Chapter 9
Now
The good news: Liam and I are about ten rows away from any of my family members.
The bad news: I’m in the middle seat.
There’s an older gentleman in the window seat, whom I’d love to ask to switch with, but I know that if my family walked by and saw us not sitting together, they’d definitely ask questions. Which means I’ll be spending the next six hours bumping elbows with Liam. Lovely.
As soon as the captain says it’s okay to use our electronic devices, I pull my laptop out.
Maybe if I can get some writing done, the flight won’t be a total disaster.
But the longer I stare at the blank screen in front of me, the more I wonder if it’s possible to pop a blood vessel from thinking too hard.
This is your thing, I tell myself. But the blinking cursor staring back at me says otherwise. As has the last year.
My first book, One Night with You, sold much better than I or my publisher expected.
“The perfect dose of charm and heat,” Entertainment Weekly called it.
The second sold even better, and almost overnight I went from wondering if I’d ever have a career as an author to amassing a social media following of loyal readers begging for bonus scenes and clues about my next project.
The success felt like real proof that maybe dropping out of med school hadn’t been a huge mistake. That is, until I was expected to deliver a third, equally successful manuscript.
The problem is said manuscript is still very much in the brainstorming stage. And by brainstorming, I mean hoping I come up with something a bit more fleshed out than the paltry rooftop sex? currently jotted in my notebook.
“How’s the book coming?” Liam asks, cutting through my thoughts.
I glance down at the taunting blank screen before slamming my laptop shut. “Not great,” I tell him.
“Writer’s block?”
“Sort of.” Though writer’s block is a vast understatement for the kind of crippling creative drought I’ve been in since my mom died.
Romance novels were always our special thing, a kind of treasured secret just between the two of us. While Bella and Jonah had med school and the approval of Grammy and Gramps, Mom and I had sweeping kisses, tropes, and book boyfriends.
Even if my mom never got a happily ever after in her own life, she saw romance novels as a bright light in an otherwise dark world.
A place where love always prevailed and there was always the soft landing of a guaranteed happy ending.
And I used to feel the same way. But after her passing, all the things I used to love about the genre—lingering glances, the brush of a hand in a dimly lit corridor—felt empty and joyless, and the once gushing spout of creativity dried to a trickle, then nothing at all.
Now it’s been months since I’ve written more than a paragraph.
“I’m sure you’ll figure it out,” Liam says with a tight nod. “You always do.”
I make a face, not sure what annoys me more—his insincere aphorism, or his apparent lack of awareness to grasp that he’s part of the problem.
It’s not that I blame Liam for my writer’s block, but I can’t exactly pretend like the implosion of our marriage didn’t dilute my ability to believe in—much less write about—happily ever after.
When I don’t respond, Liam says, “Maybe this trip will help get some creative juices flowing.”
I shoot him a look. “When exactly? Between sunrise hula and snorkeling? I’ll be lucky if my family doesn’t spend the whole trip ragging on how I should have been a doctor and how it’s not too late to go back to school so I can be more like you, the golden boy,” I say, making a face.
“Come on, they’re not that bad,” Liam says. “They’re proud of you.”
“Proud of me?” I make a pfft noise. “They still haven’t recovered from the fact that I’m writing about genitalia in a nonmedical context.”
“They’re doctors, not prudes.”
“Oh really? Is that why Gramps told all his friends at the golf club that I’m writing a thesis on reproductive anatomy because he was too ashamed to tell them the truth?”
“Okay but that’s Gramps,” he points out. “Everyone else has been more supportive. Remember how Grammy bought copies of your debut for everyone in her book club?”
I roll my eyes so hard, I momentarily worry they’ll get stuck in the back of my head.
“First off, we all remember how that went. Judith got upset when she found out there was premarital sex in the book, and now Grammy doesn’t get invited to play gin rummy at her house anymore.
It’s a whole thing. And second.” I pause, gaze cutting his.
“If you think my family is super supportive of me dropping out of medical school to write books about anal sex, then you clearly haven’t been paying attention. ”
“Which book has anal sex in it?”
I swallow down a groan. “Not the point, perv.”
Liam was one of the first people who supported my writing, who made me feel like my silly little stories about people falling in love mattered.
The only problem was that support never extended to defending me in front of my family.
