Chapter 5
March, Four Years Ago
I don’t run into Bookstore Liam again for just over a year and a half.
A couple weeks after I gave him Maisy’s phone number, I remembered to ask her if she ever heard from him.
Maisy told me he called, that they’d gone on one date at the start of that school year, but the chemistry wasn’t there, and they hadn’t even kissed.
(Also, that he was the first-string pitcher for the baseball team, which I had to admit made sense based on his physicality and overall hotness.)
“What specifically didn’t you like about him?” I’d asked Maisy a few days later while we were hunting through thrift racks.
“I can just tell he’s a womanizer,” Maisy had replied. Jokingly she added, “I only entertain boys who are obsessed with me.”
Of which she had plenty, and that was the end of that.
But two Marches later, after the first baseball game of the season, I spot Liam Bishop at a party Maisy dragged me to in the off-campus neighborhood where upperclassmen live.
If Maisy’s a sophomore, that makes Liam a junior now. In the last eighteen months, he’s grown taller and broader like a vibrant weed. He’s leaning against a beam of wooden patio railing holding a bottle of Stella in his hand, circled by friends or possibly fans.
I don’t plan on acknowledging him—what are the odds he remembers me?—but about thirty minutes later, Liam grabs me by the wrist as I’m passing him in the main hallway of the house.
“There’s my little white liar.”
The sound of his voice is like ocean waves. His words lull, inflect in odd places, then soften again, as if controlled by a power beyond him.
I’m in my cups at this point, which is why I say, “You’ve been reading up on me?”
Liam grins. “Lately? No. Two falls ago? Definitely.”
I can’t stop staring at the shape of his lips as he speaks, the way his whole mouth tilts to the left. There’s a mild frustration in his eyes, which is new. If something can even be new when you’ve only had two interactions.
His hand on my wrist softens but doesn’t release. “You told me you were a student.”
“Wish fulfillment,” I say with a shrug.
My words gentle his expression. “Your sister is enrolled.”
“You remember Zara too?”
Liam’s eyes narrow, back to accusatory. “Why do you assume I’ve got memory problems?”
“Not problems, per se. I guess I assumed you’d be the selective memory type.”
He leans in microscopically. My pulse starts to whir. “And you think my memory wouldn’t have selected to remember you?”
“We spoke for three minutes, eighteen months ago,” I say.
“You understand the hypocrisy of your assumption followed by the specificity of that sentence, right?”
“I was mistaken,” I say, feeling bubbly and loose. “It’s great to see you again, Liam.”
His eyes go flinty. “It’s been too long, Paige Lancaster.”
“Wow, my last name and everything?”
“Who hurt you?”
I belt out a laugh, and Liam’s face splits into another grin. Finally, he lets go of my wrist, but not before his thumb drags across my pulse point.
I shrug. “I guess I’m just used to having to remind people where we’ve met before.”
“I can’t fathom needing to be reintroduced to the girl with a gray lock of hair.” His hand raises to my shoulder, where he pinches my hair between his fingers and then runs them down the length of it. My skin flushes, but God bless, it might be too dark for him to notice.
“My Mallen streak. I’ve had it since I was a baby.”
“I like it,” Liam says. “Not that it’s supposed to matter to you, but I do.”
I smile genuinely. “Well, thanks.”
After a few more seconds, Liam’s fingers drop back to his side. I move down the hallway toward the kitchen. He follows me.
“So,” Liam says. “Why aren’t you in school? Gap year? Or years?”
I weave through a few bodies and open the Tetris-packed fridge, grabbing a beer from the six-pack I brought with me.
“Want one?” I ask. Liam nods and I hand it over, then grab another.
“College isn’t a hallmark thing in my family,” I explain.
I debate leaving it at that, but Liam waits quietly like he’d like me to elaborate.
“Neither of my parents went. My oldest sister, Maren, did, and as you mentioned, Zara’s a senior here now, but my other two sisters never bothered and are doing just fine. ”
A small lie, since I have no idea how Folly’s doing (I haven’t heard from her since before I last spoke with Liam), but that’s not a situation I care to explain at the moment.
“There are five of you?” he asks.
I nod, smirking. “All girls.”
“Wow,” he says. “I bet the Lancaster family dinners were boisterous.”
He may as well have pinched my heart, but Liam couldn’t have known.
I used to love our family dinners. Maren and Candice would always cook while Folly, Zara, and I took turns walking the dog, setting the table, cleaning up the dishes after.
