“A total bitch? Yeah, pretty much.” Liv answers, popping the last of her pizza crust into her mouth.
“I was going to say, ‘that intense.’”
Liv lets out a long sigh, and I’m instantly sorry I brought up her mom.
“You know what you said in my lobby earlier about our families getting in our business because they love us? I think that’s what my mom believes she’s doing.” She stops talking, and I think that’s all I’m going to get of the Marlowe Adren story, but then Liv turns on the bench to face me directly, her eyes momentarily searching my face, maybe for permission. I fight the urge again to touch her.
“I think I’ve never truly lived up to my parents’ expectations of me,” she continues. “Like I’m never quite enough. No matter how many things I do right, my mom finds some way that I let her down.”
“Everything you’ve done in your career? It’s not enough for her?” I ask, not sure if I’m out of line.
“Oh, my career is a huge thing. Like, as a kid, I wasobsessedwith video games—totally in love with them. But my parents flat-out refused to let me have any kind of gaming console.” She glances up at me. “That’s actually how I got into computers. I had one, but I wasn’t allowed to download anything fun, so I…taught myself how to code my own games.”
“See, I was right, totally badass,” I tell her, and that earns me another smile.
“So after high school, I thought if I went to a top school, got perfect grades, became some kind of tech powerhouse, they’dhaveto respect it, you know? But they still dismissed it. Said I majored in video games and weed.” She shook her head. “I’ve never even smoked pot, Owen. It’s like it was never enough or therightenough for them.”
“But your brother’s a surf instructor?” My head tips to the side, studying her. “I mean, that sounds pretty badass too. Does he get the same third degree?”
Liv shrugs. “Maybe at first. But he’s never cared about pleasing them, so they stopped trying somewhere around high school. He’s only two years older than me, but they figured out pretty quickly I was the more…pliable one. Easier to mold. So they just let him go and focused on me instead. Honestly? I’m jealous.”
“If they only love the version of you they can control…then they’re missing the best parts.”
She glances at me, surprised, like she wasn’t expecting anyone to say it out loud. Her fingers fidget with the cuff of my jacket around her shoulders before she gives the faintest shake of her head and looks away. But there’s something softer in her expression now, and I hope she heard me, anyway.
“Ice cream?” I say, changing the subject, and point at the little cart in the courtyard.
Liv smiles and stands.
“Sit,” I encourage. “I’ll bring it to you. What flavor?”
“Cookies and cream.”
“My favorite, too,” I say, barely above a whisper.
I return with two bowls, and we both take a few bites before she speaks again.
“Tonight,” she goes on, softer now, but like she wants to, “she specifically told me not to wear yellow. So, of course, I wore this dress,” she says, gesturing to herself. “Because apparently, I should only wear jewel tones.”
“Wait, your mom told you not to wear yellow?” My blood pressure rises.
“Yeah. She says it washes me out.” She rolls her eyes. “Then she didn’t even mention the dress—just said I should’ve worn my hair up.”
“For the record, that dress is incredible on you,” I say. “And you wore that yellow top last night, right? I didn’t notice any washing out.”
Her eyes narrow slightly. “You remember what I was wearing last night?”
I want to tell her I not only remember the shirt she was wearing—a pale yellow blouse with billowy sleeves, still speckled from the rain she’d been caught in, thin enough that I could see the ridge of her collarbone and the faint outline of her bra through the fabric. That I’d noticed how she smelled when I got close—marshmallows and honeysuckle, with a hint of the bourbon she’d been sipping. I want her to know I’d clocked the way she nervously tapped her middle finger on the bar when that guy wouldn’t leave her alone. But mostly, I remember how her breath hitched—just slightly—when I leaned in to kiss her.
“My sisters are eleven months apart and eight years older than me,” I say instead. “They are best friends, and I was their living doll from the day my parents brought me home from the hospital. I’ve worn more dresses in my life than you probably have.”
Liv lets out a laugh that I want to bottle.
“Your family sounds great. Like they’re busybodies, but they actually care.” And there is a little sadness behind Liv’s eyes.
“Yeah, they do.” Sometimes a little too much.
My phone blasts out the chorus to “We Are Family,” and I quickly silence it. “Speak of the twin devils…that’s my sisters’ ringtone,” I say by way of explanation.
