Here’s the latest ultrasound of your kids, you dumbass. They’re healthy and thriving while you’re busy self-destructing.
PS – Olive is fine, too.
My lips twitch despite myself. God bless that woman and that mouth of hers.
I hand the phone back. “Well. Congratulations, friend. You're gonna be a dad. Twice over.”
Liam leans forward, elbows on his knees, phone dangling from his fingers like it weighs more than he can hold.
“So why,” I continue, crossing my arms, “are you trying to start fights in my bar for the third goddamn time this week?”
He’s silent for a moment.
Then, quietly, “Because I hate being in that house.”
I blink. “What are you talking about? You built that house. You poured everything into it.”
“Yeah,” he says, voice low. “And now every damn corner reminds me of her. Every creak in the floor, every stupid dent in the walls, every night when the bed’s too fucking quiet. She’s everywhere, and she’s nowhere.”
He swipes a hand over his mouth like he’s trying to shove the words back in, but it’s too late. They’re out now.
And they hurt.
“Then fix it,” I say, gentler this time. “You’ve still got time.”
He shakes his head. “No, I don’t. I asked for proof. I practically accused her. She came to me, and I pushed her away. Let my father ruin everything. Again.”
He sinks deeper into the couch like he’s disappearing into it. And for the first time since he walked in here two months ago, drunk and angry and aching, I see the truth. He doesn’t know how to fix what he broke. And he’s scared shitless to try.
I sigh and walk back to my desk, pulling out the bottle of whiskey I keep stashed behind the bottom drawer. It’s the good stuff. Aged, expensive, only touched when life forces you to toast something worth remembering. Or fixing. Guess helping a man try to win back the love of his life qualifies.
I pour us each two fingers, the amber liquid catching the dim light like fire. I slide one glass across the desk toward him and keep the other for myself. He eyes it warily but doesn’t protest.
I raise mine slightly before taking a slow sip. Smooth. Sharp. Just like the truth I’m about to serve him.
“It’s going to have to be something grand,” I say, letting the warmth spread through my chest.
Liam lifts his head, frowning. “Grand how?”
“Something that leaves no room for doubt,” I say, leaning forward. “Something that tells her without hesitation that she’s the love of your life. That it was always her.”
He scoffs and takes a drink. “I don’t know how to do that.”
“Sure you do.”
His eyes snap to mine. “I don’t.”
His voice cracks a little, raw and defensive, like I just asked him to perform heart surgery with his old pocketknife.
“I never had someone show me how to love someone like that,” he continues, voice lower now. “You know what I grew up with. My dad used people like tools. My mom silently took it and never showed real love because she was afraid it’d be usedagainst her and then left everyone behind the moment she grew a backbone. Everything I know about love is broken.”
He rubs a hand over his face. “Olive was the only real thing I ever had, and I ruined it. I let my fear crawl out of my mouth and shred the one person who believed in me.”
I let the silence sit between us for a minute.
Then I say, “Maybe it’s time you stop trying to know how and just start showing her.”
He looks at me, glass tight in his hand.
