I grab a ponytail holder off the counter and slip it over his wrist. Liam hooks his fingers into the T-shirt and pulls me toward our room.
“Are we about to start fighting again?” I whisper.
His mouth curves. He sits on the edge of the bed and pulls me over his lap. “I think so.”
“It feels more like we’re about to have sex.”
“I just want to feel close to you,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to my forehead, “while we do this, instead of feeling far away.”
I nod as Liam’s hands settle on my waist. Our eyes lock, and I say, “Ready?”
One corner of his mouth quirks. “Ready.”
Deep breath. “I ran into Maisy in the park.”
His brow lifts. “Wow. That’s…”
“Cosmic?”
“If you think so,” he says, thumbs brushing over my thighs, “then sure.”
“She’s doing well. It was good to see her. She made me realize that even the most specific, the most detailed of my songs can be reinterpreted. And it sort of cracked open this understanding that once something is out there, it stops being only yours. Which actually makes the vulnerability of it less, not more.”
“That makes sense.” He waits for me to go on.
I say, so softly, “I want to try recording.”
His head shakes. “I got to thinking while you were gone, and I realized if you record evenonesong, there’s a chance someone’s always going to want something else from you. And I could just”—he blinks—“see it playing out in my mind. You giving and giving andgiving. Justone morething. Justone morerequest. I don’t want to push you into burnout or resentment.”
“I promise, I won’t let that happen. And for the record, I don’t think you’d let it happen, either. I am never going to morph into a person who is comfortable with attention. I am never going to have a desire to play for a crowd. But I’m starting to realize I sometimes like the sound of my own voice. Especially when I’m singing about you.”
Liam’s smile is featherlight. “I want you to write love songs about me forever, Paige. I want you to write songs about whatever the fuck you want forever. I hope the act of it never stops being good for you. So do whatever you want withyourmusic. But just know that making money off it won’t cheapen what we have. And choosing not to record any of those love songs won’t make this relationship less real from my perspective.”
Liam must read the distrust on my face because he asks, “Do you believe I mean that?”
“I don’t know,” I admit. “That last part is opposite to what you thought only a few hours ago, and I need you to connect the dots for me.”
His hands move down over my thighs, and he rumbles out, “Before you left, you asked me if I thought my family bought how I presented myself to them.”
I wince, remembering. “That was harsh, implying you’re at all responsible for their thoughtless treatment of you. I’m really sorry for saying that, Liam.”
He shakes his head, some of the damper locks of his dark hair falling over his forehead. “No, you were right. I mean, thank you for apologizing, but you were on the right track. A while after you left the hotel, I texted Kayla something like,Did I talk about baseball too much back then?She called me immediately.”
“What was the verdict?” I ask.
Liam’s eyes go soft. “She said I stopped acting like her little brother the day Dad died. And that’s what hurt her so much.”
I nod slow, getting Kayla’s perspective. Hadn’t I sometimes wished Maren would act more like a sister and less like a mom?
“Howdidyou act?” I ask him. I only knew Liam after, not before.
Liam’s teeth tug at his bottom lip. “Back then, Kayla and Heather loved baseball, too. It was a family affair. Even my mom would sometimes go to Braves games in Atlanta, or a Thursday night game for the minor league team in Savannah.”
“The Savannah Bananas?” I ask. I know I’m right; I just wanted to say it.
Liam smiles gently. “Yes, Paige, the Savannah Bananas.”
“What do the Savannah Bananas have to do with how you acted when your dad died, and why Kayla was hurt by it?” I ask.
