Chapter 23 #2
The pretty blonde pauses at the doorframe for punctuation, then hurls herself into a chair like a human cannonball, legs folded pretzel-style and face already pink from the walk across campus. She clocks Liam, and—this is new—gives him a high-key, non-ironic smile.
“Hey, Professor T.” It’s more of a nickname now than a title, and the teasing isn’t hostile. “You surviving the Simone tornado?”
He deadpans. “Barely. She keeps me on my toes.”
“Good,” Andie says, then shoots me a look that says, You better not let him get boring now that he’s domesticated.
I slide her a tea I ordered in anticipation. “Chamomile, half a bag of raw sugar. Just how you like it.”
She grins, takes an enormous slurp, and sighs with happiness. “God, you’re an angel.” She turns to Liam. “You ever see her first thing in the morning? Like, before she puts her face on?”
He smiles at me. “I think she’s beautiful at all hours.”
I flush so hard my earlobes burn. “Gross. Stop.”
Andie laughs—actually laughs at one of his jokes, which is unprecedented—and then asks, “So what’s the plan for the evening? You two hitting up the poetry reading, or are you just going to make out in every empty building on campus?”
Liam leans in, all mock conspiratorial. “We were planning on making out in the library, but I hear security’s stepped up patrols since the, ah, incident.”
Andie almost chokes on her drink, then stabs a finger at him. “You told her about that?”
I feign innocence. “Told me what?”
She glares, but it melts immediately. “If anyone asks, I was with you at Chipotle that night.”
Liam lifts his hands. “Your secret’s safe. Academic confidentiality.”
I snort and feel the world slide into its new alignment: the three of us, not as a crisis unit, but as a lopsided family. It’s a little surreal.
We chat—about nothing, about everything.
Andie is working two jobs this summer, one at the pool (lifeguard, obviously, because she adores shirtless men) and one dog-sitting for some guy who travels so much that the dog now whines if left alone for more than four minutes.
She says she’s thinking of going into veterinary medicine, or maybe running away to join a circus.
Liam talks about his seminar, how half his students can’t stand confessional poetry and the other half are addicted to it.
He admits that a kid named Wyatt is already twice the poet he ever was at twenty-one, but that it’s “ennobling, not threatening,” which Andie immediately makes fun of: “Ennobling. My god, do you just walk around talking like that all the time?”
He says, “I try to keep it under control, but your friend makes me relapse.”
They bicker, but it’s friendly now, the tension gone. I watch them and feel, for the first time, that maybe I really can have both—a life with him, and a life with her. That the whole world doesn’t have to be an either/or.
At some point, Liam’s phone buzzes. He checks it, frowns, then says, “Excuse me for a minute. The department chair wants a word about adjunct contracts.” He leans over, kisses my temple, and stands, leaving us in the booth with his half-finished tea.
Andie watches him go, then turns on me with the full force of her laser focus. “You’re happy,” she says, not even a question.
I nod. “I really am.”
She looks at her hands, flexes them, then shakes her head. “I owe you an apology.”
I blink. “For what?”
She bites her lip, and for a second I see her as she was in our first year—scared, fragile, hiding behind hair and bravado. “For not being happy for you sooner. For acting like you were doomed, or I was going to lose you. I was just…” She trails off, then finishes with a shrug.
I put my hand over hers. “You were protecting me.”
She nods, silent.
I squeeze her fingers. “You’re my family. Even if we get boyfriends. Even if we move to different coasts.”
She laughs, but there’s water in her eyes. “We’re so predictable.”
I grin. “Maybe. But we’re alive.”
A silence, companionable. I sense she wants to confide something, so I wait.
She leans forward, voice dropping. “So, I have to tell you something, but you can’t freak out.”
“Uh-oh.”
“It’s not a bad thing. It’s just… I think I have a crush.”
I let out a dramatic gasp. “On whom?”
She hushes me. “Not so loud! Jesus.”
I giggle, but I’m burning to know. “Is it someone I know?”
She nods, lip caught between her teeth. “Not a student. Not a professor. I swear. But older. Like, way older.”
“How much older?” I demand, already running through a mental Rolodex of possible suspects.
She giggles, blushing. “Old enough to be my dad. Older than your boyfriend, even. But, like, super hot. Silver fox.”
I nearly spit my coffee. “Stop. Who?”
She waggles her eyebrows. “Promise you won’t judge?”
“Never,” I say, which is the world’s biggest lie.
She glances over her shoulder, as if the subject might appear out of nowhere, then says, “It’s someone you know. Someone you’ve met.”
I lean forward. “Who though?”
“Stella’s dad.”
I squint my eyes.
