“I don’t know, I’m just not. I don’t have time for that shit.”
She glances dramatically around the apartment. “What, you can’t squeeze it in between burpees and beers on the couch?”
“Hello pot, meet kettle,” I shoot back, but she doesn’t rise to the bait.
“Those kids could look up to you. Why won’t you go?”
There’s something soft in her voice—too soft—and it gets undermy skin. I snap.
“Because I’m a fucking failure, Sophie. They don’t want to hear from me unless it’s as a cautionary tale on how to screw up every aspect of your life spectacularly.”
“You’re not a failure, Liam.” She meets my eyes, and there’s something there—something close to pity—and I don’t need that. Fuck that.
“Aren’t I?” I laugh bitterly. “Look at us. We’re both stuck. Stuck in this apartment. Stuck in this life. You got that commission two weeks ago.” I jab my finger at the huge blank canvas on the easel in the corner. “And that canvas looks pretty fucking empty.”
I instantly want to reel the words back in.
“Wow,” she mumbles.
“Soph—” I reach for her, my hand moving almost instinctively, but I stop. Or maybe she does first, stepping just out of reach.
“It’s fine,” she says, grabbing her bag from the back of the chair. “You clearly want to wallow in your little pity party, so I’ll leave you to it.”
She strides to the door. Her voice is flat, final. “Enjoy your lonely burpees.”
Chapter 20
Sophie
“Oh, you're still letting that hot-as-fuck baseball player steal your bases,” Andy says the moment I reach her and Liv outside the de Young.
I try to look confused by her innuendo, but I know my blush gives me away.
“I knew it,” Andy chirps as we buy our tickets. “I have excellent just-got-railed radar. I didn’t say anything at coffee in case it was a one-time get-it-out-of-our-systems fuck, but this clearly is a thing.”
“It’s not a thing,” I say.
“Oh, it’s a thing. I can tell by your glowy skin. Korean ten-step skincare can’t hold a candle to regularly getting your banana peeled.”
No matter how hard I try to hold back, a laugh still manages to escape.
“Don’t encourage her,” Liv says, smiling. “But if it’s true, spill the details.”
“I bet he fucks like he plays baseball,” Andy muses as we enter the first exhibit. “Like he knows how to slide headfirst into home base.”
Both Liv and I shush her, but we’re all giggling like it’s a middle school slumber party. Maybe it’s been a while since I had girlfriends, because I spill all the details—quietly—aswe walk around the museum. I tell them about the first night, when he said he wanted to watch me come, to a few nights ago when he bent me over the couch so we could both still watch theSurvivorfinale.
I hold off telling them about the fight we just had.
“I can’t believe you have a sex contract with your brother’s best friend,” Liv says, taking a sip from her iced coffee from the museum’s cafe.
“It’s not a sex contract. We just agreed to, you know, blow off some steam together. It doesn’t mean anything.”
But even as I say this, there’s an ache behind my ribs. If this thing with Liam doesn’t mean anything, would I care that he isn’t going to volunteer at some youth center? If I didn’t care, I would have slapped him when he said we were both stuck. But instead, I wanted to curl up in his lap and kiss away the doubt.
Fuck.This was supposed to be friends with benefits, not some Hallmark special:Washed-up baseball player and burned-out artist show each other the true meaning of love.This was just sex. Liam has become a friend I care about, but this isn’t a relationship, and it certainly isn’t love.
I push those thoughts aside as we finish our coffees and head into the main exhibit: Luna Margulies, the whole reason for this trip.
