Chapter 14 #2
I can tell by the angle the sunlight streams through the window it’s still early.
A warm tongue licks my hand, and with a groan, I peel one eye open.
Mutt sits, happy as a clam, his little tongue licking my upturned palm like he’s personally responsible for my well-being.
He even looks proud of himself. His hairless snout seems to wear a self-satisfied expression that says See?
I’m taking care of you, too. I give him scratches on his head and slowly drag myself from Liam’s cloud of a bed.
The sound of a piano being played drifts from the front of the house, and I wrap myself in an afghan that’s folded on a chair in the corner. With quiet footsteps, I pad across the cool oak floor and into the living room, the afghan trailing behind me like a wedding train.
I find Liam sitting at his piano, eyes closed, fingers moving across the keys.
The song isn’t one I’m familiar with, but the moment feels intimate all the same, as though I’ve stumbled onto a moment meant only for Liam.
Pausing in the doorway, I rest my head on the wooden frame and let my eyes drift closed, letting the music wash over me.
The notes emerge unhurried, a minor key weaving a story of a heart held together by threads. As the melody builds, it doesn’t rush toward a resolution; instead, it lingers, almost as if it’s sitting with grief, refusing to look away from the ache.
When Liam strikes the final note, the sound remains, suspended in the space between us as if it isn’t finished with us yet.
A moment trapped in golden amber. I open my eyes to find him perfectly still, head bowed, eyes closed, and the strangest thought takes root in my mind: he looks like a fallen angel caught mid-prayer, mourning something only he can see.
I stay silent, breath held, refusing to break the spell of this raw, beautiful piece of himself Liam has just laid bare.
Then he takes one deep breath, lifts his head and his eyes open, green gaze landing on mine.
“I didn’t mean to listen,” I whisper, my words barely a breath. “I heard music and followed.”
“It’s okay,” he says. His voice is rough around the edges, like the song scraped him raw. “I don’t mind.”
I step farther into the room and take a seat beside him on the bench. “What was that?” I ask. “The song.”
He lifts a shoulder, fingers ghosting over the keys. “Just something I’ve been working on.”
“It sounded like…” I pause, searching for the right words. Honest ones. “It sounded like it knew things.”
“Something like that.”
I glance down at the piano, at the worn keys beneath his hands. “Who’s the composer?” I ask.
For a second, I think I’ve asked something wrong.
He hesitates before saying, “Me.” He delivers the words casually, almost offhanded, as if he’s discussing the weather. It’s a sunny day. It’s warm outside. I composed a gut-wrenching masterpiece.
I blink once, twice. “You?”
He nods. “Yeah.”
Something blooms in my chest, spreading fast. “Liam,” I say, my voice louder this time, unable to hold back my awe. “That was—wow—that was incredible.”
He huffs out a quiet breath, tilting up one side of his full lips. “Looks like I’m more than a pretty face.”
I want to push further, peel back his layers and say, “Don’t do that.
Don’t deflect with humor and charm. Tell me what’s beneath the surface of Liam Davis’s heart.
Let me know what kind of pain is the origin of a song like that.
” But Liam has held space for me without pushing, allowing me time to tell my story. I owe him that grace in return.
Pushing my questions aside, I let my hand find his cheek, stubble scratching beneath my palm.
“I know for a fact you’re so much more than a pretty face.”
I hold his gaze for several heartbeats until he turns his head, my palm slipping to land back in my lap.
His eyes soften, then with three quick blinks, the moment is broken, which I suspect is exactly what Liam wanted.
He vacates the bench first, his body in need of movement, and I follow him, still swathed in the afghan.
Liam heads to the kitchen, flicking on the overhead light, which feels too bright for the intimate moment we just shared.
And again, I sense that’s an intentional move.
To erase whatever he was lost in mere minutes ago.
“Fair warning,” he says, clearing his throat and opening a cabinet.
“I’m not a big breakfast eater. I have strawberry Pop-Tarts and stale Cap’n Crunch.
” He sets both boxes on the counter and then opens another cabinet, pulling out a kettle and several boxes of tea.
“I wanted you to feel comfortable when you woke up so I texted Penny. She told me you like hot tea, and lucky for you, my mom also drinks tea. I ran up to her house early this morning and grabbed a few boxes and her kettle. Oh, and I have these.”
He sweeps his hand to where he’s set Earl Grey, green tea, and oolong on the counter, along with my favorite little sticks of honey.
Picking up the box of oolong, he starts sounding out the word. “Ohlong? What the fuck is an ohlong?”
I bite back a grin at his mispronunciation. Knowing about his dyslexia, I’d never want him to think I was poking fun at his expense. “That one, please,” I say, pointing to the Earl Grey.
Liam nods quickly and turns, starting the water in the kettle and drops a few tea bags into a waiting mug with a Main Street Books logo on the side.
And without a word, he grabs his cigarettes from the counter and heads to the back porch.
Sensing he wants to be alone, I stand, hands braced on the countertop and watch as the water slowly starts to boil.
What the hell is going on right now? Liam is clearly rattled by something. His body is here but his mind is somewhere else entirely. Every instinct I have tells me this has nothing to do with my current situation and everything to do with something I’m entirely in the dark about.
Then the memory of what I heard during the night surfaces, and I think about what I heard. Stay with me, Jules.
I turn the words over and over in my mind, and I can’t help but wonder if his melancholy, on-edge distance has something to do with that, if whatever he was reaching for in the dark is still just out of his grasp.