“Then can we at least go?” he asks, voice soft. “I want to rewrite that memory for you. Erase what it was like when you went with Evan.”
My lips quirk. “You don’t think you’re going to get secondhand embarrassment?”
He says nothing, shakes his head. Like a challenge.
“Last time someone sang about her undying love for Cheesecake Factory.”
He fights a smile. Says, “I hope she’s back tonight.”
I shrug. “If Zara doesn’t mind.”
“You know what that was like?” Zara says, walking backward on the sidewalk, melted ice cream dripping down her cone.
“A book?” Liam and I guess at the same time.
“Exactly!” She takes a slurp of her Cruze Farm mango Dole Whip, turning to face forward again. Her curls bounce cheerily—loose, and recently sheered to shoulder length after an impromptu reevaluation of her impending “city girl look.”
Zara slows her pace, coming between us as we pass a sports bar on our left, a make-believe honky-tonk on our right. “I’m always reading about tortured artists who meet and mingle in a coffeehouse where the owner-slash-barista falls in love with the blushing talent, and tonight, I’m pretty sure that fucking happened!”
“I was getting those vibes,” Liam agrees before his lips cover the straw of his milkshake. “The girl who played the song about her dead cat?”
“The cat’s name was Vincent,” Zara notes, “and when she rescued him, he had only one good ear.”
“Meta,” I joke.
“It was a good song,” Liam says. “I mean, it didn’t have a pre-chorus or anything, but—”
I snort into my dulce de leche.
“Tattooed barista thought that song was the second coming,” Zara says.
“I liked the guy with the beard,” I say.
“Paige, he didn’tsing. He scatted.”
“It counts.”
“If you say so.”
“Personally,” Liam says, “I think Paige would’ve wiped the floor with all of them.”
“Hear, hear!” Zara thrusts her cone into the air, and the frozen mound flies high before slapping the concrete in front of us. We bust out laughing.
Eventually, we swap our treats for frothy beers and close out the evening at an Irish pub on Gay Street, talking about Zara’s plans for New York—where she’ll live, what she’ll do, how she’ll affordit, what weekend Liam and I should come up for a visit. She’s on fire for her future, practically feverish, her eyes shimmering. I’m thrilled for her and distressed by it all. The scale of which emotion tips heavier depends on the day.
At some point, Liam’s hand migrates to mine under the table, and he runs his fingers over the top of my knuckles. Back and forth, back and forth. It’s a tiny gesture, a minute reassurance.We’re still friends, but we’re also this.
“Well,” Zara announces after finishing her first beer, right as I’ve ordered a second with a duplicate of Candice’s ID. “I’m heading home, but you two should stay.”
“You sure?” I ask her.
“Very.”
Liam stands to hug her goodbye, promises to stay in touch throughout his Robin Hobb reading journey. My second beer arrives, and I pour half of it into Liam’s glass, suddenly wanting us to be even paced in our drinking tonight. He lets me, taking a sip with his free hand and lacing our fingers together.
“Paige,” he says, twirling the glass between his fingertips, staring at the amber liquid.
“Hmm?”
