“Well,” he rumbles, “I was. I am.”
Eventually we stand, heading back the way we came. Liam and I gorge on mesquite tacos and then drive back to the hotel. He goes off to take a few calls, leaving me in the quiet of our room, and in that time, I write two more songs.
“Never Over” and “Little Ripple, Big Wave.”
do you remember it how I do? never
over by the garden where we argued, never
over stupid words that didn’t matter, never
over in a blink that lasted four years
The lyrics come out of me in an exorcism, as if my emotions have gotten too big and I need someplace else to store them. Every word, so carefully chosen, is part of a story I have to get down or I’ll explode with it. Like my songs are a siphon, drawing off the excess feeling, and they’re also an offering, handed over to listeners who want to know that whatever’s in their head is also outside of it.
When Liam comes back, his eyes cut around the room until he spots me on the floor in the far corner, his expression flooding with relief. Later, when we’re walking past each other near the bed, his hand floats over mine.
After watching the first two Star Wars movies and debating their merits over room service, we flick off the lights, pull back the covers.
Liam turns sideways, watching me as our eyes adjust to the dark. He grabs a lock of my hair. “How in love with me are you today?”
I chew on my lip, pretend to give it some thought. “Fifty percent.”
It’s higher, in fact, but that’s not Liam’s business.
Nonetheless, his expression is pleased. “Careful, baby,” he says hoarsely. “You might be falling too fast.”
Chapter 19
May, Four Years Ago
The morning before Liam travels to Florida for his next few games, he presents me with an early birthday present (baseball-patterned pajamas and another handwritten letter I’m not to open until the actual day) and takes me to an all-you-can-eat breakfast at his favorite spot near campus, where it’s allegedly the norm to wear your sleep clothes.
He’s in gray sweatpants and a baseball T-shirt, and together, we look properly embarrassing. I’m pretty sure Liam brought me here to get a photo of me wearing his birthday present in public, but at least I’m not the guy in a onesie with the wordsBLAST ZONEon his rump. We sit on the same side of the booth and split a pancake tower.
“You could’ve borrowed one of my Teletubbies onesies,” I tell him.
He says, “I burned those as a trauma response when you weren’t looking.”
“But I always loan them out to the baseball team during hazing season.”
“Well, I’m the captain this year,” Liam says. “New regime. No more hazing.”
“I didn’t know you’re the captain!”
“You’re at an all-you-can-eat pancake house,” Liam says significantly, “with the captain of the baseball team.”
“Did this happen on an episode ofStranger Things?”
He smirks at me, tugs on the sleeve of my top while I lather our recently delivered pancakes with syrup. “Would you consider yourself a birthday person?” he asks.
“Yes, actually. Maisy always makes a big deal of it.”
Liam twists to look at me, brow raised. “She does?”
“Oh, yeah. It’s her birthday, too.”
“Ah.”
