There are a few living/sitting/front/lounge/whatnot rooms on the first floor, but my favorite is the one connected to the kitchen. It has a large, comfortable couch that probably cost more than my graduate education, a soft area rug I like to stealthily caress when I’m home alone, and the pièce de résistance: a giant TV. I move my （many） food containers to the walnut coffee table and let myself plop down on the couch.
For reasons I don’t understand, Liam pays for cable television and for about fifteen different streaming services that I’ve never seen him use. I’m in no way above exploiting FGP Corp’s blood money, so I find a rerun of a season twelve episode of The Bachelorette. Not my favorite, for reasons I explained at length on my blog （don’t judge me）， but decent. I settle in.
Ten minutes later, an idiot with an obvious tanning-bed addiction is fist-fighting an idiot who clearly snorts protein powder, all under a delighted girl’s eyes—i.e., the premise of the show. But I realize that not all noises come from the TV. When I mute it, I can hear another argument. From upstairs. In Liam’s voice.
It’s not loud enough to make out the gist of it, but I do manage to eavesdrop the occasional words. Wrong. Unethical. Opposed, maybe? Quite a few firm Nos, but that’s about it. After a brief moment, the sounds are muffled again. Another minute, and a door slams; feet quickly make their way down the steps.
Crap.
I consider quickly switching to a Lars von Trier movie, but Liam arrives before I can fool him into thinking that I’m an intellectual. I look up from my egg roll and he’s there, in the slice of kitchen I can see from the couch, looking like . . . murder.
That is: more than usual.
My first instinct is to flatten myself against the couch, keep watching my trashy show and eating my excellent food. But he turns, our eyes meet, and I have no choice but to hesitantly wave at him. He answers with a curt nod, and . . . he looks broody and dark, like he just had a terrible ten minutes, perhaps a terrible day. Even worse, he looks like he’s ready to take it out on the first person he’ll find in his path—which, given the weather conditions, is regrettably going to be me. He looks like he needs a distraction, and a very stupid idea pops into my head.
Don’t do it, Mara. Don’t do it. You’re gonna regret it.
But Liam is visibly clenching his teeth. The way he’s staring into the open fridge suggests that he’d like to strangle each and every jar of tartar sauce （for unknowable reasons, he owns three）。 Maybe the ketchup, too. The line of his overbroad shoulders is so tense I could use it as a bubble level, and—
Ah. Screw it.
“So.” I clear my throat. “I ordered way more food than I need.” I resist the urge to cover my discomfort with nervous laughter. He can probably smell it, my abject terror. “Would you, um, like some?”
He slowly closes the fridge door and turns around. “Excuse me?” He looks at me like I just offered to go rob a bank together. To buddy–sign up for aerial yoga. To spend the rest of the night moth watching.
“Takeout. Chinese. Want some?”
He glances at the window. Yes, it’s still snowing. We’re officially the North Pole. “You ordered takeout.” He sounds dubious.
“Not today. Two days ago. I always order too much, because leftovers taste better. Especially the lo mein, it really needs to soak into the sauce to . . .” I stop. And flush. “Anyway, would you like some?”
“We’re in the middle of a snowstorm, Mara.” Why am I shivering all of a sudden? Ah yes. Because it’s cold. Not because he said my name. “You should be hoarding your food.”
Yeah, I should. “It’s about to go bad. And I’m happy to share.”
It takes Liam an inordinate amount of time to answer. Ten good seconds of him staring skeptically, perhaps suspecting me to be a deranged murderess on the prowl for roommates to poison. Eventually he says: “Sure.”
He sounds everything but sure. Very cautious. Looks cautious, too, as he makes his way to me. He slides his hands in the back pockets of his jeans and looks around morosely, and it’s obvious that he has no idea what to do—sit on the couch, the chair, the floor. Eat standing in the middle of the living room. It occurs to me for the first time that his entire aloof, stern persona might hide a smidge of awkwardness. Could he be one of those people who are hyperconfident in professional settings and the total opposite in their social lives? Nah. Unlikely.
I pat a spot next to mine, already regretting this. We’ve never sat together before. So far, every interaction between us has been circumstantial. The act of sitting next to each other implies intentionality and a longer duration. A new territory.
Weird.
Liam is so heavy and tall that the cushion dips when he sits down, and I have to tense my abs and readjust to avoid sliding toward him. I hand him a plate and a pair of chopsticks, pretending there’s nothing unusual about any of this. He does the same as he accepts them with a brief nod, his fingers never accidentally touching mine.
“What are you watching?” he asks.
“The Bachelorette.” No sign of recognition. “It’s this stupid, amazing show. Reality. You don’t have to watch with me. Save yourself while you can.” Surprisingly, Liam stays put. Still looks a bit like he wouldn’t mind trashing the entire house, but his expression is slightly less bloodthirsty. Progress? “So, Sheryl, the girl in the green dress—the only girl—has a few weeks to choose a husband among all the guys.”
Liam squints at the TV for a moment. “Based on what? They all look the same.”
“They do, don’t they?” I shrug. “They take her on dates. And chat. Toward the end they might even have sex.”
Is he flushing? No. It’s just the light. “On-screen?”
“Hey, it’s ABC, not HBO.” I put a spring roll on his plate. Then I take a look at him—his arms filling his shirt, his chest, his general . . . hugeness—and add two more. How many million calories does he need a day? I should find out. In the name of science. “You see the guy wearing glasses he obviously doesn’t need in the vain hope of looking less imbecilic?”
“Blue shirt?”
“Yes. We’re rooting for him.”
“Are we.”
“Yep. Because he’s from Michigan. And I went to U of M for undergrad,” I explain, licking a drop of hoisin sauce off my thumb. His eyes linger on my lips for a too-long moment, then abruptly slide away.
“I see.”
“It’s a great place. Ever been?”
“I don’t believe so, no.” He’s still not looking at me. Maybe he holds a profound and irrational hatred for Ann Arbor?
“Where did you go to school?”
He seems mildly surprised that I’m asking. Fair, since I haven’t exactly excelled at turn taking and conversation making in the past. “Dartmouth. Then Harvard Law School.”
“Right.” I nod knowingly. “That sounds . . . cheap.”
He has the decency to look sheepish, so I take pity on him. “Want some cashew chicken?”
“Ah . . . Yes, please.”
“Here. You can finish it, I’ve already eaten like, ten pounds of it.”