Her response was to laugh and call me melodramatic. She talks to Liam often enough, though, not daily like Ronan, and she said that she’s never seen or heard him so happy before. That there’s no way he’s even thinkingabout leaving me at the end of rehab. She told me to “Unzip my vagina, let my balls out, and just ask him to stay.”I love Cassie, but sometimes she has very colorful language.
I’ve been talking myself up to go do exactly what she told me to for the past ten hours, but I can’t find the courage to. I don’t know what I’m so afraid of, honestly. I really don’t think he wants to leave. This morning, when I got dressed, I saw that he had moved all his shirts from the closet in my spare room to the closet in my room. His shirts were right there, alongside mine. None of what he has done over the last six weeks—since he moved in really—screams that he wants to leave. If anything, it screamsI’m not leaving. I even heard him call Gigihisthe other day, as he was adjusting the grow lamps in the living room.
He’s taking care of your plants and calling the “mutt” his and you really think he’s leaving?I can hear Cassie say in my head.
There’s no way he’s planning on leaving. With that resolve, I’m ready to um . . .let my balls out.I quickly pack my office, lock the door, and speed walk the three kilometers home. I hurry up the driveway and into the house, where I find Liam pacing. He stops as soon as he hears me open the door and he looks pissed. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him so mad.
“Where the fuck have you been?” he yells, face red, fists balled at his sides.
Okay, this is not what I was expecting. Why is he so mad? “At work,” I answer, meeting his scolding gaze, not backing down. Where did he think I was?
“At school?” he asks. His voice is quieter, but still loud.
“Yeah, at school,” I answer, crossing my arms across my chest and giving him awhat the helllook.
“You’ve been at school this entire time?” he asks again.
“Yes, Liam, I’ve been at school all day,” I tell him in a raised voice. Why is he asking me the same question over and over.
“Then why the hell is your car in the driveway? And why the fuck didn’t you answer your damn phone when I tried calling?” His voice raises again.
“Because I wanted to walk, and my phone died,” I sass, not knowing why I’m even playing into whatever little game this is.
“It died? How old are you? Are you not responsible enough to keep a charger with you? What adult lets their phone die?” he asks, breathing heavily as his face gets impossibly redder. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him, or anyone for that matter, this mad, and I’m not a fan of it.
“It happens. The charger I had in my office broke yesterday and I forgot to bring one with me this morning. Now, change your damn attitude and calm down,” I say, finally matching his anger. I’m not a fan of being talked to this way, and there’s no way I’m going to let this slide. Now, I’m pissed.
“Calm down,” he repeats, almost in disbelief. “You want me to calm down?” he says with a dry laugh. “How the fuck do you expect me to be fucken calm when you’re over five hours late, won’t answer your fucken phone, not to mention it’s dark, on a Friday night, and you decided to walk home. In the damn rain, Sloane!” he yells the last part,gripping his hair. “Do you know how fucken dangerous that is? And you never answered your phone,” he says, his voice losing all anger.
All anger leaves my body at his last question.Do you know how fucken dangerous that is?
Immediately, I know why he’s so mad. He was worried. My brother told me he got hit by a drunk driver on a rainy morning. He thought something had happened to me.
Tears sting my eyes as I make my way over to him to wrap my arms around him.
“Sloane, no,” he says. But I can hear the surrender in his voice, and it’s not long before his arms wrap around mine.
“I’m sorry,” I tell him, face squished in his chest, his arms wrapped so tight around me I can barely breathe.
“You scared the fuck out of me, Rosie,” he says, leaning down to take a deep breath of my smell. It relaxes him and his arms loosen around me a little, but he doesn’t let go.
“I know. I’m sorry,” I tell him again. I feel horrible. I never thought about what he would be thinking—going through.
“Don’t apologize. I shouldn’t have yelled at you like that. No one should ever yell at you. I’m sorry,” he says, pulling back to frame my face with his hands and drop a kiss on my forehead. “I just kept picturing you hurt, lying in the middle of the road in a puddle of blood, and I just . . .” He trails off, tears trailing down his cheeks. I wipe at them as mine start falling faster.
“I know,” I say, running my hands up and down his back, trying to calm him.
“I just can’t picture a world without you. The thought of you hurt somewhere and not being able to get to you . . .”
“I’m not going anywhere,” I promise.
“Promise?” he asks. I can hear the desperation in his question.
“Promise,” I say, planting a kiss on his lips and dropping my forehead against his. Seeing this as my opportunity, I ask, “Do you promise not to leave?”
“I’m not going anywhere, Sloane. Not now, not ever. If you wouldn’t have avoided me during the last week you would know that I’m not leaving. That I’m going to go get the rest of my stuff in Vancouver but that I’m not letting you out of my life. Not again,” he says, his voice lighter, and I see that the tears have stopped.
I pull back and wipe at his cheeks, asking, “You’re staying?”
