“This is all just fucked up,” he mumbles into his palms. “All of it. I just… I wish I knew who she fucked. At least then I could… I don’t know. Picture it. Hate him properly.”
I let out a short, harsh breath that isn’t quite a laugh. “It wouldn’t matter at all now, Liam. The knowing wouldn’t change a damn thing.” It wouldn’t. Knowing doesn’t give him any power, just a specific target to fixate on. The problem was never the guy. It was always Liam’s inability to see Millie as a separate person from his own desires.
My gaze drifts over his shoulder, to the fresh, dark ink peeking out from the side of his T-shirt.
“Now, can we talk about what’s that on your back?” I ask, my voice flat, changing the subject.
He stiffens, twisting slightly as if trying to see it himself. “Oh. That.” He doesn’t sound proud. He sounds ashamed. “I was drunk. I was sad. So I did something dumb.” He pulls the collar of his shirt, revealing more of the design. It’s a mess of jagged lines, a broken circle with what looks like flames licking at the edges. In the center, a single, stark letter ‘M.’ It’s ugly. It’s a brand. A permanent, drunken reminder of his pain.
I sigh, the sound heavy in the quiet room. It’s the most Millie-like thing he could have done, a grand, dramatic gesture that solves nothing but leaves a permanent scar.
He lets his shirt fall back into place. “I really am sorry I brought a woman to the house without asking,” he says, his voice low. “That was out of line.”
“I don’t care about that, Liam,” I say, and I mean it. Jessica is irrelevant. She’s a symptom, not the disease. “I just want you and me to fix our shit. And you need to fix your shit with Millie.” My voice softens. “We’re all we’ve got, man. This is tearing us apart.”
He nods, his gaze fixed on the floorboards. “I know.”
I watch him for a moment, my anger slowly receding, leaving behind the familiar, dull ache of concern. “Where have you even been sleeping?” I ask. “Since you’ve been avoiding my couch.”
He looks up, a wry, humorless smile touching his lips. “Oh, I bought Mr. Jackson’s old truck. Parked down by the old pier. He shrugs. “It’s not so bad.”
It’s exactly as bad as it sounds. My chest tightens. He’s been living like a vagrant because he’s too proud to face any of us.
He pushes himself to his feet, a new resolve in his eyes. “I’ll drop Jessica home, then maybe we can get breakfast together. Just us.”
I scratch at the side of my throat, a nervous habit I can’t seem to shake. “I kind of promised Millie that we would have breakfast together,” I say, watching his face carefully.
The change is instantaneous. The fragile truce we’d built shatters. His jaw clenches, a muscle jumping in his cheek. His eyes, which had finally lost some of their frantic edge, harden into chips of flint.
The thought of what would happen if he knew—if he had any inkling that I’ve dreamed of Millie more times than I would ever want to admit, that my own feelings for her were a locked box buried so deep even I was afraid to look at it—crosses my mind again.
It would be an inferno. It would burn what’s left of our friendship to the ground.
“How is she?” Liam asks, his voice clipped, pulling me from my reverie.
“Upset,” I say, choosing my words with care. “She thinks she did something wrong.”
He nods blankly. “Right. I’ll… I’ll go out there and talk to Jessica so she’s not wondering why we were in the bedroom.” He turns and walks out of the room, his posture rigid.
I remain where I am, listening. I hear their muffled voices, a soft laugh from Jessica, the low rumble of Liam’s reply. A minute later, the front door clicks shut, and then the silence of my apartment rushes back in.
Alone. Finally alone. The adrenaline from the confrontation, the anger, the worry—it all drains away, and the pain in my side comes roaring back to the forefront. I move to my closet, digging through a stack of old sweaters until I find the small blue tubof salve the doctor gave me. I unscrew the cap and the sharp, medicinal scent fills the air.
I sit back on the edge of my bed, lifting my shirt. The skin over my ribs is a mottled canvas of purple and yellow, the bruise spreading wider each day. I scoop a bit of the greasy ointment onto my fingers and begin to work it into the sore muscles. I hiss as my pressure hits a particularly tender spot. It’s like I’m discovering new injuries every day, a fresh ache in my shoulder, a sharp pull in my lower back.
My body is a map of the fire, a topography of pain I keep hidden from everyone. I hate this. I hate being weak. I hate the secret.
I squeeze my eyes shut, praying this passes. Praying I can go back to being the man everyone thinks I am.
Millie
The sizzle of butter in the pan is the only sound that breaks the quiet of my kitchen. Maddox stands at the stove, his back to me, the dark blue of his firefighter’s uniform stretching across his shoulders. He looks solid, dependable, a rock in the churning sea of my life. The scent of toasting bread and melting cheese fills the small space, a comforting aroma that does little to settle the knot in my stomach.
“Seriously?” I ask, taking another sip of the chamomile tea he made for me. The ceramic mug is warm against my cold hands. “He bought the truck? The one we all thought was Mr. Jackson’s new planter for his petunias?”
Maddox chuckles, a low, warm sound that vibrates through the room. He flips one of the sandwiches with a practiced flick of his wrist. “The very same. It’s a rusted-out Ford F-150 that hasn’t run since before the fire. And that’s not even the craziest thing he’s done.” He turns off the burner, the silence suddenly feeling heavier. “And he got a tattoo.”
My eyebrows shoot up. “Liam? A tattoo?”
