Chapter 6
Now
When Liam shows up at the house, I’m already regretting my choice in airport attire.
As soon as he sees me, his gaze drops to my legs, slowly charting a path up and over my body that leaves a rash of goose bumps everywhere his eyes land.
He fixes me with a grimace. “Why are you dressed like that?”
“Like what?” I ask, feigning innocence.
“Like…” He swallows thickly. “A high-end escort.”
At least he said high-end.
“I think the term you’re looking for is empowered, sexually liberated woman,” I say, giving him a look.
I might not be either of those things, but if Liam can take off his ring and do shots with girls named Katie, then I can at least look hot.
I wonder if he remembers this dress. If he remembers the night I wore it to a hospital function, and how he took it off me later, slow and agonizing, memorizing every part of me, first with his eyes, then his hands, and finally his tongue.
But if Liam remembers, his infuriatingly guarded expression doesn’t show it.
There was once a time when I could tell exactly what Liam was thinking with a single glance.
Like when he wanted to leave a party early.
Or the way he’d sigh and say, “You choose,” when I knew he really wanted me to order pizza for dinner.
All the little puzzle pieces that over time had come to build one giant Liam-shaped picture.
But now he feels like someone I recognize but don’t know. Not anymore.
After we collect our bags from the back of the Uber, we make our way to airport security, where I scan the hordes of early morning travelers for the rest of my family.
Realistically I know that the first meeting won’t be a big deal.
It’s not like anyone will question us on the last time we had sex or went on a date.
But it doesn’t stop me from worrying that they’ll see Liam and me and immediately know something’s wrong.
That our marital instability will be a flashing neon sign hanging over our heads.
“Do you see them?” I ask.
Liam shakes head. “Come on. Let’s get through security and get coffee. Then we can find them.”
Coffee. My skin crawls with need, and I nod my agreement.
We take our place at the end of the security line, and Liam immediately pulls out his phone.
I notice his wedding ring is back on his left hand, which I guess I ought to be pleased about.
It shows that he’s taking this seriously.
And that he still has it. But knowing that it’s all part of the act—nothing more than a prop for the role he’s playing—feels like yet another emotional minefield I’m not prepared for.
Maybe it’s just a ring. An accessory. But it’s also memorized take-out orders and nights he held my hair when I had the stomach flu.
It’s interwoven fingers and kissing at red lights and big belly laughs from inside jokes only we know.
It’s everything the ring once represented. Everything it no longer does.
Twenty minutes of silence later, we make it to the front of the line, where I begin the extreme sport of shoving all my stuff into one of the bins while trying to remember where I packed the clear bag of liquids.
Meanwhile, Liam goes through TSA like he’s hoping to be congratulated with a sash and a plaque for excellence in efficiency. I’m pretty sure a TSA officer even smiles at him!
I watch, annoyed, as he gently places his laptop in a bin before tugging his sweatshirt up and over his head. The hem of his T-shirt comes with it, revealing a branded boxer waistband and a thin slice of smooth, toned stomach. A stomach I know. Or at least I thought I did.
When did Liam get those? And by those, I mean the shelflike ladder of abs disappearing into the waistband of his boxers.
Liam’s always been in good shape, but he usually doesn’t have time to hit the gym between hospital shifts and work at the research center. But apparently New Single Liam does.
I’ve thought about how this whole trip might be easier if we were both hurting. If there was some level of solidarity between us. Some admission that, Hey, this is hard for both of us. Let’s just try and get through it for the sake of the family.
But Liam seems to be fine without me. Not just fine, but good. Like the separation has drastically improved his life, and I’m some kind of baggage he had to divest himself of so he could evolve into his best self, movie star abs included.
I know it’s unfair of me, since I’m the one who ended things. I have no right to be bothered by whatever Liam does in his new single life. But I wish he were as miserable as me.
I wish there were bags under his eyes, and stains on his clothes, and his hair didn’t look so fucking good.
I wish he were messy and broken and hurting the way I am.
Because if he were, then I’d at least know he was feeling something.
That there was more to the brusque fine he’d muttered before walking out. But apparently not.
After we get through security, I make a beeline to the nearest bench so I can reassemble my luggage, when I lose my grip on my backpack and the contents spill out, cascading all over the floor.
Fuck.
I crouch down, darting to collect my things, when Liam appears beside me to help.
“Here,” he says, handing me a pen that’s slipped away. “Maybe next time you should…” But the rest of the suggestion dies, swallowed by a full-body stiffening. “What is this?”
I pause, hand outstretched over my loose-leaf notebook, and follow his gaze to the bold, black print across the manila envelope he’s holding. The Law Offices of Hammersmith and Finch.
Shit.
He wasn’t supposed to see that. Well, he was, eventually, but not now. Not at the airport on my way to meet my family.
I snatch it back. “They’re divorce papers.”
For a moment he just stares at the envelope. Everything from the cut of his mouth to the narrowed stance of his eyes feels like a sharp line.
Finally, he asks, “Why did you bring those?”
“I figured we could look them over while we’re here,” I tell him. Which is sort of true.
When I’d shoved the papers into my bag late last night after a glass of wine (okay, two), it had seemed like a good idea.
Surely a week at sea with Liam would inspire me to sign the paperwork I’ve been putting off for months, right?
But now I’m wondering if I was wrong. If they should have stayed on my desk, continuing to collect dust the way they have for weeks.
Tense silence brews like a storm between us. After a heavy beat, he asks, “So you’re really doing this?”
My first reaction is annoyance. Because of course I’m doing this. What else does he expect? He didn’t come back, or ask for another chance, and neither have I. If he didn’t want to see divorce papers, maybe he should have tried a little harder to save our marriage. Or tried at all.
But it doesn’t matter now. It’s over—a choice we’ve both made, whether passively or actively—and all I can do is try to move forward and pick up the pieces of my life.
“Nothing has changed over the last three months, Liam.” I pause, waiting to see if he’ll interject, tell me I’m wrong, this is a mistake, he doesn’t actually want a divorce. But he doesn’t. “So yeah, I guess I am,” I say.
“Oh.” His voice comes out rough like his vocal cords have been put through a cheese grater, and I search his features, looking for traces of regret or anger or annoyance—something that would give me a clue as to how he’s taking this—but his face remains stiff, almost purposefully blank.
“Just make sure no one sees those,” he says tightly.
“What do you think I’m going to do? Pass them out at dinner?”
His jaw ticks, features hardening like wet cement, and for a moment I wonder if he’s upset—a fucked-up part of me hopes he is.
At least that would be better than the detached apathy—but by the time I’ve blinked, his expression is back in place, each emotion tucked neatly away before he grabs his bag and walks off.