9
Liam’s apartment is a masterpiece.
He has somehow snagged the most incredible corner loft overlooking the Manhattan Bridge in Dumbo. If his windows opened, I
wonder if he could reach out his arms and touch it. At once, I am envious that someone my age has all this. In Brooklyn. And
I’m also really hoping he’s not a psychopath, luring young artists to his impressive home in order to chop them up into teeny-tiny
pieces.
I set down my supplies, the cheap plastic having bitten angry pink tracks into my arms. “Liam,” I say, as if we’re old friends,
“are you a drug lord?”
He laughs, and I realize that it might be my new favorite sound. It makes me momentarily forget about this amazing loft and
his gigantic studio and the fact that he could be a serial killer and I could die tonight.
“Well,” he says, dropping his satchel and two more bags of art supplies, “I found it right out of grad school. I dabble in art and photography on the side and sold some pretty big pieces a couple of years back, which helped me secure this place. Because it’s so big, I decided to turn half of it into a studio so I can rent it out. I find that someone always needs it. And I like to be helpful.” He shrugs sheepishly and stabs his glasses higher onto his nose.
“You dabble in art and photography? On the side?” I am suddenly achingly hot. I strip off my jacket and settle my nervous hands on my
hips. “Will you show me some of your stuff?”
He gives me that sheepish look again and shrugs. “Sure.” He leads me over to a few easels. I don’t know what I’m expecting—something
abstract, bowls of lopsided fruit, or bad portraits of all of his victims—but then he shows me a series of New York architecture
and people that appear as black and white photographs. Except, as I lean in, I discover they are all charcoal sketches.
“Liam.” I’m careful not to touch anything, but I dance from piece to piece, buzzing with the excitement I get when I clamp
onto something really good. And this work—Liam’s work—is really good. “If you write as good as you sketch, I’m going to gouge
my eyes out with a paintbrush. These are phenomenal.”
When I raise my gaze, he is looking at me as though he can see something deep inside me, something I don’t even know how to
name. My face flushes, and I avert my eyes. I don’t know Liam Hale, but I do know I have never been looked at that way in
my entire life.
“Thank you, Harper,” he says. “That means a lot.”
I glance around at the rest of the space: a king-size bed takes up the center of the room, flanked by a worn-in leather couch,
a large TV, a guitar, and mounds of books stacked along a bank of windows with that breathtaking view. Art hangs on every
square inch of free wall space. I am hungry to memorize every detail.
“So where are you staying?” he asks.
I wave my hand. “Some hostel.” I don’t tell him that it’s awful and smells like cigarette smoke and sweat, and that I am dreading going back tonight.
He laughs. “Why?”
I also don’t know how to tell him that I am the basic stereotype of a broke artist. The reality is, I barely have enough to
make it month to month, much less book the Four Seasons.
“All I could afford,” I find myself saying. It’s the truth, after all. I don’t mention that Kendall offered to let me stay
at her place for the week but that made me claustrophobic just thinking about it.
“So stay here.”
His words make me whip around from the gorgeous view. “What?”
He smiles while he makes a pot of coffee. He’s so easy in the kitchen, so easy to watch. He’s removed his jacket, revealing
a Ramones T-shirt, and my heart gives a little kick. I love the Ramones. His dark forearms flex as he pulls down two mugs.
“I have all this space, and if you’re going to be working on your pieces, it might be nice to stay up late or get up early
with no distractions. Right?”
I shake my head at this angelic man who might not be a serial killer after all and motion to the giant bed. “Won’t that be
putting you out?”
“Not at all.” He presses Start on the coffee maker. “I’ve got a few stories I’m chasing, so I won’t be here much. And I can
crash on the couch.”
The disappointment curls like a fist that I might not see him much, but at the same time, having the freedom to create at
all hours of the day or night not in a gross hostel sounds like an absolute dream. I live with two roommates in Chicago, and I can never get any privacy. I often create in fits and starts. I don’t think I’ve ever had one straight week to work on a piece outside of finals, and I become irrationally excited as I think about it. “Only if you’re sure,” I say. “I can cook, do laundry, whatever you need.”
He smiles. “Just make something beautiful.” He thrusts his hands into his pockets and looks at me again, practically eye-fucking my soul . I can’t handle it. I can’t handle this nice, studious, brilliant man who lives in my dream apartment in my dream city who
just offered it all up to me on a silver platter. I want to ask him everything I can think of: Does he have a girlfriend?
How long has he lived in the city? Who does he write for? But I’m already realizing that when Liam looks at me like that,
I go completely brain-dead.
Finally, I find my voice. “Do you have to work the rest of the day?”
He pours us each a cup of coffee and holds up the cream. I nod and he pours in a generous splash. When he hands me a mug,
our fingers touch, and my skin tingles with possibility.
“I don’t actually,” he says. “You?” He motions to my supplies. I know I need to get started, but I want to shake out this
excess energy first. I want to explore Brooklyn. I want to have some fun. I want to be with Liam.
“Today I’d love to see the city through your eyes.” Oh my God, who am I and what am I even saying? “That is, if you have time,” I backtrack. “If not, I can totally entertain myself.”
“Harper.” Liam’s gaze slices into mine before his eyes trail down to my mouth and back up again.
Eye. Fucked. Population: me.
“I would love to show you around.”
I nod my assent, because now all the blood has rushed between my legs. I take a sip of coffee to distract myself and...
Oh my God, this is the best coffee I have ever had . I decide then and there that I have to know everything I can about Liam Hale because I have never met anyone like him...
and probably won’t ever again.