“Oh, no.”
“At the very least, it’s highly inappropriate.”
“No, it’s not like that—”
“I can talk to him.”
I blink. “What?”
“What’s his last name?” Liam asks, like it’s a totally normal question. “I can talk to him. Explain that he has made you uncomfortable and he should stop—”
“What?” I let out a laugh. “Liam, I’m not going to tell you his last name. What are you gonna do, pour a barrel of oil on his house?”
He looks away. Like it was an option.
“No, I . . . I actually like Ted. He’s nice. I mean, I’ve even considered saying yes. Why not, right?” Why not? is what Helena would say, but Liam’s expression darkens at that. Or maybe it’s just my entire soul, darkening at the idea of putting on eyeliner to go out with a guy who’s perfectly fine and excites me as much as boiled spinach. “It’s just that . . .” I shrug. How to explain that I am forever uninspired by the men I meet? I won’t even bother. It’s not like he cares. “Thank you, though,” I add.
He looks like he’d like to insist, but just says, “Let me know if you change your mind.”
“Um. Okay.” I guess I have a six-foot-three mountain of muscles in my corner now? It’s kinda nice. I should make soup more often. “So, since I have you here,” and to avoid dropping into awkward silence again, “what’s up with the pictures?”
“The pictures?”
“The black-and-white pictures of trees and lakes and stuff. Hanging on literally every single wall.”
“I just like to take them.”
“Wait. You took the pictures yourself?”
“Yeah.”
“Does that mean that you’ve actually been to all those places?”
He swallows a spoonful of soup, nodding. “It’s mostly national parks. A few state ones. Canada, too.”
I’m a little shocked. Not only are the pictures good, professional-level good, but . . . “Okay”—I point at the frame behind the table, an image of a mobius arc in what looks like Sierra Nevada—“this is not the work of someone who hates the environment.”
He gives me a puzzled look. “And I hate the environment?”
“Yes!” I blink. “No?”
He shrugs. “I might not compost my own feces or hold my breath to avoid emitting CO2, but I do like nature.”
I’m a little dumbfounded. “Liam? Can I ask you a question that will possibly make you want to throw the bowl at me?”
“It won’t.”
“You haven’t heard the question.”
“But the soup is really good.”
I beam. And then I immediately feel self-conscious at the surge of warmth that comes from knowing he likes my cooking. Who cares if he does? He’s a random dude. He’s Liam Harding. On paper, I hate him.
“You said you really respected Helena’s work. And that she was your favorite aunt. And that you were close. But you work at FGP Corp, and I’ve been wondering . . .”
“How I’m still alive?”
I laugh. “Pretty much.”
“I’m not quite sure why she spared me.”
“A bit out of character, isn’t it?”
“I hid the sharp knives every time she visited. But she mostly focused on sending me daily texts about all the evil FGP Corp is doing in the world. Maybe she was going for a slow grind?”
“I just . . . I don’t understand how you love Helena and nature and working at a company that lobbies to eliminate carbon taxes like its aim is to plunge civilization into fiery darkness.”
He huffs out a laugh. “You think I enjoy working there?”
“I assumed you did. Because you seem to work all the time.” I flush—okay, fine, I noticed his hours, sue me—but he doesn’t seem to care. “You . . . don’t?”
“No. It’s a shitty company and I hate everything it stands for.”
“Oh. Then why . . .” I scratch my nose. Oh. I did not expect that. “You’re a lawyer. Can’t you, um, lawyer elsewhere?”
“It’s complicated.”
“Complicated?”
The spoon scrapes the bottom of the bowl for a moment. “My mentor recruited me.”
“Your mentor?”
“He was one of my professors. I owe him a lot—he helped me get all my internships lined up, advised me during law school. When he asked me to take this job, I didn’t feel like I could say no. He’s my boss now, and . . .” He leans back in his chair and runs a hand through his hair. Tired. He looks very tired. “I have a lot of complicated feelings about what FGP Corp does. And I don’t like the company, or its mission. But in the end, it’s a good thing that I’m around. If it weren’t me, someone else would do my job just as well. And at least I can be there for the team I lead. And run interference between them and my boss when it’s necessary.”
I think about the words I overheard last night. Unethical. Wrong. “Is he the one you were arguing with? On the phone?” He lifts one eyebrow, and my cheeks warm. “I promise I wasn’t eavesdropping!” But Liam shrugs as though he doesn’t mind. So I smile, leaning forward across the table. “Okay, maybe I was. Just a bit. So, what’s his name?”
“Whose name?”
“Your boss. Maybe I can talk to him while you talk to Ted? Some good old reciprocal proxy bullying? Mutual warn-off? Leave-My-Friend-Alone Sixty-Nine?”
He smiles at me then—a full, real smile. His first in my presence, I think, and it makes breathing that much harder, the temperature of the room that much hotter. How—why is he so handsome? I stare at him, speechless, unable to do anything but notice the clear brown of his eyes, the lopsided way his lips stretch, the fact that he seems to be studying me with a warm, kind expression, and—
Our eyes dart to his phone. Which is ringing again.
“Work?” I ask. My voice is hoarse.
“No. It’s . . .” He stands from the table and clears his throat. “Excuse me. I’ll be right back.”
As he walks out, I hear him chuckle. On the other side of the phone, a female voice is saying his name.
Six
Four months ago
I take a careful step out of the shower, letting my toes dig deep into the thick, soft mat. It turns out to be a lethally poor choice, because I do it in the same exact moment Liam opens the bathroom door to take a step inside.
It leads to me jumping. And flailing. And yelling: “Aaaaaaaaah!”
“Mara? What—”
“Aaah!”
“Sorry—I didn’t—”
My entire body is slippery and frantic—not a good combination. I almost lose my balance trying to wrap the shower curtain around me. Then I do lose my balance, and I’m positive Liam can see everything.
The outie belly button Hannah always teases me about.
The sickle-shaped lacrosse scar above my right boob.
Said right boob, and the left one.
For a fraction of a second we both stand motionless. Staring at each other. Unable to react. Then I say, “Can you—could you, um, hand me that towel over there?”