Chapter 20
Now
I can see the intersection up ahead. The light is green, and I press on the gas, propelling us forward.
Mom is telling a funny story about a date she went on last week.
One moment I’m laughing and the next the lights blur, and I’m being thrown forward, up and out of my seat, nose nearly colliding with the dashboard.
I scream, but the sound is drowned out by the earsplitting crunch of metal and the hiss of the engine.
Steam pours into the air and everything goes fuzzy.
Someone’s asking if I’m okay.
“Mom?” I glance around for her. She’s beside me, eyes closed, but I can’t reach her. I call out to her, shouting. But she doesn’t hear me. I’m pleading now, begging her to look at me.
There’s something wrapped around me. I try to push it off so I can get to her, but it only grips me harder. I need to get to her. I need—
“Roslyn! It’s me!” Firm hands tighten around me, shaking me awake. “Wake up!”
Slowly, the voice moves from background noise to full volume, and I become more aware of my body. Of the manic thump of my racing heart. Of the strong arms winding tightly around me, rocking me back and forth as Liam’s face swims into focus, his voice growing sharper against my eardrum.
“Roslyn? Can you hear me?”
The words leap inside me, pulling me out of the dream and into bed, where Liam’s body is crushed to mine, holding me steady. I press a clammy palm to my forehead, already slick with sweat and matted hair.
“What’s going on?” I ask. “What happened?”
“You’re having a nightmare,” he says, brushing a sweaty strand of hair from my forehead. “You were yelling a lot, and calling out for her.”
Her.
I shut my eyes, trying to dislodge the memory, but as soon as my eyelids drop, I’m there in the car all over again, the green light up ahead, the sweet scent of my mom’s perfume hanging in the air.
The memory hollows me out, pain stretching like a spiderweb expanding outward from my sternum all the way to my fingertips.
Before I can stop myself, I’m sobbing. Not cute little sniffles, but full-bodied, chest-heaving, throat-closing sobs.
Liam grips me tighter, wrapping his arms around me like warm protective blankets, his thumb drawing gentle circles at the base of my neck. “It’s okay,” he whispers into my hair. “I’ve got you. You’re safe.”
His words squeeze around my lungs, threatening to uncork all the messy feelings I’ve worked so hard to seal away: Longing for when he was mine, grief because he’s not, then finally, embarrassment. He’s not supposed to see me like this. Not again.
“I’m sorry,” I tell him. “I’m sorry for falling apart like this.”
“Nothing to be sorry for,” he says, his hands roaming into my hair.
His voice is soft and steady, a stabilizing metronome for my racing heart. A sound I want to drown in. And yet, as good as it feels to have his voice in my ear and his hand in my hair, I’m aware that I shouldn’t.
Eventually he’ll move to London, and I’ll return home, alone, and I don’t want to get used to this or think I’ll be able to call him up in the middle of the night like last time.
I don’t want to indulge in the luxury of his comfort when I know it’s something I won’t get to keep, so I jerk back, untangling myself from him.
Liam frowns. “Did I do something wrong?” he asks.
I shake my head. “No. I’m just fine, that’s all.”
His frown intensifies. “You’re not fine, Roslyn. You’re crying.”
“I’m not,” I insist, putting my hand to my cheek. Oh. It’s wet. “I’m sorry, I’ll stop—”
“No, that’s not what I’m asking,” he says, his voice gentler as he lifts his thumb to my jaw, brushing away a stray tear. “You’re clearly still upset.”
I should reiterate that I’m fine. That I don’t need him.
That there are divorce papers sitting in an envelope a few feet away and we have no business holding each other like this.
But maybe it’s because he’s right, I am upset, and he feels strong and sturdy, an exact contrast to how I feel, but I allow myself—just this once, I think—to lean into his touch, savoring the brush of his thumb on the inside of my wrist as he alternates between soft circles and gentle pressure.
We stay like that, our chests pushing and pulling with each breath, until Liam asks, “Do you want to talk about it?”
“About the nightmare? Not really.”
His hand runs along the outside of my arm, leaving goose bumps in its wake. “Does anything help?” he asks.