Liam was always content to just sit there as Gramps went in for another rousing round of Roslyn is throwing away her life to write trashy romance novels.
I told myself it was because Liam didn’t have his own family, and he was afraid to rock the boat, but I always hoped he would stand up for me. That one day he’d tell Gramps that he was proud of me, even if Gramps wasn’t.
“I’m just saying,” he replies. “I know you have your issues with them, but you should know how lucky you are to have a family who cares about you.” His entire expression hardens, eyes falling on me before he adds, “It’s not something everyone has.”
A tightness corkscrews in my chest. I want to tell him that it’s easy for him to say when he’s always been on the receiving end of their praise and admiration. Meanwhile I’m the family disappointment, but I know whose family sucks more isn’t a battle I’m going to win, nor do I want to.
I open my laptop back up, pretending to be engrossed in the nonexistent words on the screen until Liam says, “So. Coming out of both ends? Really?”
I place my hand over my mouth, smothering a snort. “I had to make up some reason why you were absent from every family event in the last three months.”
“And you really couldn’t come up with anything better than I was shitting myself?”
I put a finger to my chin in thought. “No, I really couldn’t.”
“Any other terrible sicknesses I need to know about? Gout? Dysentery? A limp I need to fake?”
“If you must know, in the last three months you’ve had a cold, bronchitis, and food poisoning.
I considered a broken leg, but I learned after I told Grammy you had food poisoning and she showed up with homemade bone broth that it was better to give you something contagious so you couldn’t have visitors. ”
“I’m shocked you didn’t just kill me off and be done with it.”
“Trust me, I thought about it, but then I would have had to organize a fake funeral, which honestly seemed like a lot of work.”
He snorts.
“So, anything I should know?” I ask, thinking back to the condoms I’d seen in his wallet. “Anything that might compromise our arrangement? Or complicate things?”
If he’s seeing someone, now is the time to come clean.
Liam blinks, eyes shifting away then back to me. “Actually, there is something I should tell you…”
Fuck. Maybe I don’t want to know. Maybe ignorance truly is bliss. Maybe—
“I may have told Grammy and Gramps something,” he says.
“Something?” I repeat. “You’re going to have to be a bit more specific.”
When he doesn’t say anything, I prod him with my elbow. “What? Don’t tell me you told them we’re also renewing our vows?”
He winces. “Worse.”
“Worse? What the hell is worse than that?”
His brow scrunches. “Promise you won’t freak out?”
I cross my arms over my chest. “You’re not making me feel better, Liam.”
He swallows, eyes skittering away, before finally he says, “I may have told them that we’re trying to get pregnant.”
The air whooshes out of my lungs. “You what?”
“It wasn’t my fault! They kept asking when they were getting more great-grandchildren.”
My stomach nose-dives like I’ve just tipped over the ledge of the first big drop on a roller coaster. “You’re supposed to say, We aren’t ready yet, or even, That’s none of your damn business,” I hiss. “Is that so hard, Liam?”
He looks over both shoulders, making sure we aren’t about to be overheard before he whispers, “It wasn’t that simple.
They kept asking all these follow-up questions—like When will you be ready?
and What are you waiting for?—and didn’t we know you aren’t getting any younger.
So I told them we were trying, just to get them off my back. ”
I groan and rub my temples. “This doesn’t get them off our backs, Liam.
It puts them very much on our backs. Now, not only will they be devastated by the end of our marriage, they’ll also have to grapple with the disappointment that we won’t be giving them any more great-grandchildren.
So congrats, Liam, you’ve officially made everything worse! ”
Liam opens his mouth to respond just as the older man seated on the other side of me flags the flight attendant passing our row. “Excuse me, ma’am?”
She looks in our direction. “Yes?”
“Are there any open seats available? If so, I’d like to be moved,” he says, shooting both Liam and me uneasy looks.
The flight attendant looks between us, eyes narrowing, and I feel like I’ve been caught talking in class. “Of course, sir, I’d be happy to find you a new seat.”
I turn to Liam. “Look what you did!”
“You promised you wouldn’t freak out.”
“How the fuck else am I supposed to respond?”
The man looks between us, shaking his head like good riddance, before climbing his way out into the aisle and following the flight attendant to his new, presumably more peaceful seat.
As soon as he’s gone, I slump lower in my own.