Chapter 12
April, Four Years Ago
After what almost happened during our music lesson, I relegate my time with Liam to group activities.
We spend three Wednesdays in a row reading (and talking) in the oversized armchairs at the bookstore, then out to dinner with Zara after she closes up shop.
We talk about our families, their classwork, our thriftiest hacks; we play a game where Liam names a city, and Zara and I try to name the baseball team.
Upon request, Liam walks us through the draft process for MLB, then goes red when we look up his stats online.
“Number seventeen!” Zara says, smacking Liam’s shoulder. “That’s impressive.”
“You’re definitely getting drafted this summer?” I ask.
“If I’m healthy,” Liam says, “and I keep throwing well, then probably.”
Zara and I promise Liam we’ll come to his next home game, but it’ll be a few weeks since he has a three-week away stretch coming up. South Carolina, Mississippi, then Texas.
He goes off to play baseball in other states without really being absent, texting our group chat about his Robin Hobb audiobook updates, sending me songs to listen to with zero context.
He’s just off the bus from Hattiesburg, home for a few nights before hitting the road again for the Texas A it’s Maisy.
“Hey,” I say, answering without question.
“Hey, sorry, I’m ready now.”
She’s ready now?
We were supposed to lie out at her apartment pool four hours ago.
I took off work this afternoon specifically so we could do that together since it was the first truly hot day of the season.
Zara asked if I wanted to go thrifting with her at 2:30, and I turned her down in case Maisy texted saying she was headed down to the pool, that I should come over.
I glance at the sky. There are still a few dwindling hours of daylight left, but in late April, it’ll be way too cold to swim.
“Is everything okay? Did something bad happen this afternoon?” I ask.
“No, but lunch with my roommates ran long, and then I wanted to get a manicure and work out and grocery shop before we drank by the pool all night. I just put my bathing suit on. Oh! I also finagled us a twelve-pack of your favorite beer. The one from Wicked Weed?”
My stomach plummets.
I flick my eyes to Liam. He’s leaning his elbows on the edge of his truck bed, watching me with a concerned expression.
“The thing is, Maisy, I’m with a friend now. I thought you were bailing on me.”
“What? Why would you think that? I said noon as like, a ballpark time.”
Noon? Liam mouths.
“Also, what friend?” She all but snarls the word.
I debate lying, but Liam can obviously hear her. If our roles were reversed, I wouldn’t want him to be embarrassed admitting he’s hanging out with me.
“Liam. Bishop.”
There’s a pause. “My Liam?”
Something about that phrasing seems to really bother Maisy’s Liam. His expression flattens and he pulls off the truck.
“Um,” I say. “The … pitcher? The one we were talking to at that party last month?”
“The one I went on a date with?”
I am surer than ever that Maisy’s blasé attitude about that date was a front, but it still doesn’t give her the right to act this possessive of him, or me.
Liam walks over to me and grabs the phone. He hits mute. “Tell her you have plans for the rest of the evening.”
Unmute.
“I’m sorry, Maisy. I’m busy for the rest of the evening.”
“Just invite him too!” Her voice is shrill.
Liam hits mute again. “She’s not a part of our friendship.”
“But Zara is?”
“Yes. I like Zara.”
“You don’t like Maisy?”
Liam fixes me with a look. “She’s not my type of girl.”
“Hello?” Maisy calls.
Liam hits unmute again, nods at me to talk.
“We can’t, Maisy. I’m sorry.”
“What the fuck, Paige?”
“I’ll call you tomorrow, okay? I have to go.”
“Wait—”
Liam does not wait. He ends the call and hands me back my phone. “Proud of you.” He turns back toward the gear.
“Why?”
“If you weren’t with me right now,” he asks, grabbing a long sheath of an athletic bag, “would you have gone to her place?”
“Probably,” I say with a shrug. “I took off work today. I wouldn’t have wanted to waste my free time.”
“Maisy is the one who wasted your free time.”
I roll my eyes. “You sound like Zara.”
“Zara doesn’t like Maisy either?”
“I thought you said she’s just not your type of girl?”
Liam smirks, leaning over me. He’s got the bag in one hand, a cooler in his other. His voice drops incrementally. “You forgot Bristol, baby.”
My body is a volcano. Simmering. Teeming. Waiting for the permission of a tectonic shift to combust.
“I’ll leave it in the car, so the water doesn’t overheat.”
His gaze lingers on me, all amusement. “Paige. I have a cooler.”
“What’s in it?”
“Your favorite beer from Wicked Weed.”
“Ha ha.”
His eyes narrow. “Not joking. I liked it at the party that night, too.” With that, he pushes past me and heads for the gate.
I grab my water bottle from the rolled-down window. My phone vibrates.
Maisy: Does Evan know you’re hanging out with another guy?
She still doesn’t know we broke up. Maisy and I don’t hang out as much as we used to, even compared to this time last year. I was going to tell her tonight, but I’ve been dragging my feet for weeks. She was so happy for me, with Evan. I type out a quick response.
Paige: Liam and I are just friends.
Maisy: If that’s what he’s telling you, he’s playing a long game to get in your pants and then never speak to you again.
The accusation unsettles me because of course it does. Liam and I almost kissed the same day I told him I was single.
I put my phone in my sports bra and walk to where he’s waiting for me, holding the gate open. “Maisy thinks you only want to be my friend as a long game to get in my pants and then never speak to me again.”
He barks out a laugh, his smile going crooked. “That is factually incorrect.”
I study him. “Promise? Because I’m starting to like you, and so is Zara.”
“You’re starting to like me?”
“Fine. I already like you a lot. You mean something to me.”
Liam’s expression softens, his smile turning down three watts. Dimmer now, but still warm and glowing. “You mean something to me, too, Paige.”
He blinks twice, eyelashes whirring. My defenses start to crumble, as if the hinge points keeping my limbs in place are giving out.
“We’re just friends,” I say.
“If you say so,” Liam says.
“If you say so!” I almost wail. “That’s what you wanted!”
“When it was the only option,” he counters. “And to be clear, my admitting that is in no way the same thing as admitting I want to get in your pants and never speak to you again.”
“So you want to get in my pants, and then stay friends.”
He considers, says, “More or less.”
“You want to be friends with benefits?”
“No,” Liam says, looking horrified. “Never mind on the less. Only the more.”
“So you want to date?” I ask.
His smile is light. “Would that make me the worst best friend ever?”
“Yes,” I say, pushing past him to the field. “Now, let’s do what we came here to do as a part of our friendship pact.”
When I turn back to see if he’s following me, Liam looks like he’s got more to say, but he bites it back when he catches my ruthless expression.
The grass and dirt have been baking under the southern spring heat all day, and the resultant smell is lawn-mower-esque. There’s no dugout on these fields apart from two metal benches that look singeing hot to the touch, a mysterious bag hiding beneath one of them.
Liam dumps his bat bag on the ground by home plate, sets the cooler under one of the benches. “I figured we’d warm up throwing the ball back and forth, and then I’ll see how your swing is?”
“I don’t have a glove,” I say, rubbing the heels of my palms against each other.
“I bought one for you.” He unzips the bag and pulls out two baseball gloves. One is large, worn, caramel colored. The other is brand-new, a bit smaller. He tosses it to me.
“I’ll pay you for this,” I promise.
“Don’t. It’s a gift.”