In Knoxville, playing songs for Liam, I was writing in a vacuum. No critique or review, and only a handful of outside influences. Now, after the past four years, I’m not afraid of throwing out ninety percent of something and keeping the good ten. You play it for someone who knows what they’re talking about when they offer feedback. You discuss the bridge. You tone match the sound to the lyrics. And then, possibly, you throw out eighty percent of that and keep the good twenty. And then, possibly, you do it all again.
I’m only at the beginning of this song—really, the first chapter out of forty-five—but I alreadyloveit. I’m obsessed with it. I won’t rest until I finish it. This song will consume my thoughts all day until I can come back here and write it out, sing it, feel thatahamoment, and then share it with someone—
My brain, running like an overheated engine, cools when Liam’s hands meet my shoulders. I tilt my head backward. From this angle, his dark hair feathers across his forehead.
“I’m gonna head out,” he says.
“I’m coming with you.”
“You should stay and finish this.”
I stand, setting my guitar in its case. “I’ll do it later.”
Liam smirks. “But what if my soul stops breathing for your body and you die of asphyxiation?”
I play-punch him on his good shoulder.
“You missed,” he deadpans. “Or did you forget that season I was right-handed?”
“Didn’t forget anything. I’m just not one to rub dirt on a wound.”
“The expression you’re looking for,” he drawls, crossing his arms over his chest, “issaltin the wound.”
“Tell me,” I say, tiptoeing barefoot toward the bathroom. “How many times do you saymy old sports injuryin a given week?”
“Probably the same number of times you saymy degree in songwriting.”
“Never?”
“Thereabouts.”
Liam follows me to the bathroom, leaning against the doorframe as I brush out my hair. A plain, heart-shaped face stares back at me, slightly pale for this time of year. I look most like Folly and Maren. We have the same thin legs and broad shoulders. And all five of us have our mother’s dark curls. But I’m the only Lancaster with a Mallen streak. I’ve always loved that about my hair. Like a tattoo I never asked for but was happy to showcase.
“Joking aside,” Liam says, “I liked it. The song.”
My veins seem to blister open at his admission. I dissociated enough not to think about him being in the room while I was songwritingabout him, but now, I feel like a nocturnal animal caught in sunlight.
I turn back to him, grabbing my toothbrush. “Are the lyrics… weird?”
He shakes his head, stepping closer. “No. Just… intense. But isn’t that the point?”
I nod. Lyrics that sound like poetry.
He takes another step, wetting his lips. “Is that really how you feel about me? That I picked out your dreams for you?” Liam’s eyes sweep over me, settling on the splash of red spreading across my neck.
“Um. I guess so. I mean, lyrically, yes. Sometimes it used to feel that way.”
“Used to,” he repeats.
God, I don’t stand a chance of finishing this song if I can’t even articulate it. But Liam’s eyes are curious; he wants me to try.
I clear my throat. “Sometimes, I imagine what would’ve happened if we’d never met. I wonder how different my life would look.”
He takes the final step to close the gap between us. Liam’s handcomes to the side of my neck, where it rests. My pulse thunders. It’s almost like hehasto touch me while we discuss a world in which we’ve never met.
“You set me on a path I couldn’t have imagined for myself,” I go on. “Maybethat’swhy it feels like you breathe for me. Pick dreams for me. Because my life was altered by your hands.”
“Paige,” he whispers, returning his hand to his side. “Everyone’s life is altered by everyone else’s hands.”
