33. Liam
33
LIAM
“ G oddamn.” Darius comes storming into Abe’s bar, letting out a string of curses. He crosses the room, anger written all over him, and ducks behind the bar without a glance in my direction.
“You alright?” I ask cautiously, and Darius snaps his gaze to me.
“Fine,” he barks out, even though he seems anything but.
I don’t say anything else as we set up the station, instead letting my thoughts wander to where they always do these days.
My wife.
Since my date with Whitney, I’ve been trying and failing to keep my distance. Failing because we live exactly three feet away from each other and no matter how I try to stop myself, I find myself knocking at her door in the late hours of the night. I’ve probably spent more time in her bed than my own at this point. Not that I’m complaining. The past few months feel like a dream, one that I don’t ever want to wake up from. But more and more I feel the cool glow of morning creeping up on me, warning me that this dream won’t last — that we’ve been doomed from the start.
I’ve been so caught up in Whitney that I’ve hardly thought about Luke’s foundation. To be honest, ever since the gala, I’ve been avoiding thinking about it. Between Tim’s hesitations and Rebecca’s rejection, I’m feeling pretty disheartened. The truth is that it’s hard to chase someone else’s dream, especially when it feels out of reach. Yet again, I wonder what Luke would think if he could see me now. Would he thank me for following along on his path, or would he be disappointed by my pace?
“It’s my dad,” Darius interrupts my spiraling from beside me. “He’s an asshole.”
I glance towards him. “What happened?”
He shakes his head, rubbing his hand on the back of his neck. For a moment, I think he’s not going to respond at all, but then a slew of words start tumbling from him. “I don’t care if he comes at me, but when he starts ragging on Jackson, it sets me off. He’s always poking fun at him for being into comics and studying all the time. Jackson actually listens to my dad, so now he’s rethinking applying for college since my dad said it’s a bad idea.”
“Has he talked to any of the counselors at his school?”
“I’ve been caught up in my own shit… my girlfriend thought she might be pregnant. She’s not, but I haven’t really been there for him the last few months. I’m supposed to be his big brother, but I fucked up,” he says, a slight tremor in his voice that makes the hairs on my arm stand up straight.
Clasping a hand on his shoulder, I study his blank expression, which I recognize for the mask it is. “You haven’t fucked up, man. You’re doing the best you can. You even asked me for help.” That earns a slight chuckle. “I don’t want to overstep, but if I can help you guys out somehow, I want to.”
“Thanks, Liam. I appreciate it.”
I step back and grab two shot glasses and a bottle of Don Julio, setting them on top of the counter. Glancing over my shoulder to make sure Abe isn’t around, I line up the glasses and pour two shots.
“Jackson reminds me of someone I used to know,” I tell him. “Someone who I let down. I want to do things differently this time. Offer help instead of ignoring the problem.”
I slide one of the shots over to Darius, who knocks it back with me. He coughs, and I slap his back, chuckling. I grab my jacket and slip out to the back door, spotting Jackson sitting in that same spot on the stoop, a comic book in his hands. It’s a mirror image of our scene a few weeks ago.
“Hey,” I call out.
His head shoots up and he scowls at me. “What do you want?”
“Nothing. Just saying hello.”
Dipping his head back into his comic, Jackson ignores me.
“Which one are you reading this time?”
He lifts up the cover towards me with a small smile. “X of Swords.”
“Where do you get your comics from?”
Eyeing me warily, Jackson shifts. “Mostly from the library. I can get free ones there.”
“Cool,” I reply, struggling to find footing in this conversation. “How’s school going?”
Jackson sighs, putting his comic down. “It’s Thanksgiving break, so I’m not even missing.”
“You gotta graduate.”
“You gotta chill.”
I shrug, crossing the alley to crouch down next to him. “I’m cool as a cucumber.”
He rolls his eyes. “Wow, that is lame. Did my brother talk to you?”
“Yeah. Pretty sure you both like me even though you try not to. That happens a lot.”
Jackson laughs despite himself, shaking his head.
“Is it too late? Have you missed too much school?” I push.
“No. My teacher keeps calling me. She’s annoying,” he says, kicking a rock with his shoe.
I nudge his shoulder. “Have Darius call her back. Come on. I know you like school, so don’t pretend you don’t.”
He glares at me. “How do you know?”
“Because you’re fucking reading, dude. You’re a nerd.”
I realize my mistake a second too late. His expression darkens, shutting down. “Fuck you,” he spits out.
“Hey, I meant that in a good way. I’m a nerd, too. My idea of a good time is being in a lab looking at slides of bacteria. My buddy and I used to memorize the periodic table with a song we wrote to the tune of a Drake song.”
He’s quiet for a moment, then throws me a glare. “Seriously?”
“Listen, man. Just ask yourself: WWIMD?”
