“I’ll pick you up for breakfast at nine. We can discuss more about this…projectthen.”
Giddy effervescence pools in my gut, knowing I’ll see him again in less than twelve hours. “What changed your mind?” I ask.
His hand reaches out and grabs my Mallen streak—which is actually pink rather than gray right now, thanks to boxed CVS hair dye. Mesmerized, he sifts it through his fingers as he speaks. “A few reasons. For starters, I guess I feel responsible for why you’re so invested in your music. I also feel honored—greedy, even—being the source of your best material. Third, I don’t want you looking for inspiration elsewhere. And lastly, it sounds like I was going to hurt your feelings either way. If I said no to you and vanished, that would have done it, too.”
His eyes shift up to mine, and he whispers, “At least like this, maybe I’ll earn your trust back. We’ll get to the middle part we never reached back then.”
I swallow thickly, my skin prickled with texture as Liam adds, “Maybe—and it’s a big maybe, Paige, but—maybe we’ll even change the ending.”
Chapter 7
March, Four Years Ago
On Wednesday evening, I get cut from the restaurant about fifteen minutes earlier than the time I told Liam I’d be free. I cross the short distance over to Union Avenue Books, humming a made-up something under my breath.
Zara’s at the checkout counter, chatting with our dad on the phone. He’s lobbying us to come visit him in France for Christmas and called me earlier today to ask if I had a passport yet (I don’t). Before she hangs up, I shout a series of French words at him I’m actually shocked he understands well enough to find amusing.
Even though Zara and I live together, we sometimes go days without crossing paths, so tonight’s my first opportunity to debrief her while we wait to see if Liam will show.
“So you guys are just going to hang out and read?” she clarifies. “Platonically?”
Our eyes scan out the shop front window to find Liam parallel parking. His windows are rolled down, tanned side profile on display.
“Basically,” I say, attempting to ignore the competence of his parking skills and what it shouldn’t butdoesimply in my brain.
“Does Evan know about this?”
“Evan has tons of female friends.” Which is true enough but notan answer to her question. Some of his female friends are actually “our” friends from the restaurant, but since Evan grew up in Knoxville, he’s also got a slew of people in his life I don’t have the bandwidth or energy to monitor. Tonight, for example, when we got off work at the same time, he kissed me and told me he was grabbing a cold one with some high school friends. Then he sauntered toward Old City without an invitation or a backward glance.
To Evan’s credit, heknowsmy Wednesdays are ritualistic. Zara works the closing shift at the bookshop and I always get cut around five, so I’ve gotten in the habit of reading here and waiting for her to finish before we grab dinner.
“I think,” I say, as Liam opens his truck door, my eyes lingering on his jeans and weathered Braves T-shirt, “that it’s like, a wholesomeness thing for him? He mentioned feeling tired of the party scene. He’s also a bit of a player, so maybe he’s trying to balance that out because of delayed guilt or something.”
I leave out the part about Liam missing his dad, mostly because it’s his story to share, but also because I’m still not sure how I’m specifically supposed to help with that.
“Hmm,” Zara ponders. “What are you getting out of it?”
“An education on baseball, apparently.”
Liam pushes open the shop door, his eyes scanning for me. His dark brown hair is half damp, just starting to curl at the tips, and there’s a small, fresh sunburn across the bridge of his straight nose.
“Hey.” The word comes out scratched. “Sorry I’m late.”
“It’s four fifty-nine,” Zara informs him, chin on her hand. She blinks at Liam rapidly from behind her counter.
He inclines his head. “Zara. Read any good dragon books lately?”
“No, but Ididread a baseball romance I could recommend.”
He smirks. “Point me to it.”
“Paige knows where.” She shoos us away from the counter when a woman approaches with an armful of paperbacks.
I gesture for Liam to follow me into the aisles with a finger wag. His grin widens.
“I don’t actually want to read about baseball,” he whispers to me.
“I’d be worried if you did,” I whisper back.
