Chapter 25
Two years earlier
“We should paint that wall,” Liam says, using the wooden spoon in his hand to gesture to the wall behind the dining table. “What do you think about green?”
I tilt my head to get a better look from behind the kitchen island.
I’ve never lived anywhere permanent before.
I’ve spent most of my life in a constant state of transience, packing up and leaving as soon as a lease or one of my mom’s relationships was over.
But this was the first place that was really mine—ours.
Somewhere we planned to stay forever. And I wanted Liam and I to leave as many fingerprints on it as we could.
“I like green. Or yellow,” I tell him. “We can paint it next weekend,” I add, adjusting the volume on the kitchen speaker system, where smooth jazz plays in the background.
“I’ll be in Chicago, remember?” he says over the music.
Last night we found out that Liam’s team is being awarded a prestigious research grant, and that Liam is the youngest recipient ever.
I’d say I’m shocked, but I’m not. Ever since Liam’s first research publication on HPV and cervical cancer captured the attention of the broader oncology community, his star has been on the rise.
He flies out to Chicago next weekend to present his research, so tonight we’re celebrating at home with Liam’s lasagna and a forty-dollar bottle of wine.
Glass in hand, I come up behind Liam where he’s studiously mincing garlic with that damn towel over his shoulder, just like the night we met.
“Have I told you how proud of you I am,” I whisper in his ear.
“Several times last night,” he says, giving me a heated look that sets my insides to a simmer. “But I wouldn’t hate to be reminded again.”
“Oh, I intend to, Dr. Woods,” I say, matching his heated look as I lift my glass. “Cheers, baby.”
He leans into me, gently kissing the side of my temple before setting his cutting knife down and swapping it out for his own glass of wine.
“Since we’re toasting,” he says, holding up his glass. “To your rave review in Entertainment Weekly. ‘The perfect dose of charm and heat,’ ” he recites.
Blood rises in my cheeks. “It’s not as big a deal as your grant,” I tell him. “I mean, it’s not saving lives.”
Liam shakes his head. “It’s a huge fucking deal, Ros. And I’m so proud of you too.”
I know he means it, and I’m thankful for Liam’s encouragement, but it doesn’t quite quell the sting from when I’d told my family my debut novel was going to be published, and Gramps had responded with nothing more than a curt nod and a dismissive well done.
There’s always been a part of me that hoped if I succeeded, Gramps would come around. But apparently, a published novel and rave review in a major news outlet still aren’t enough to bolster his opinion of me.
But this is Liam’s moment, so I push down the thought. “Thanks, babe,” I tell him.
Liam responds by planting a kiss that tastes like tangy tomato sauce and red wine. When he pulls away, his eyes are shining like he’s just heard a secret.
“What?” I ask, voice cracking with a laugh.
“Do you hear that?”
“Hear what—?” I ask just as he turns up the volume on the radio and Cass Elliot’s crooning voice fills the kitchen, telling us to dream a little dream.
It’s the song we danced to at our wedding three years ago. A night that still makes my heart swell, two sizes too big for my chest.
The ceremony was small, just my immediate family, followed by an intimate reception in Grammy and Gramps’s lakefront backyard, where we’d danced under the stars, full of champagne and so much joy I thought I might burst. At the end of the night, we got drive-thru French fries and made giggly, high-off-each-other love for the first time as husband and wife in our bed at home.
There wasn’t a honeymoon, since Liam had just started his fellowship at the hospital, but it didn’t matter. We were in love. We had each other. There was nothing more we wanted. And tonight, three years later, I feel the same way.
“We should dance,” Liam says, setting his wineglass down and taking my hand.
“What about the food?” I ask.
“It can wait,” he says, his hand curving around the small of my back, drawing me closer. “I want to dance with my wife.”
My wife. We’ve been married nearly three years, but those two little words still send a shiver of pleasure down my spine.
Unsurprisingly, Liam, in addition to being a superstar doctor and an amazing chef, is also a terrific dancer. If I wasn’t in love with him, I’d probably hate him.
“God has favorites, doesn’t he?” I ask, letting him spin me in a little circle.
“Hmm. Why do you say that?”
“Because you’re good at everything.”
He leans into me, his breath warming the tip of my nose. “That’s not true.”
“Oh yeah? What are you bad at?”
He frowns, considering. “Figure skating,” he finally says.
I laugh. “Have you even been figure skating before?”
“No, which is why I imagine I’d be very bad at it. I also don’t think I’d look good in those little outfits.”
“I don’t know,” I say, straightening the collar on his shirt. “If anyone could rock a skintight sequined unitard, it’s you.”
A slow, cocky smile spreads from one side of his mouth to the other as his hands skim my waist, then lower, fingering the hem of my dress. “Speaking of outfits, I got you something.”
“Me? We’re supposed to be celebrating you tonight.”
“One thing is for you, and the other is for both of us.”
