But now that the rush from my brainstorm session has faded, why do I feel… humiliated?
Can I only be a good artist if Liam is involved? If he’s part of the making of my art?
Today is about establishing our boundaries, defining the terms of this arrangement. But if Liam is only doing this because I suggested he owes me based on one fight that blew us up four years ago, I need to check myself.
He drops my hand. Pushes his fingers through his dark, messy hair, peering at me, all but mind reading. Behind him, Folly is mouthinghottie!and pointing at Liam in case I’m confused which third person in the room she could possibly be referencing.
“Liam was telling me about Penelope Parker’s tour?” Folly leans against the counter, pursing her lips over the rim of her mug. “Two and a half months, twenty cities, forty-two shows?”
My gaze snaps back to Liam. He’s watching for my reaction. “Wow,” I say.
“It’s a lot, I know.” His tone is an apology, like his current occupation is putting me out, and guilt twists my core into an even tighter knot. “Are you ready?”
I nod, walking toward the door.
“See you later!” Folly winks at me, a silent encouragement.
Outside, foggy heat rises off the pavement and heavy sunshine beats down on us.
“Where are you living these days?” I ask.
“An extended-stay Airbnb.” Liam unlocks his truck. “It’s subsidized by Live Nation. That’s where we’re heading now.”
We climb inside and Liam drives off.
“Because you move around so often?” I ask.
He hums as we turn onto the main drag of Hillsboro Village.
“What’s the new song about?” he asks.
“You.”
Even from his side profile, I can see him fighting with hisexpression, instinctual pleasure melting into pensive worry. He can’t decide how to feel.
We pull into the parking lot of a refurbished loft building three minutes later, and Liam leads me to a side door, then inside his temporary home. I’m expecting the same calm neutrals of most rental homes, but this one is eclectic. Victorian frames with pictures of old Broadway, mismatched vases with dried, spray-painted flowers. The only thing in here I can attribute to Liam is a baseball mitt and two novels sitting on a rattan chair near the front door.
“Coffee?” he asks, glancing back at me.
I nod, and Liam pulls a gallon of cold brew out of his fridge alongside some eggs and a package of bacon. Without thinking, I go to the counter beside him and sift through the drawers for a skillet. When I find one and pull it out, he grabs it from my hand and sets it on the burner.
“Nice try. I didn’t invite you over so you could make me floppy bacon.”
“I didn’t come over to eat yourburnt bacon,” I counter.
Liam’s eyes narrow. “I’ll take your pieces out early.”
“Great.” I cross my arms over my chest. “I’ll stand here and watch.”
He glowers at me somewhat fondly for a moment before getting to work. I hover so well that eventually he procures me the loaf of sourdough and a bread knife so I can cut up slices for toast. Then he makes me an iced coffee with cream and sets it beside my cutting board.
“The tour. Penelope’s tour.” I glance over, but Liam has his eyes glued to the eggs he’s cracking into a bowl. “I’m the lead on this one. So, I can’t get out of it.”
Pride balloons inside me. “You’re going to be in charge of the whole thing?”
He shakes his head. “No, not even close. Just the logistics of it all once our whole crew gets to each location.”
“Still. That sounds really important.”