“Stella from down the hall? But how did you even meet him? I feel like I saw him once from a hundred feet away when he was helping Stella move.”
“Yeah, and he was hot right?”
I nod, blinking.
“Yeah, but Andie. He’s Stella’s dad. Like he has to be at least forty-five, wouldn’t you say?”
She giggles.
“Yeah, probably, but he’s still virile, Sim. Let me tell you, that guy has got it going.”
I stop, mouth open.
“Oh my god, you’ve already had sex with him!”
Andie blushes.
“I mean … maybe, no not really. Okay, sort of, yes. He’s fierce in bed, Simone.
And so intense, and absolutely hung too.
I could barely fit him inside, and I swear, I was limping around the next day.
But don’t tell anyone!” she says quickly, sitting up.
“Not even Stella knows about us. Not yet, at least.”
“Wow,” I marvel. “Stella’s dad. You like your men seasoned.”
“Don’t,” she warns, but she’s laughing now, too. “I’m just saying that anything’s possible. That’s all. And before you judge—”
“Not judging. I’m proud.” I raise my cup in a toast. “To smokin’ hot old dudes.”
She giggles. “You’re the worst.”
I squeeze her hand again. “You should go for it. Worst thing that happens is you become a sugar baby because he’s an older guy. So he has it all figured out, right?”
She leans back, exhaling. “Yeah. Maybe.”
Liam returns, eyebrows slightly furrowed but otherwise chill. “Everything okay here?” he asks.
Andie nods, fixing her face into her usual armor. “Perfect. Simone says I have to start dating men my own age, though.”
I roll my eyes. “Never said that.”
He glances at me, question in his eyes. I smile, and he lets it go.
Andie stands, checks her phone, and says, “I gotta run. Dog-walking gig. If I don’t show up, he pees in the neighbor’s shoes out of spite.”
She gathers her stuff, hugs me tight—longer than usual—then gives Liam a two-fingered salute. “Take care of her, or I’ll break your knees,” she says, all bravado.
He grins. “Wouldn’t dream of doing otherwise.”
She leaves, and the booth feels empty without her kinetic energy, but also a little more peaceful. I lean into Liam’s side, let his arm drape over my shoulders.
He kisses my hair, then murmurs, “Do I want to know what you were discussing?”
I shake my head, then whisper, “She’ll kill me for telling you, but Andie’s sleeping with an older guy. He’s super fit, allegedly.”
Liam snorts. “Maybe he can give me gym tips.”
I nudge him and giggle. “Don’t get competitive.”
He laughs, then grows quiet. “I like this,” he says, softly. “The three of us, at peace. I’ve never had that before.”
I snuggle closer. “Me neither.”
For a while, we just sit there, drinking lukewarm coffee and watching the campus glow with late light.
It’s not dramatic, or forbidden, or even particularly original.
But it’s ours.
And right now, that feels like more than enough.
Later that evening, I sit on the porch swing at Liam’s house, lazily moving back and forth.
The swing is ancient, painted white but flaking to reveal rust-colored metal underneath, and it croaks with every arc.
The whole porch smells like citronella and wet wood.
There are fireflies already, flashing in fits above the lawn, even though it’s not quite dark enough for them to blend in.
I tuck my feet under me and let the air touch my ankles, cold and perfect after a day that left my skin sticky with sweat.
Liam’s hand covers mine, bigger than my whole palm, and we both stare out at the yard like it’s the most fascinating show on TV. There’s no one else around—just the sigh of the street, the hush of post-dinner life, and the long, soft echo of summer.
He runs his thumb along the inside of my wrist, which still makes me shiver. “Do you ever wonder if this was all a terrible idea?”
I snort. “You mean dating a student, or dating me?”
He grins. “Yes to both.”
I smack his arm, then settle in closer. “It’s only a terrible idea if we fuck it up. So far, no evidence of that.”
He swings us higher, the chain shrieking a protest. “I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop. Like, some cosmic authority will revoke my good fortune.”
“You’re such a fatalist.”
He shrugs. “It’s a habit. Besides, you’re worth getting in trouble for.”
I think about that—how, when we started, every minute together felt like smuggling a bomb into a courthouse.
Now it’s weirdly normal. My toothbrush is in his bathroom.
He leaves the French press set up for me.
He’s memorized which oat milk I prefer. I know which of his old shirts make for the best pajamas and how to make his hangover smoothie.
There’s a weird peace in that. A comfort.
But I sense the real question under his words, so I say, “You’re not going to get arrested for being with me. I’m a grad student now. You’re just another gross, emotionally-stunted male in my life.”
He laughs, then gets quiet, and I feel him gearing up to say something big.