“And did you enjoy it?” Liam asks, taking a sizable scoop of his own ice cream.
“I loved it. And in the beginning, it was magic. I was like the golden child, the top of my class. Classmates asked me for feedback, and teachers looked at me like I was more of a peer than a student.” I pause at that, remembering the addictively lulling feeling of being so constantly praised, so entirely sure of myself.
“And then?” Liam prompts, rightfully assuming my nostalgic reveries are about to take a turn.
“Before graduation, each senior had to write a full-length play as their thesis. And the student with the highest GPA from the two-year program got to have their play performed as a student production.”
Liam points his spoon in my direction. “You?”
“Me,” I answer. “I had a comedy written. It was good. Everyone who read it loved it. But a few months before, I got into my own head. All my other playwright friends wrote these powerful dramas or these incredibly relevant pieces. My play felt campy in comparison. So I wrote something new. And that’s what was performed in the workshop.”
I shake my head, wishing I could go back and do it all differently. Or not do it at all. I’d completely wipe the memory from my whole existence.
“I tried too hard. I wrote what I thought people wanted to see. I wrote what my vanity told me to write, rather than the play Ihadto write. And it was a bomb. My professors were disappointed. My classmates were stunned and probably secretly happy on some level. The tweets and the reviews were so scathing that I still remember all of them. And then, when my dad handed me my flowers—just taking them from him after that felt so humiliatingly ironic that I wanted to curl up in a ball and never get up again.”
“No one’s perfect. You shouldn’t expect yourself to be.”
“I did back then,” I explain. “I know better now, but I went from spending two years in the sun to then spending the next five dwelling in the shadows.”
“You can hardly consider yourself to be a shadow creature at the moment. You’re an invaluable employee to a world-renowned playwright, you’re days away from submitting what is sure to be an award-winning play, you’re enjoying the company of a moderately dashing Englishman, and you have a phenomenal dog who’s devoted to you. You’re in a good spot.”
“No, I know I’m an incredibly lucky person. I guess I just feel like until I redeem myself writing-wise, it’s hard to feel completely satisfied with the rest.”
“Well, you should. You’re sensational.”
I nudge his hip with the tip of my toe. “Your gratuitous praise is very sweet, but also unnecessary. And for the record, I happen to think very highly of you, too.”
We’ve both finished off our milkshakes at this point, and Liam places our glasses on the ironing board/table. “So, how are you feeling?” he then asks, sitting back against the cushions. “Are you ready to call it a night after breaking such a theatrically creative sweat?”
“Soon, I think. But let’s stay here for a little longer first.”
“The Manilow magic is pulling you in, isn’t it?”
“Among other things,” I say with a grin. Shifting to tuck my legs underneath me, I climb over to Liam’s side of the couch and sprawl out across his chest. I feel rather than see him adjust his position a bit, sliding down to wrap his arms securely around me. His chin rests on the top of my head as I listen to the loud and steady beat of his heart.
“Three weeks really is a short amount of time,” he says. I feel the vibrations of his words through my ear that’s pressed up against him.
“Three weeks is better than nothing,” I answer back.
“But worse than everything.”
“Is that what you’re after, then?” I tilt my face up to catch his eyes. “Everything?”
He gives me a bittersweet kind of smile and runs his hand down the length of my back. He doesn’t respond, and I don’t mind in the least.
I sigh and snuggle even more comfortably into his hold. “Let’s just listen to a couple more songs before we go to bed, okay? I bet they’ll be transcending.”
He still doesn’t reply, only holds me the slightest bit tighter. We end up listening to half the album by the time I slowly fall asleep. Turns out, Liam wasn’t lying—Barry Manilow really is one hell of a vocal temptress.
It’s three in the morning when I wake up in Liam’s bed, fully clothed. He must have carried me in at some point. I sit up and the room is dark, but I can see enough to distinguish my surroundings from the light that’s still on in the living room. The bedroom itself is nice—noticeably in a far better state than the rest of the apartment. The space is tidy, and the dresser and bed look new. The sheets are tantalizingly soft, and actual curtains cover the windows while still letting in soft striations of light from the street outside.
I sneak out of bed and tiptoe across the carpeted floor, peeking out the doorway and finding Ollie asleep on the couch. Seeing that he’s fine, I sneak back into the room and wiggle out of my jeans as I stand beside the bed, doing my best not to wake Liam. I then gently glide back in and hold my breath as I pull the blankets up around me.
Despite my best efforts, Liam turns over, groggy and perplexed, leaning up on an elbow as his eyes slowly focus on mine.
“Are you alright?” he asks hoarsely.
“I’m fine,” I whisper back. “I just wanted to check on Ollie. I’m sorry I woke you.”
