Chapter 30
Now
Port of call: Kona, the Big Island
Attire: swimsuits, clothing optional
The day after zip-lining, Liam and I tell the rest of the family that we’re too seasick to go on the snorkeling excursion, but as soon as they’ve disembarked the ship, we spend the day getting reacquainted.
We reacquaint ourselves in bed. Against the wall. On the floor. In front of the mirror. We even reacquaint ourselves in the tiny shower that’s definitely not made for two people.
We fuck and fuck and fuck. Then, when we’re sore and bruised and out of breath, we fuck some more.
I’m not sure whether it’s the prolonged celibacy, or the forbidden allure of fucking an ex, but it’s like we’re addicted to each other. One touch, one taste, one whiff is enough to send us both spiraling into a lust-induced craze.
Sometimes it’s frantic and rushed, like we’re competing in a timed activity. But other times it’s slowed down, every movement like pulling taffy as we take our time exploring, lingering, pausing, then losing track and starting all over.
But just because we’ve swapped out fighting for fucking, and hostile silences for muffled moans, doesn’t mean we’ve let our guards down.
There’s still a lingering undercurrent of tension running between us.
I can feel it in the way he holds me. In the way we catch each other’s gaze a beat too long before looking away.
It’s a muted awareness that we’re currently in no-man’s-land. A borderless, undefined wilderness that neither of us knows how to navigate. That the time between us is fragile and in a couple of days this whole thing will be over. I’ll go back to my cold, empty house and Liam will move to London.
I just need to be careful, I warn myself. I can’t get attached or want more than this. And yet, a part of me already knows it’s too late. Wanting more is a tune I never forgot, steps to a dance my heart still remembers.
* * *
Sometime after midnight, I untangle myself from Liam’s naked body to pee, but not before he grabs my wrist and pulls me back onto the bed.
“Don’t go,” he murmurs against my neck.
“I need to pee,” I whine. “You don’t want me to get a UTI, do you?”
Joke’s on me. After the last twenty-four hours, nothing short of divine intervention would prevent me from getting a UTI.
Liam’s mouth twists upward, his grip loosening around my wrist. “Be quick,” he says, giving me a heated look. “I’m not done with you yet.”
I laugh. “Aren’t you tired?”
“Never felt better.” His hands drop to my hips, fingers tracing the hickeys he left there earlier. “Besides, I think we’ve got some lost time to make up for.”
I survey the sheets, now tangled into ropes, evidence of the messes we’ve been making, both in bed and of each other. “You know, we don’t have to make up for a year of celibacy all in one day, right?”
“Is that a challenge?” he asks, lifting one eyebrow. “Because if so, I accept.”
“Careful, Liam,” I say, parroting the tone he used the other night. “You don’t want me to think you’re flirting with me.”
His eyes flash. “I am flirting with you, Ros.”
Sparks that have nothing to do with our exertions flare against my ribs all the way to the bathroom.
Once the door shuts behind me, I look in the mirror, surveying the flush in my cheeks and the wild curls framing my face.
Gone are the bags under my eyes and the gray pallor in my skin. For the first time in months, I look and feel healthy. Or maybe that’s just because I’m getting laid.
After I pee, I check my phone to see that I have a few new messages from Abby.
Abby: Hellooooooo?
Abby: Are you dead? Is Liam dead??
Abby: Do you need an alibi???
I type back: No casualties yet.
Abby: So how are things going?????
I think about telling Abby that Liam and I are hooking up, but I can already hear the chorus of I told you sos all the way from New Jersey.
She’ll tell me that of course we couldn’t keep our hands off each other.
That clearly this means we’re getting back together.
That we’re fated mates or whatever. But this isn’t one of her smutty books.
And the only happy ending we’ll get is the one where we both climax, so I type back: Liam and I are actually getting along. Which isn’t a total lie.
Abby responds instantly. Getting along??? Like getting back together????
I’m about to type back No when I hear Liam’s muffled voice on the other side of the door.
“What happened?” he asks, followed by, “Are you sure?”
I put down my phone and shift toward the door. I probably shouldn’t eavesdrop on his private conversation, but then again, the cabin is a whopping total of one hundred and fifty square feet, so it’s not like I have a choice.
Liam responds to whoever he’s speaking to with a few hmmmms and okays before finally ending the call with a not-so-cheery Ring me if anything changes.
