“They aren’t going to like that.”
“Them or you?” she pointedly asks.
“Them!” Me. “C’mon. ”
I’m trying my hardest not to beg, but in reality, that’s precisely what I’m doing. I need to know I’m seeing States soon.
Being with her works as a system reset. I leave that week or two refreshed; my head is straighter than it usually is. It wears off over time, and then we see each other—our little life cycle. It’s been this way since that summer. It’s why I snuck my number into her phone. I knew when she boarded that plane home that she became a part of me, an organ I’d need to survive.
“I miss you, States.”
“I miss you too,” she says. “Can I think about it?”
I’ll take that as a win. “Of course.”
“Tell me more about your day?”
And this is the cycle of our calls. One of us calls with a specific topic. We go back and forth till we’ve been on the phone for hours. Most of the time, I stay up well into the morning, and Emerson falls asleep on the phone. When that happens, I whisper good night, tell her I love her, and then hang up.
My day was less than cheery. She listens, but I can tell it goes over her head. “It’s too big businessy,” she tells me.
“What does Bea think about George’s new girl?”
“Eh. Won’t talk about it. He’s bringing her around more, and I think it’s hitting Beatrix that it could have been her. I think we all thought they’d work their shit out by now.”
“You don’t think they will?”
“No, I don’t,” I tell her, hating to admit that about my friend.
His situation is beginning to resonate. Our situations are similar but different. I’m ready to commit to Emerson. I don’t want to be only her summertime friend; I want to be her all-time friend.
“We were at Fabric on Saturday. . .” I tell her about their fight before Beatrix stormed off and how no one has heard from her since.
Emerson is quiet while I speak about the rest of my week
From the shaky video, she’s still walking. The phone’s angle captures her neck and chin. She’s paying attention to where she’s going and people watching—synonyms for each other in her world—but I know she’s listening.
She brings her phone in front of her face, a smile appearing slowly.
I stop mid-sentence. “—What?”
“London.”
“What about it?”
“I want to come to London. No big destination. London.”
“Why London?”
“The whole time you were talking, I kept wishing I knew these places. Knew the smells. Knew what the commute to work is like for you. I want to experience your life. Actually, be in it. I want to come to London.”
If I was looking for a way to clear the fog, this is it.
“I’d love that,” and that’s the truth. “You’re coming to London.” And I’m grinning like a fool.
It’s past midnight once we coordinate plans, and my eyes are getting heavy. We’ve been on the phone for three hours at this point.
I bid Emerson a goodnight as she climbs onto her couch with a new book. It’s the one I sent her last week, A Court of Wings and Ruin —some bay boys she’s been obsessed with, but I must admit, the book was quite good.
As we hang up, I can’t pinpoint what feeling is running through my veins.
All I know is Emerson is coming to London for me.