“Thirty-six seconds,” he amends.
The sky breaks open. I rush through the gate and down the cleared corridor with a herd of others. Music agents and executives, event staff, photographers. I grab a water bottle from a table of snacks when I make it into the converted lounge and sit in the corner, waiting for Liam. As more people file in I twiddle on my phone for a while, trying to keep my mind blank and my thoughts from overwriting my instincts.
“Paige?”
I glance up and see Misha Mohan. She was a couple years ahead of me at Belmont. We’re the same age and became quasi friends before she graduated.
The quasi part meaning: we only hung out in group settings at open mics.
“Hey!” I say, happy to see her. I reach over for a hug. Misha is tucked between two tattooed men on a couch beside my lone chair. To hug her, I have to encroach on all three of them, but the guys just smile politely at me.
“Did you play keyboard today?” I ask her. It was what Misha always said she wanted to pursue after graduation.
She nods. “The earlier acts. What are you doing here?”
“Do you know Liam Bishop?” Saying his name aloud is an electric discharge.
Misha’s face brightens. “Everybody around here knows Liam. He’s like, the first mate.”
Funny. That’salsohow one of his teammates described him back when Liam was the pitcher, and the team captain.
“We knew each other from Knoxville,” I explain, sitting back down. “Just catching up.”
“Before he hits the road?” Misha asks.
I frown. “The road?”
“Yeah. We’re all going on tour with Penelope Parker for the summer.”
Shit.
Shit, shit, shit.
He’s leaving town. He’s not even going tobehere.
The sound of squelching, jerky footsteps pulls our attention to the front of the lounge, where he emerges, rain speckled and panting. I get a flash of him looking just like this the day we met, covered in raindrops and (though I didn’t know it at the time) looking for me. When his eyes find mine, Liam exhales, hands on his knees.
“Dammit, Paige.”
“Sorry!” I say, genuinely apologetic to have alarmed him. “It was raining.”
He pulls himself back up, face softening as he walks toward me. “I know, I know. You just scared me.” When he reaches me, he grabs the water bottle out of my hands, unscrews it, and polishes the rest off.
“You good, Bishop?” asks one of the tattooed guys sitting with Misha.
Liam offers him a thumbs-up as he swallows. He turns to me. “You ready?”
“For what?”
His eyes flash. “Late-night tacos and an explanation?”
“Tacos, yes. Explanation, only if you’re lucky.” My cheekiness is forced, and it shows.
“I’m feeling lucky,” Liam mutters back. “My car’s here. I’ll drive us.”
“Good, because I electric scootered.”
“Paige, maybe I’ll see you around again?” Misha leans forward, her eyes flitting back and forth between Liam and me.
