“What are you doing here?” I shout over the wind. The edges of him appear in the dark as he parks his bike.
He approaches slowly, cautiously, careful not to startle me in case I might lose my balance. “I’d like to ask the same of you.”
“What does it matter?” The irritation I’d felt when he’d kissed me at the game is still there, but the tension between us has returned, the tightness in my stomach that wavers between frustration and intense attraction.
After making my way down from the ledge, I take another drink of tequila and look at Liam.
I sink down to the ground, leaning my back against the stone and wrapping my arms around my shivering body.
“Let me take you back,” he says.
“I’m fine.”
“I never said you weren’t.” Liam sits down next to me on the wet pavement, takes off his jacket, and drapes it over my shoulders. The gesture surprises me, but I don’t stop him. Then Liam grabs the tequila from my hand and takes a long drink.
I watch him. “I thought you weren’t drinking.”
He shrugs, finishes it off, and wipes his mouth with the back of his arm.
Zee never liked Liam. Most people didn’t. They saw his brashness as rude. But I knew it came from a deeper pain he didn’t share, one I understood.
One night during my sophomore year, he told me he spent more time with his tennis coach than his own parents. After her failed back surgery, his mom took Xanax and Oxycontin like they were vitamins. His dad was always working late—or so he claimed—and so Liam was left alone. I think he put up walls to protect himself.
“It’s freezing.” Liam turns to me, leaning in so close that his breath tingles on my cheek. “Come on. Let me take you home.”
—
We pause underthe eave of Liam’s dorm as the rain beats down on the pavement. I’m wearing his jacket, and we’re both soaked from the rain. Before opening the door, he hesitates, turns to me. “You want me to take you home instead?”
The unsaid question floats between us:Or do you want to come up?My eyes lift to his, and I take him in—the way his pupils fill his irises, the bead of rain tracing the lines of his cheek, the sheer fabric of his shirt clinging to his chest—and suddenly the air feels different, charged. My heart is beating so hard, I can feel it in my ears.
“No,” I tell him, and before I can say anything else, he leans down and kisses me. Suddenly it’s as if we’re right back in sophomore year at the beginning of our relationship, coming back from a night out at the eating clubs.
We burst into his room and tear off our wet clothes and it feels so familiar yet different, but when we get to his bed, he stops abruptly. His face is flushed and his hair rumpled from where my hands have run through it.
“You’re drunk—this feels weird,” he says, taking a step back.
“I’m fine,” I say, pushing myself up onto his bed, but as much as I want to keep kissing him, I can’t help but feel it’s kind of sweet of him to care.
He smiles, takes a step toward me, and leans in, but instead of wrapping his arms around me, he pulls the comforter over my chest and settles into bed next to me. “Get some sleep.”
—
I must havedrifted off because when I open my eyes, I’m alone in his bed. It’s a little disorienting at first, and takes a moment for me to remember how I got here. Liam’s left a T-shirt and sweatpants on the end of the bed for me to change into, and after I slip them on, I find him asleep on the couch in the living room. I fight the urge to curl up next to him.
When he sees me, he smiles sleepily and props himself up on an elbow. “You look good in my shirt.”
I try not to smile. Wrapping my arms around myself, I look around the room. “Could I have a glass of water? I’m so thirsty.”
He rises from the couch. “I have that peppermint tea you like.”
I sink into the couch in his place and watch as he makes his way to the kettle. His blond hair is still damp from the rain, and he’s leaner, the lines of his jaw and cheekbones more pronounced. It occurs to me that it’s been a long time since we’ve spent this much time together. The last time we hooked up was an alcohol-fueled whirlwind, no more than a few words exchanged.
He hands me a cup and sits on the other end of the couch, pulling my feet into his lap. It’s killing me the way he’s treating me like we’re back together. Like nothing ever changed. I want to be angry with him, but I can’t help but feel that intense pull, that heightened sense whenever we’re close.
“So,” he says, “you going to tell me what happened or what?”
I look down and take a sip of tea, grimacing as it burns my tongue. I’d rather not talk about Ben.