An unwanted image of Liam stroking my back, whispering, It’s okay. I’m here, strikes hot across my subconscious.
“How about a distraction?” I say.
“Okay.” A thoughtful divot appears between his brows. “Want to tell me about the book you’re working on?”
“You mean the draft for a book that doesn’t exist?”
“I thought you said you were working on something new?”
“I sort of lied,” I admit. “I haven’t been able to write in months. Not since Mom…” I gesture vaguely and Liam nods. “Now I’m scared I won’t be able to write again. That the first two books were flukes and I’ll be trapped in this painful, exhaustive writer’s block forever.”
As soon as I say it, worry strangles me once more. What if the words are just…gone?
“Roslyn.” He says my name so soft, so tender it hurts. “It’s okay to take breaks, especially after…” He trails off before starting again. “After everything that happened this year.”
I shake my head. “But I can’t afford any more breaks, not when the clock is ticking.”
“The words will come to you.”
“But how do you know?” I ask, my voice unexpectedly small.
His mouth wavers into a half smile. “Because I’ve heard you tell me a million times that you’ll never write another book, that you’re not sure you can do it again. But you always do.”
“But what if this time it’s different? What if—” An unforeseen crack worms its way into my voice. “What if now that she’s gone, I’ve lost my spark?”
What if I don’t believe in happily ever after anymore?
“If I know anything from watching you over the last few years, it’s that creativity comes in waves, and you can’t control it,” he says, his hands a sturdy lifeline on my back. “But the words will still be there for you when you’re ready to return to them. I know they will.”
He looks so certain. Like he just knows I’ll write again. If only I felt that way too.
“What’s it like to be so certain about your goals and your career?” I ask, genuinely wanting to know. “To just know that you’re good at something and to have everyone always affirming it for you all the time?”
His eyes widen, lips parting then closing again. “I don’t feel that way at all.”
I can’t help the scoff that rips out of me. “Of course you do. You’re good at everything, and you know it. Everyone knows it.”
“That’s definitely not true.”
“Really? Because the committees that award grants and the directorial board at the Institute of Cancer Research in London seem to disagree.”
Maybe I imagine it, but a soft blush creeps up his neck. “Would you believe me if I said I’m scared?”
I’m about to roll my eyes and say something like Yeah right, but as my gaze tracks across his features, taking stock of the tight lines bracketing his mouth, I wonder if maybe he means it.
“What are you afraid of?” I ask after a beat.
He swallows again and I watch the way his throat tightens, like there’s a wedge in his esophagus.
“I know this job in London is a great opportunity, and I’m thankful for it.
But I worry that I won’t measure up. That I’ll get there and start working with all these top-notch researchers who are experts in their fields and they’ll see what a fraud I am.
That I’m just some kid who somehow managed to sneak his way in. ”
“You’re not a fraud,” I tell him. “You’re easily the smartest, most hardworking person I know.”
“But I think that’s exactly what’s scary about it. Everyone will be the smartest, most hardworking person and I won’t be able to keep up.”
A shadow of uncertainty lingers behind his gaze, and it makes me wonder if under the golden boy facade, he’s just as insecure as I am. If maybe we all feel like frauds, at least sometimes.
“I get feeling that way,” I say after a minute. “But I think you need to trust yourself. You’re a great doctor who brings a lot to the table. Sure, you’re young, but being young isn’t a bad thing. It means fresh perspectives and new ideas, right?”
He nods, but his expression remains tight. “There are so many days when I doubt myself,” he says. “When I doubt that anything I’m doing even matters.”
“Of course what you’re doing matters,” I urge. “You’re saving lives.”
His mouth moves upward as though attempting to smile.
But instead of the shiny, confident young man I met at the bar nine years ago, he looks tired, worn down, wrinkled, like a pair of pants that’s been left on the floor too long, and I wonder if it’s not really the job he’s thinking about, but his mom and sister. The two people he couldn’t save.
Silence swallows us until he says, “This year has been hard, but I know you’ll write another book. Really,” he adds, reaching down to take my hand.