I count to ten before I open the bathroom door, so he doesn’t suspect I was listening, but as soon as I do, I see how pale he is.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
His eyes drop to his lap. “Nothing.”
A familiar churn of anxiety rolls inside me.
I know that nothing. It’s the same nothing I’ve heard for years every time his family comes up.
Liam stands up, his gaze focused on the door as he reaches for his discarded boxers. “I’m, uh, going to get some air.”
Maybe it’s the illusion of honesty still hanging over us, or the fact that we’re both naked, but I feel brave enough to say, “Wait.”
But as tense eyes meet mine, I realize that I don’t know what to say next.
I know better than to press him on it. I’m also aware that he was never open with me about his family while we were married, so why would he be now when we’re getting divorced?
But the past few days have felt like a crack in the door between us, one I can’t help but try to push open a bit further.
“I understand if you don’t want to talk about it.” I pause, searching for the words I’m not sure how to say. “But I just want you to know that if you do, I’m here to listen.”
He looks away, and I brace myself for this to be the end of the conversation, the way it usually is. But after a long beat, he turns back to face me. “It’s my mum,” he says, his voice low like the words have been pulled from somewhere deep. “She’s been in an accident.”
I jerk up, my body jumping to attention. “What kind of accident? Is she hurt?” The words all come out in a breathless rush of syllables as my mind scatters from one worst-case scenario to the next.
He sits back down on the bed. “My sister says it’s a broken leg. That she fell down the stairs. Other than that, she’s okay. I guess it could have been worse, but still.”
I search his face, trying to piece together what he’s still not saying, but he looks away and my chest lurches.
“Is that…?” I pause, trying to find the best way to word this. “Do you think that’s really what happened?”
He scrubs a hand down the side of his face. “That’s the thing. I don’t know what happened because I’m not fucking there.”
His eyes flash with something heavy, and I don’t know what to say. Only that an ache starts to build behind my ribs and my head rushes, like I’ve stood up too fast.
I sit beside him on the bed. “Is there anything we can do to help?” I ask.
Part of me knows it’s a silly question. Of course there’s nothing we can do. That’s the entire point of why he’s upset in the first place. But I feel the need to let him know I’m here for him, that I want to help, even if I can’t.
“No,” he says, pushing out a long exhale. “Which is exactly how my dad wants it. He likes keeping me out of it and making me feel powerless.” Then, in a lower, almost cracked voice, he adds, “It’s part of why I want to take this job in London. So I can be closer. Just in case.”
It’s that last sentence that sends shivers down my spine. He doesn’t say just in case of what, but I can guess.
Maybe it’s the wrong thing to do. Maybe I’m misunderstanding this uncharacteristic display of vulnerability. But I take his hand and give it a squeeze, hoping the small gesture can fill in the gaps for the words I don’t have.
He looks down at our knuckles clamped together, his eyes widening, and I immediately draw back my hand.
“Sorry,” I say quickly. “I know we’re just—”
“No. It’s okay,” he says, taking back my hand. “And thank you,” he adds.
There’s a sincerity behind his gaze, an earnestness that brings a new kind of ache to my chest. He’s here. He’s present. He isn’t trying to push me away.
“Thank you,” I say after a beat. “For telling me.”
The muscles around his mouth tighten. “You were right, what you said in the jungle. I should have been more open with you.”
A lump emerges in my throat that I can’t quite swallow down.
When he first confessed to going to therapy, it brought up a lot of complicated feelings of anger and resentment.
Why hadn’t he gotten help when we were together?
When our marriage was falling apart? When I needed him?
Why had he waited until we were broken up?
But now, as I search the deep lines of his face—ones I wish I could reach out and smooth away—I wonder if the only thing Liam getting help proves is that the breakup was just as cataclysmic for him as it was for me.
For a long moment we stay like that, our fingers knotted together, currents of electricity passing between us like flesh and blood semiconductors until finally I ask, “What do you need?”
His brows pull together. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, I know this is a horrible situation and there isn’t a lot either of us can do, but what do you need right now to make this suck less? And how can I help?”
He blows out a breath. “Do you want to go for a swim?”
My brows furrow with confusion. “A swim?”
“You know? The act of moving one’s body under the water so as to not drown?” He mimes the act, his cheeks puffed, his arms stretching out in front of him.
I give his arm a playful whack. “Okay, smart-ass. You want to go now?” I ask, still confused.