Right before my eyes, I see all the fire leave her. For a split second, I think she’s going to cry. In hindsight, I think her crying would have been better than what I did get from her. Her movements turn mechanical as she sitsback down on the couch, not looking at me. Again, in a cold, harsh tone I never thought could come from my little Rosie, she says, “You’re right. I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”
She completely dismisses me, which is what I want. But for some reason, my stomach turns to stone and a small part of me can’t help but think that I just ruined the best thing in my life.
Not knowing what else to do or say, I leave her sitting on my couch and go close myself off in my bedroom. I must have fallen asleep, because when I woke up she isn’t there. My sweater is carefully folded on the counter with a note saying not to worry, she got a cab home, and she didn’t want to put me out anymore than she already had.
Present. . .
That was the last time I was ever surrounded by my favorite smell . . . until now. I still have that sweater—it’s sitting at the bottom of my bag. Ronan had gone to my house and FaceTimed me so I could tell him what to pack for me. After he had gotten the basics of loose clothes, my laptop, a couple of books, and my sketch pad, I made him go back to the bottom of my dresser to get the sweater. For years I kept it tucked away in a drawer of its own. An unknown urge kept me from washing it, or even wearing it. At first, I would take it out just to take a hit of her smell that still lingered. I didn’t understand the pull I felt toward it.
The last few years, I refused to take it out at all. Telling myself it was because I was tired of feeling like a creep. Butthe truth is, it stopped smelling of Sloane, so I shoved it in the back of my closet. It was the one reminder that I hurt her more than I ever expected. And that I missed her.
I hadn’t realized how much I looked forward to seeing her, or the comfort I felt from just having her in my space. She was shy, but always quick with a joke. Then she went and kissed me. I wasn’t expecting it. I had never thought of her as anything other than my best friend’s younger sister. As a kid, I looked out for her. But that kiss . . . The minute her lips landed on mine, something changed. It’s like my soul finally knew where it belonged—with her. From that point on, there hasn’t been a day I haven’t thought of her, wondered what she was doing—if she was safe, if she was happy, and worse, if she found someone to love her like she deserved.
A week after that night, I finally got the balls to ask Ronan what was going on with Sloane. I told him that I hadn’t heard from her in a week, which earned me a funny look. He told me she was busy moving into her dorm and stuff. That I should know that since she had told him she’d already said goodbye to me. To say I was confused was an understatement. For all I knew, she was going to university here, in Vancouver, and going to be living at home with her dad.
I was happy to be sitting when he told me that she decided, at the last minute, to accept her offer from a university in Quebec.
She left.
She never spoke to me after that.
Not until I moved into her house five days ago.
Chapter 7
I’m casually leaning against the kitchen counter drinking my morning coffee, after having fed Gigi, when Liam leaves his bedroom. I regret sleeping in his bed on a Saturday night. Sundays are myrelaxingdays. I try to get everything done during the week—school, chores, plants, errands,everything. That way I can just stay home in my leggings all day on Sundays. But on this unseasonably rainy day, I have to face Liam. A probably annoyed Liam. I really should have done this on an unsuspecting Tuesday night. I’m always up and out of the house early Wednesdays for an eight thirty a.m. lab I need to supervise.
“Morning,” he says, wobbling on his crutches to grab a mug from the cabinet beside me. All I get from him is a simple “Morning”? No, angry, pissed-off words telling me to mind my own business?
Can someone have a pep in their step if they’re on crutches?
Could it be that he doesn’t realize that I slept in his bed last night? Before I can think about the words coming out of my mouth, I say, “Good morning. How did you sleep last night?”
This earns me a confused expression from him, which I’m sure is mirroring the look of confusion that is most definitely on my face.
“Umm . . . good, I guess, why?”
“Just wondering. You came out with a smile instead of a pissed-off look, and you didn’t bitch about my coffee maker this morning, so I figured I’d ask what was up,” I volley back, clearly taking him by surprise. He wasn’t expecting me to call him out on his shitty attitude. I wasn’t expecting it either, not that I’ve ever minced my words or thoughts with Liam. But that was a lifetime ago, beforeTheIncidentthat shall not be talked about.
And just like that, I feel myself turning red at the thought of our last real encounter when I was eighteen. Somehow, he makes the old unbothered side of me come out, instead of my usual people-pleasing self.
“Yeah, I guess I’ve been a dick, haven’t I?” he says with a dry laugh.
“That you have,” I agree, grabbing his mug along with mine and making my way to the living room since he can’t bring his own mug anywhere, being on crutches and all. I’ve been refusing to help him, partially due to his attitude, and because he never asks. So he’s been stuck either eating and drinking everything standing in front of the counter, or at the little sage green bar stools I have at my kitchen island.
He’s already broken two of my mugs. Plus, I think he deserves some kind of reward for admitting to being a dick. Positive reinforcement. It worked with Gigi, so I’m assuming the same will work with him.
Once I sit down in my favorite corner of the couch by the window, I realize he doesn’t deserve me being nice and carrying his mug for him. The jerk knows he’s a jerk and hasn’t even properly apologized. With an eye roll, I settle deeper into the worn beige corner cushion of my couch before I reach over and grab my pink and white faux fur blanket. I throw it over my legs, then roughly snatch my Kindle off the side table, making my coffee slosh over the side of my mug. Gigi wastes no time burrowing herself under my blanket.
“Why are you being all pissy?” Liam asks. “You PMSing or something?”
As if I’m having an out-of-body experience at his words, I feel my head slowly turn toward his now-sitting form beside me on the couch. My jaw clenches as I watch him slowly settle in and casually take a sip of his coffee that was sitting on the table in front of him, as if he didn’t just ask me if I was PMSing.
“Excuse me?”
“I asked: Why are you so pissy this morning? You PMSing or something?” he repeats, looking at me with annoyance at having to repeat himself.
“Am I PMSing? Did you really just ask me that?” I can hear the disbelief dripping from my question.
