35. Liam
Chapter 35
Liam
I inserted my key and tested the door with a tentative wiggle of the knob. She hadn’t changed the locks.
I blew out a grateful exhale. Brooke had taken pity on me. And she must not have told Shana what happened, because nobody shot me in the chest with a crossbow when I opened the door.
You grovel like there’s no tomorrow. You burrow under her skin like a tick she can’t dig out. Okay, maybe not that one. Whatever, just get inside.
I muttered words of courage the entire ride home. Armed with a fresh perspective and my very eager early efforts, I was determined to face my fears head-on and emerge on the other side stronger and more resilient than before. I was determined to be like Brooke.
And just like Brooke, once I set my trajectory, I wouldn’t change course.
I thought proving myself to her would be an insurmountable task when my life was such a mess. I didn’t want to contaminate hers. I worried her assurances were nothing more than platitudes. This brilliant, incredible woman could light the world with her radiance. I could only light shit on fire.
But my life circumstances didn’t eclipse her shine, and my heat didn’t burn her. My disbelief did.
Brooke deserved more, and I would give it to her. I would listen to her. I would believe her. She was a much better judge of character than me, anyway. I didn’t get to pick and choose her brilliance. She was smart enough to know what and who she wanted.
I shook out my hands. Fuck. This was going to be hard. Even knowing what I needed to do, even with the pep talk, even wanting it more than I wanted anything else.
It took me three days to build up the courage to go home. Thirty-six hours—thirty-nine, actually—to get the guts to apologize.
A text seemed inadequate, but I sent it that first night.
Me: A little time.
Brenden claimed it was pitiful and nonsensical. Eli said it warranted a groin punch from a scorned woman, but it was the best I could do.
Then I made a therapy appointment.
Then I put myself on the waitlist for the fall term.
Then Eli said that wasn’t good enough and hauled me to the admissions office to plead my case in person. Brenden drove.
Un-fucking-believably, Milton Markle took pity on me, and all it took was utilizing the psychopathy and manipulation that Eli claimed to be agent management skills. I employed his methods, and lo and behold, the date on my application was properly recorded for the fall enrollment deadline!
Honestly, I think it was Brenden Barrett standing behind me with season tickets to the Steelheads who did it, but I appreciated the teamwork, and we all got a high-five. I offered to treat them to lunch, but Brenden paid since I hadn’t replaced the contents of my wallet yet.
This morning, Karen kicked me out for using her decorative hand towels to clean up a spill in the kitchen.
But it was time to go home, anyway. I’d wanted to make some headway before slinking back and groveling. It was important for me to focus on the effort first—not for my apology to Brooke, but for myself and to prove that I could do it. That I was worth it—to me.
I had a long fucking way to go, but at least I was on the path. My friends had been my compass, ensuring I didn’t stumble into the bush and get eaten by a bear. But Brooke… she was my north star. I needed to make my way back to her.
Still, I sat in my car for three hours as the sun sank over the horizon and the streetlights kicked on, and then another two hours.
Look, this shit is hard, all right?
I made the person I cared about most believe that I didn’t care at all. I had no idea if I could come back from that with a woman like Brooke.
With a deep breath, I entered the apartment.
Darkness blanketed the living room—unsurprising at nearly midnight. Quietly closing the door, I tiptoed down the hallway, peeking into Brooke’s room. Though her light was off, her curtains remained open. The shine of city lights revealed an empty bed, the blanket smooth and tucked in the corners.
I sighed, leaning against the doorframe and studying her space for a little longer. I fought the urge to curl up in her bed and wait for her to come home, but I didn’t want to force her to face me before she was ready.
I trudged to my room. The faint glow of the bedside lamp cast shadows across the room and illuminated the figure curled up in my bed, her form silhouetted against the dim light.
Brooke.
I released a choked exhale, my hands collapsing at my side. She was here. In my bed. Three fucking nights later, and she was in my bed.
My heart clenched at the sight of her, stopping when she sat up and rubbed her red-rimmed and weary eyes. “You’re back.”
She’d been crying, and the state of her disarray mirrored the chaos in my chest. Her hair cascaded in disheveled tangles around her face, and dark circles marred the skin beneath her swollen eyes. And yet, despite the pain etched in the lines of her exhausted expression, there was a flicker in her gaze like… maybe she was relieved to see me, too.
I sucked in an inhale. Silence hung between us, and fear gnawed at that familiar sense of inadequacy. A grand gesture, a memorable grovel, Christ, a heartfelt apology. She deserved something , and it died on the tip of my tongue.
I had to be the man she deserved. I had to trust that I could. I had to believe in myself.
With a steadying breath, I took a tentative step forward, my heart aching with the weight of my mistakes.
“Brooke.” My voice broke, and my fucking hands trembled. I shoved them into the pockets of my sweats to hide the shake. “I’m sorry.” The words escaped my lips in a whispered plea, reverberating in the stillness of the night. “I’m so sorry. I’m so fucking sorry. I’ll do better, I’ll be better, I’ll try harder.” I puffed an exhale and kneaded the heels of my palms into my eyes, rubbing hard enough to see stars.
The sheets rustled as she sat up, her legs sweeping over the side of the bed. She looked painfully beautiful, tucked beneath my blankets in her sweats and her cheeks a faint pink from sleep. But I couldn’t look at her when the remnants of hurt lingered in that beauty.
“Please,” I rasped, not dropping my hands. “Please forgive me. Please pick me. Please. You joked that I would be the one begging, and I am, Brooke. I’m here, begging. Pick me. I’m probably the wrong choice. You might regret it, but I’ll love you harder than anyone else. I’ll love you longer because I’ll love you forever. I’ve always loved you.”