He stares at me, his brow furrowed. “What?”
“What would Iron Man do?”
“That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard,” he says, deadpan.
“Yeah, but it works,” I tell him with a wink. “Trust me.”
When I got home from work last night, I started compiling spreadsheets and resources for Jackson to look at. Whenever there was a lull in business, I talked to Darius about affordable colleges in the city and scholarships. I know how much he wants this, and I want to help in any way I can.
Quite selfishly, all the research gave me a rest from thinking about other things. Other things I’ve been thinking about a lot. Other things that smell incredible and feel even better…
I get home from the store and find Whitney in the kitchen with an apron around her waist and headphones on. The room is a total mess, ingredients covering the counter and a pile of open cookbooks in the corner. She turns and sees me in the doorway, relief and excitement settling into her features.
Pulling her earbud out, she smiles at me. “Thank God you’re home. I need help.”
I glance around with a sardonic smile. “That much is clear. It looks like a hurricane came through here.”
She sighs, turning to stir some sauce. “It’s for Friendsgiving. I’ve never cooked a turkey before, and I think I’m doing it wrong.”
“Friendsgiving?”
“Thanksgiving with friends. You must know this.”
I shrug. “Not American, remember?”
She turns and raises her eyebrows. “Didn’t you celebrate during college?”
Memories of a warm fireplace and cranberry sauce hit me unexpectedly. I usually spent Thanksgiving with Luke’s family. He always invited me to come home with him during breaks since he knew my family wouldn’t be celebrating. His house was full of warmth. Just like him.
“Once or twice,” I reply after a moment.
Whitney studies me with those big, brown eyes. Her gaze on me always makes my skin pulse with awareness. It’s not just looking… it’s something close to seeing. It’s terrifying and liberating all at once.
“Do you have plans tonight?”
I shake my head. “No plans.”
She grins wickedly. “Perfect. Then you’re totally free to help me tackle this turkey.”
I roll my eyes, joining her at the counter. “Who’s coming over?”
“Abbi, Shatar, and Shatar’s friend, Lauryn. You haven’t met all of them, but they’re nice.”
“I don’t want to crash your girls night.”
“It wouldn’t be very husbandly of you to miss Friendsgiving,” she says sweetly, and I step closer to her without thinking.
“Hmm, husbandly.” Brushing her hair away from her neck, I press a soft kiss to the exposed skin. “I’ve never once been described that way, but you do look awfully wifely right now.” Trailing my fingers along the back of her neck, I inhale, breathing in her sweet scent. Blood rushes through me, my body stirring with desire. “Who knew such a domestic scene could be such a turn-on?” I whisper against her skin.
She shudders slightly before pulling back and pressing her palm to my chest. “No distractions. It’s turkey time.”
Sounds of boisterous laughter and soft chatter float down the hallway towards my room. I know Abbi is here because I heard her witchlike screech of a hello a few minutes ago. After helping Whitney prepare dinner, I retreated to my room, trying to keep myself from marching into the kitchen and laying Whitney out on the table for my own Thanksgiving feast. Showing her how thankful I am.
“Girl, you are in so much trouble. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were falling…” Abbi’s voice trails off as I enter the kitchen, her eyes widening. “Liam!” she exclaims. “You’re here!”
The door buzzes and a few more women arrive, so I let Whitney mingle with them while I make a salad, tossing ingredients into a large wooden bowl. Opening the oven, I check on the turkey and side dishes. As I’m moving around the kitchen, I feel a soft hand rest in the space between my shoulder blades.
“Thank you.” Whitney lowers her voice so only I can hear it. “Come meet the others.”
She tugs me along to the group and introduces me to everyone. Shatar, one of Whitney’s friends from her salon, hands me a bottle of wine while they settle at the table, which is already set with plates and silverware.
I open one of the bottles and bring it over to the table. “Wine, anyone?” I ask.
Lauryn, another woman in the group, raises her eyebrows. “Whitney, is your husband our waiter for tonight?”
Whitney smiles at me, her gaze teasing.
“My wife already knows that I live to serve,” I say with a wink, my voice deepening.
Shatar fans her face with her hand. “Damn, girl. Where’d you get him? They sell that at Target? Hinge?”
Whitney shakes her head and laughs as I pour her a glass of wine. “No way. He’s one of a kind.”
I’m so taken off-guard by her words I almost spill the wine. My throat bobs, an unexpected lump gathering.
One of a kind.
Turning to face Whitney, I give her a questioning tip of my chin, searching her expression for a clue of how she’s feeling, whether her words are meant to keep up the ruse with her friends or reveal an unspoken truth. Her eyes meet mine, bright and open. I don’t know if she can read the question in my gaze, but she reaches her hand up and strokes the length of my back, her fingers brushing along the line of my spine. A shiver runs through me, quickly followed by a wave of frustration.