His fingers loop through mine and I must be more touch starved than I realize because a burst of want centralizes in my core. He’s kissed and touched me everywhere. Been inside me in every conceivable way, but a simple handhold now feels painfully intimate.
My reaction must be written across my face because Liam pulls his hand back.
“Sorry. I shouldn’t have—”
“No. It’s okay,” I tell him, taking back his hand. “And thank you,” I add, my eyes finding his. “This helped.”
His mouth parts, lips drawing up into a half smile. “I’m glad,” he whispers, giving my hand a squeeze. Then, in a lower, almost hesitant voice, he adds, “I want you to know that just because we’re ending things doesn’t mean I don’t still care about you.”
My throat warms. “I still care about you too,” I whisper.
But I realize as the words leave my lips how insufficient they are. I can’t imagine a day I won’t think of you is more accurate. Because no matter what happens, no matter how many miles between us, or how many papers we sign, there will always be a part of my soul that’s entangled with his.
I’m not sure how long we stay there, hips pressed together, fingers wound tightly, but eventually he pulls back. “I should probably go back to bed.”
Maybe it’s that I’m still a little drunk, or that I’m not quite ready to be alone again, but I hear myself say, “Can you stay?”
He pauses, his gaze locking with mine through the darkness. “You want me to sleep with you?”
I know what he means but I can’t help blushing as I nod.
Liam’s brow tenses in thought. “What about the rules?”
“How about we call this bed Las Vegas?” I try.
“Las Vegas?”
“You know? What happens here stays here?”
His eyes widen. “Wh-what?”
“I don’t mean like that. I just mean we can forget the rules for tonight,” I add.
But his brow continues to furrow. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
My insides deflate like a popped balloon. “Right. Of course. I understand if you don’t want to.”
“I do,” he says quickly. “I definitely do, I just…” His voice trails off as his gaze jumps to the floor, his forehead creased in thought before he finally asks, “Are you sure?”
No, I’m not sure I should share a bed with my soon-to-be-ex-husband, but I really don’t want him to let go, so I tell him, “Yes, I’m sure.”
Liam gives me one more tentative look before he pushes back the covers and slides into bed beside me. He feels different now, harder, more sculpted, but even under all those new muscles, it’s still him, a body that feels as familiar to me as my own.
“You feel good,” I tell him.
His muscles turn taut beneath my touch, and I think he might pull back, remind me of the rules, that we shouldn’t be touching alone. Instead, he releases a breath and draws me into him, his hands palming my waist.
“You feel good, too, Ros.”
My heart swells, an uncontained smile slipping over my mouth. Ros. I’m Ros again.
As I burrow against his warm, solid chest, I allow myself to remember what it was like to have unfettered access to his body.
Not just sexually, but the simple acts of intimacy I used to take for granted: A hug at the end of a long day.
A gentle hand stroking my back as I fell asleep.
The kinds of intimacies that said things words couldn’t.
“I’m glad you’re here,” I tell him.
“Me too,” he says. “Sleeping on the floor was shit.”
“No, I mean on this trip,” I clarify. “I know this is weird and honestly kind of fucked up, but I’m glad you came.” Then, maybe because of the gin, or the heat of his body pressed to mine, or some combination of both, I add, “I missed you.”
His lips brush against my temple, lingering. “I missed you too,” he whispers, and I feel the foolish, hopeful part of my heart start to beat faster.
I want to tell him I missed this closeness, his hands, his body, the feel of him, our life together. Everything. Instead, I settle for resting my head on his shoulder in the crook that used to feel like it was made for me. And maybe—just for tonight—it still is.
“Why’d you let go?” he whispers.
“Of what?”
“My hand.”
His voice comes out scratchy, like it’s been hours, not seconds, since he last used it, and a whoosh of heat rips through me as I reach for him, lacing my fingers through his again.
If this is all I get with him, I want to savor it.
Before it’s over. Before the gin wears off and the sun comes up. Before we go back to pretending.
“Don’t let go,” he whispers against my ear.
“I won’t.”