“Liam.” Her voice was soft, so fucking soft. Too soft. Oh god, she was going to kindly tell me to fuck off. She wanted my bedroom, that was all. But the radiator often broke, and she’d overheat. Brooke liked a cold room when she slept.
“Liam,” she repeated.
“Please, just… let me get this out. It’s hard for me to admit when I’ve fucked up. Mostly because there’s not enough time in my day to address all the ways I manage to do so, but Brooke, I swear, I will do better.”
“Then start now.”
My hands fell from my face, and I blinked. “What?”
She sat on the edge of the bed, her legs kicked over the side, and her feet brushed over the carpet. “Come here.” She patted the mattress beside her.
I took a seat and melted against her when she shifted to bridge the inches I placed between us. She was having none of it.
“You told me I was your challenger, Liam.” She held up the note I left in her bag on the morning of her presentation. “You said I make you want to fight harder for yourself. Do it.”
I swallowed and averted my gaze to my clammy palms pressed hard into my thighs. “I did. I meant it. Why do you have that? You’re… in my room. Unless you want it to be your room,” I hurriedly added. “With my note. Why do you have the note? Is it me? Or the room?”
She gave a solemn shake of her head. “With this radiator? Good lord, no.” Her face softened, and she smiled. “The sheets smell like you. I missed you.” Then she got a serious look on her face and pinched my arm.
Fuck, she got me good, catching the skin and twisting like she did when we were kids. “Gah.” I rubbed the sore spot.
“I’d dead-knee you if you were standing.”
Those sucked, too. “Well deserved,” I admitted. “But I draw the line at atomic wedgies.”
She sighed. “You ruin my fun.”
It took all effort to bite my tongue and not shoot off some comment about my efficiency in ruining things. The therapist I met with yesterday told me to cut that shit out. In professional words. Mostly.
Brooke’s fingers slid into my hair, and she feathered through it. “It scares me, too, Liam. I wanted to fight and push and run away like I did when we were kids.” She hummed, tucking my hair behind my ear. “But I chose to push against those old voices that told me I wasn’t good enough and trust you when you tell me that I am.”
“I want to do that, too. For you, for me.”
She reached across my lap and grabbed something off the nightstand. I recognized it immediately.
“You opened the gift.” Holy shit, she was just in here, treating my room like a vestige of our relationship with her notes and gifts. “You’re the fucking best,” I whispered, my eyes shining with affection.
“You might say I’m nosy, and I’ll say delightfully curious. Why didn’t you give this to me on my birthday?”
I ruffled the hair on the back of my head and winced. “Your ex showed up with something about you —something from your history to remind you of how wonderful you are. My recycled present seemed like I was piggybacking on sentimentality, only worse because my gift was about me .”
She shook her head. “You’re wrong, Liam. I wish you’d given it to me. There is nothing selfish about this. It’s the most beautiful gift I’ve ever received in my entire life. Thoughtful, selfless, and more meaningful than giving me something I made myself.”
Well… shit. I guess Sam kind of had wrapped up something of hers and regifted it.
“Yeah? Better than a candy gram?”
She tapped her chin and glanced at the ceiling. “Okay, that’s a tough one. Let me think about that.” Her smile practically split her face. “You got me two phenomenal gifts for one birthday! You write these heartfelt, breathtaking notes that I have spent days reading repeatedly. Liam, you’re amazing, truly amazing.”
I gave her a pointed look. “I can’t build a robot.”
She laughed and shook her head. “Well, it’s a good thing that your amazing isn’t the same as my amazing. How dreadfully boring!”
“Oh, terribly. That’s, like, Sir Arrick-level dreadful.” I rolled my eyes.
“The worst!” Brooke held up the baseball. “Be my contender. Be my challenger. It’s hard, but I will fight for you, even if that means fighting myself to do it. Will you fight for me?”
My voice cracked. “Every fucking day of my life, Brooke.” I cocked my head, my brows pinched tight with the sincerity of that promise. “I’ll fight myself to be what you deserve.” I hesitated but meant it when I added, “What I deserve, too.”
“Good. Then let me remind you that you’re the king of the fucking world, since this baseball now belongs to me.” She gripped my shirt, crashing her mouth to mine. The baseball rolled out of her palm when both hands cupped my face to bring the kiss deeper.
She opened for me, and I caressed her tongue, long and relentless and desperate. I broke away, panting and breathless, gratitude flooding through my body.
My arms wrapped around her waist, and I buried my face against her neck, pressing small kisses to her warm skin. “I love you, Brooke. I’m in love with you. I think I might have always been.”
“I love you. I’m in love with you. I know I always have been.” Her hands curved over my shoulders, gripping me like she couldn’t get close enough—but this woman lived in my fucking heart and in the marrow of my bones.
And she loves me.
I didn’t fuck this up. Thank god.
I mean, I did fuck this up, but not irreparably. And maybe… maybe it was better like this. No pretending, no hiding, no faking. Just full-on fisticuffs, standing back-to-back, brawling, wrestling, and battling those demons—mostly mine. But that’s what tag-teaming was for. Or one of its many purposes, rather.
“So, you think I can do it, huh?” I twisted a strand of her hair around my finger, and our eyes locked intently as we smiled like a couple of happy fools. “This vulnerability and trust stuff?”
“I know you can. You’re my lotus flower.” Her fingers brushed along my thigh, tender and reassuring. I liked it when she said that.
I grinned. “And you’re my Zaza, rescuing me by digging me out of the rubble of life, saving me.”
Her head dropped back with the prettiest laugh. My gaze didn’t leave her for a moment of it. “I’m going to do it,” I promised.
Her palms slid down my arms, running to my hands and lacing our fingers together. She pressed her lips to mine in a kiss so soft it could have been a whisper. “I believe it.”
“Yeah?”
There was nothing but certainty in her warm eyes. “Yeah. You’re a sure bet.”