I frown as he pulls away then returns a moment later with a carrier bag in hand.
“Open it,” he says excitedly.
I reach inside the bag and pull out a gorgeous leather Smythson journal. “Liam,” I gasp. “It’s beautiful.”
He beams back at me. “So you have somewhere to put all your story ideas.”
I press the journal to my chest. “I love it. Thank you.”
“There’s something else in there too,” he says.
I dig around in the bag before pulling out something black and lacy.
I blush. Liam loves buying me lingerie, and I love receiving it. There’s something deeply sexy about imagining him deliberating between silky negligées and lace sets, trying to decide which he most wants to take off me.
“It’s gorgeous,” I tell him.
His hands find my waist, his mouth dropping to my ear. “Why don’t you go upstairs while I put the lasagna in the oven.”
“Yes, Chef.”
Liam gives me a light slap on the ass and tells me he wants to find me wearing nothing but his gift. “Just the knickers,” he calls after me.
“They’re called underwear, weirdo,” I call back.
“Call them whatever you like, but I better not find you wearing anything else.”
I do a little wiggle in response before disappearing down the hall.
Upstairs, I slip into Liam’s gift then attempt to arrange myself on the bed, anticipation rushing through me like a fast-acting drug. But a full five minutes pass and still no Liam.
“Liam?” I call.
When he doesn’t answer, I shrug on a robe and head back downstairs. “You know it’s rude to keep a lady waiting—” I start to say until Liam’s voice echoes into the hall.
“I don’t know what you want me to do. I told you I’d send money if she wants to leave him, but there’s nothing else I can do if she doesn’t want to see me.”
I pause in the kitchen doorway, my eyes zipping between the phone pressed against his ear and the scowl lines bracketing his mouth.
As soon as he registers my presence, his entire body jolts. “Listen, I have to go,” he says into the phone. Whoever is on the other line responds because he nods and says, “Okay. Love you too,” before ending the call.
“Who was that?” I ask even though I’m fairly certain I know.
He doesn’t meet my eyes when he says, “Felicity.”
“Did something happen?”
“She’s just upset.”
I hover in the doorway, unsure whether to come closer or not. “Is there anything I can do to help?” I ask after a beat.
His attention shifts toward the door, and I feel him slipping away, like he’s somewhere else. Somewhere I can’t reach him.
“I think I’m gonna get some air,” he says, his voice totally devoid of his earlier flirty-ness.
“Do you want me to go with you?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “No. I’ll be back later, okay?”
“What about dinner?”
“Lasagna is in the oven,” he says. “Should be ready in an hour.” And before I can protest, he’s reaching for his keys, then out the door, and I’m left standing in the kitchen feeling like a tornado blew past me.
What the fuck just happened?
But I know exactly what happened. It’s the same thing that always happens.
I’ve tried not to let it bother me, since his family stuff is clearly hard for him.
But we’re married. I’m his wife. If there’s anyone he can open up to about this, it’s supposed to be me.
And now, I can’t help but wonder if it’s not just that the past is painful for him to talk about, but if there are parts of his life that he doesn’t want to let me into.
Parts of himself he doesn’t trust me with.
In the romance novels my mom and I read, the love interest is always so right, so good, so enough, that the main character allows their walls to fall, to be raw and authentic and vulnerable just for them.
I’m aware that real life doesn’t always work that way, that it’s not that simple, but even still, I wonder what I’m doing wrong, why I can’t be that for Liam. Why I’m not enough.
* * *
It’s past midnight when I hear Liam’s car pull into the driveway, followed by his keys in the front door and footsteps on the stairs.
When he opens the bedroom door, he looks tired, like he hasn’t slept in weeks.
“You’re still up.”
“Of course. You left like a bat out of hell. I was worried.”
The rigid line of his mouth catches the half-light of the bedside lamp. Gone is the flirty man who just hours ago danced with me in the kitchen, instead replaced by someone with sunken eyes and deflated shoulders.
“Where did you go?” I ask.
“For a drive.”
He doesn’t elaborate as he undresses down to his boxers and slides into bed beside me. His hands and feet feel like ice.
“You know you can talk to me, right?” I say, trying to catch his eye.
He rakes his fingers through his hair, gaze skittering away. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
“But maybe it will help if—”
“I’m fine,” he interrupts, rolling onto his side, facing away from me.
My pulse jumps with frustration. “You raced out of the house and were gone for hours. That hardly screams fine to me.”
When he doesn’t say anything, I swallow an exasperated sound. “I’m your wife, Liam. Why can’t you talk to me?”
I watch his profile, waiting for him to explain, to offer me something, anything, but apparently that’s all I’m going to get from him because he reaches for the light and plunges the room into darkness, leaving me with the increasingly uncomfortable thought that Liam’s all too happy to dance in the kitchen and buy me lingerie.
But as soon as things get too real, too messy, he shuts me out.