Dad would roll in from his warehouse job at 7:10 on the dot, and we’d sit down and talk over each other until someone burped, which would make our very old and very anxious dog howl, which would make everyone else burst into laughter.
Years later, when all my sisters were gone and Dad’s manager moved him to night shifts, I’d sit alone at that huge table and remember their voices through the quiet.
“Also,” I add, blowing past his comment. “The idea of throwing myself back into a social cesspool after high school graduation was unappealing.”
“You mean a social cesspool like this?” Liam asks, gesturing with one hand before he pops the tab of his beer.
I glance around the party, full enough with people that I’m genuinely worried about the floorboards caving. “I guess the part I didn’t figure out until it was too late is that college is a much bigger pond.”
Liam nods, leaning against the fridge. “There are no big fish here, so to speak.”
I arch an eyebrow. “Some would say you’re the big fish.”
His eyes dance. “You’ve been reading up on me?”
“Enough to know you’re more important to the baseball team than beer passer outer.”
“Right.” He nods at me, then the fridge. “You’ve obviously got that covered.”
“So you didn’t tell me you were the team’s first-string pitcher, and I didn’t tell you I wasn’t enrolled. Are we even?”
“Getting there,” Liam says, lips quirking. He takes a sip of his beer. My beer.
“That’s from an Asheville brewery,” I tell him. “I went last weekend with Maisy.”
“Who?”
“Maisy Morgan? The girl you went on a date with, whose number I gave you?”
“Oh, right.” Liam rubs a hand through his hair. He looks like he’s on the brink of saying something else when Maisy appears beside me. She throws an arm over my shoulder.
“Heard you speak of the devil!” she singsongs shrilly. “Hey, Liam.”
“Hi.” He smiles at her warmly, his eyes flitting across her features. “How are you?”
“You mean since I saw you this morning? Crawling out of my roommate’s bed?”
Liam coughs into his fist. “Didn’t realize that was you. I’d thrown away my contacts before we went to sleep.”
“It’s cool.” There’s a bitter edge to Maisy’s voice I’m not sure anyone but me could notice, and I’m suddenly questioning if she downplayed for me how much she had liked him.
“Anyway,” she says. “I’ve been great.”
“Glad to hear it.” A blush is still lingering on Liam’s neck. I smirk as he twists away from us, looking for an out. “I’m gonna—bathroom.”
“Bye!” Maisy belts. “Paige, should we go find your boyfriend?”
She grabs a seltzer from the fridge while Liam vanishes and then pulls me onto the patio, leaning in to whisper. “I got home from the bar last night and found Liam Bishop in Millie’s bed.”
“Sounds like you were right about his womanizing ways.”
“Definitely.” Her head bobs, reassured. “Anyway, is Evan here yet?”
Evan: another waiter at the restaurant where I work, though he’s aspiring for a sommelier certification. He’s prone to waxing poetic about the backstory of his drinks, which is maybe why I just did the same, explaining to Liam where I’d gotten this beer.
A few months after I moved to Knoxville and started working at Emilia, Evan asked me on a date one night, point-blank. Later, he told me my shock was adorable—that pretty much everything about me was adorable. I’ve been metaphorically in his hands ever since.
He’s older than me by four and a half years, but Evan says all the time I’m mature for my age.
Being in my first relationship has been so novel that I’ve had little to no complaints thus far—but lately, I’ve started to wish for things that haven’t really been on the table.
Like hanging out with each other’s friends instead of keeping our people separate, or spending time together in places other than his apartment or work.
Still, Maisy is excited for me—that I have a guy now—and maybe that’s part of why I’m excited about him too.
“No, he’s working tonight,” I remind her. Because I swear I’ve already mentioned it.
Her arm loops through mine, a pleased smile stealing her expression. “Shots?”
We locate a handle of tequila and pour shots from it, then play a couple rounds of flip cup and erupt into a giggle fit watching some guy try to (unsuccessfully) open a beer bottle with his teeth.
When he and his friend come over to flirt, I let Maisy entertain them both and return to the fridge for another of my Asheville blondes.
On my way back outside, I peer over the patio railing at Maisy holding court with the men in the backyard. I lean on my elbows, not in any hurry to rejoin them.
Things have changed since high school. Thanks to her studies and my work schedule, Maisy and I aren’t joined at the hip anymore, and even though she seemingly got over her annoyance at my living here, I’ve still tried to give her more space than we ever managed in Bristol.
At the restaurant, I’ve made friends of my own—found a boyfriend, even—and with them came an important self-discovery: sometimes, I don’t want to be around the same people Maisy wants to be around.
“I’m not an asshole, for the record.”