I’m sick of constantly questioning what’s real. Tired of wondering if I’m alone on this island, or if the woman I want is standing beside me.
“I’ll have the red,” Lauryn says, a welcome interruption.
I bolt to the kitchen, trying to breathe. My heart is racing, and my blood feels like it’s stirring beneath my skin. Shaking my head, I open the bottle of Pinot Noir and pour two glasses, bringing them over. I avoid Whitney’s gaze as I rush back and forth between the kitchen and dining room table with the food.
“Liam, are you sure you don’t need help?” Abbi asks, calling out to me.
I finish slicing the turkey and bring the remainder of the dishes out to the group with an accommodating smile. “No, I’ve got it.” I set everything down and step back with a smile. “That’s everything. Whitney cooked, so I claim no credit.”
“That’s not true. You did the turkey,” Whitney argues with a grin.
I shake my head. “We did it together,” I concede.
“Well, I don’t care who cooked it, it looks amazing,” Abbi says.
We eat quietly, everyone too busy stuffing their faces to engage in polite conversation. When everyone is finished and picking at bits left over, Lauryn, Shatar, and Whitney talk about All Rhodes while Abbi tries to grill me about my five-year plan.
“What are you guys doing for the holidays?” Shatar asks.
“We’re going to London to visit Liam’s mom and stepdad,” Whitney says before I can answer.
Abbi raises her eyebrows, shock coloring her expression, but nobody seems to notice besides me. Lauryn and Shatar are fawning over the announcement and listing off must-sees in London, a few a bit touristy for my liking, but if Whitney wants to see Big Ben and ride a double decker, we’ll do it.
I glance again at Abbi’s concerned expression, but she quickly schools it into one of excitement as she lays her hand over Whitney’s with a soft smile. “That’ll be fun. I’ll miss you.”
“You have to take a million pics and send them to us,” Shatar announces. “We’ll make a group chat.”
“Do you get to visit home often, Liam?” Lauryn asks.
I shake my head. “Not really. Bit far.”
Lauryn nods and the group settles into an awkward silence.
Nerves spiking, I grab my plate and reach for Whitney’s. “What do we think? Dessert time?” I reach for Abbi’s plate. “I’ll wash up and put the pie in the oven.”
Whitney pulls on my sleeve, her brow furrowed. “Leave them. I’ll do them.”
Without thinking, I press a soft kiss to the top of her head. “Hang with your friends. I got it.” Carrying the rest of the dishes into the kitchen, I take a deep breath. I try not to eavesdrop as the group moves to the couch, but I definitely hear my name once or twice. Once I’m finished cleaning, I take the apple pie out of the oven. When I get to the living room, Shatar and Lauryn are chatting on the couch.
“Where’s Whitney and Abbi?” I ask, setting the plates down.
Shatar shrugs. “I think Whitney went to her room. Abbi’s in the bathroom.”
“This looks so good,” Lauryn says, grabbing a plate.
I slip down the hallway towards our bedrooms, finding Whitney’s door ajar. Knocking lightly, I press the door open, finding Whitney and Abbi standing near the bed, hugging. Their heads snap up at the knock and immediately, I notice that moisture is glistening on Whitney’s eyes. I’m hit with a jolt of panic.
Abbi steps back. “I’ll give you two a minute,” she whispers to Whitney, squeezing her arm. As she brushes past me, her gaze flickers to mine, a hint of warning in her expression.
Shaking it off, I cross the room to Whitney, lowering myself to wrap my arms around her. “What’s wrong? What happened?”
She shakes her head, wiping at her eyes. “Nothing.”
She tries to pull back from my hold, but I don’t let her. “Tell me?—”
“Liam,” she mutters. “I’m fine, really. It was just… the stuff with my mom. It’s still weighing on me.”
I don’t know how I can tell, but she’s lying. I guess after months of living together, I’ve come to know her well enough to know that something in the tone of her voice rings false.
“Baby,” I whisper, the endearment tumbling from my lips. I brush my thumbs under her eyes, wiping at a stray tear. “Can’t you tell me?”
She stares back at me, her brown eyes filled with so much anguish that it takes my breath away. I feel like I’ve been kicked in the gut. My grip on her tightens, another wave of panic rolling through me.
“The tulips…” she trails off on a whisper, her gaze studying mine.
I furrow my brow. “Tulips?”
“In the living room. You got them for me. When?”
Is this why she’s upset? Have I crossed a boundary somehow?
I blink heavily and shake my head. “Yesterday. You said they were your favorite, so I thought… what, you don’t like them?”
“I love them,” she whispers. She closes her eyes, confusing me further, and when she opens them, any trace of anguish is gone. Her beautiful brown eyes are back to their usual brightness and warmth. She sets her hand against mine, pressing at it softly.
“Come on,” she says. “Let’s go get some pie.”