His hand on my wrist softens but doesn’t release. “You told me you were a student.”
“Wish fulfillment,” I say with a shrug.
My words gentle his expression. “Your sister is enrolled.”
“You remember Zara too?”
Liam’s eyes narrow, back to accusatory. “Why do you assume I’ve got memory problems?”
“Not problems, per se. I guess I assumed you’d be theselectivememory type.”
He leans in microscopically. My pulse starts to whir. “And you think my memory wouldn’t haveselectedto remember you?”
“We spoke for three minutes, eighteen months ago,” I say.
“You understand the hypocrisy of your assumption followed by the specificity of that sentence, right?”
“I was mistaken,” I say, feeling bubbly and loose. “It’s great to see you again, Liam.”
His eyes go flinty. “It’s been too long, Paige Lancaster.”
“Wow, my last name and everything?”
“Who hurt you?”
I belt out a laugh, and Liam’s face splits into another grin.Finally, he lets go of my wrist, but not before his thumb drags across my pulse point.
I shrug. “I guess I’m just used to having to remind people where we’ve met before.”
“I can’t fathom needing to be reintroduced to the girl with a gray lock of hair.” His hand raises to my shoulder, where he pinches my hair between his fingers and then runs them down the length of it. My skin flushes, but God bless, it might be too dark for him to notice.
“My Mallen streak. I’ve had it since I was a baby.”
“I like it,” Liam says. “Not that it’s supposed to matter to you, but I do.”
I smile genuinely. “Well, thanks.”
After a few more seconds, Liam’s fingers drop back to his side. I move down the hallway toward the kitchen. He follows me.
“So,” Liam says. “Whyaren’tyou in school? Gap year? Or years?”
I weave through a few bodies and open the Tetris-packed fridge, grabbing a beer from the six-pack I brought with me.
“Want one?” I ask. Liam nods and I hand it over, then grab another. “College isn’t a hallmark thing in my family,” I explain. I debate leaving it at that, but Liam waits quietly like he’d like me to elaborate. “Neither of my parents went. My oldest sister, Maren, did, and as you mentioned, Zara’s a senior here now, but my other two sisters never bothered and are doing just fine.”
A small lie, since I have no ideahowFolly’s doing (I haven’t heard from her since before I last spoke with Liam), but that’s not a situation I care to explain at the moment.
“There arefiveof you?” he asks.
I nod, smirking. “All girls.”
“Wow,” he says. “I bet the Lancaster family dinners were boisterous.”
He may as well have pinched my heart, but Liam couldn’t have known.
I used to love our family dinners. Maren and Candice would always cook while Folly, Zara, and I took turns walking the dog, setting the table, cleaning up the dishes after. Dad would roll in from his warehouse job at 7:10 on the dot, and we’d sit down and talk over each other until someone burped, which would make our very old and very anxious dog howl, which would make everyone else burst into laughter.
Years later, when all my sisters were gone and Dad’s manager moved him to night shifts, I’d sit alone at that huge table and remember their voices through the quiet.
