“That’s exactly what you should—”
“If you leave your job.”
He pauses, then exhales a laugh. “If I leave my job, who’ll keep you in the expensive multi-ply toilet paper lifestyle you’re accustomed to?”
“You will, since you’re probably sitting on generational piles of old New England money. Plus, you could totally still be a lawyer for other, slightly less disgusting corporations. If there are any, that is. And if we strike this blood pact and I get the job, there’s something even better in it for you.”
“You let me hold Sean’s head in the toilet bowl?”
“No. Well, yes. But also, if I get a team leader position, I’d be making more money. And I’ll finally be able to move out.” Without needing to sell my half of the house.
Liam’s expression shifts abruptly. “Mara—”
“Think about it! You, walking around naked in a pleasantly freezing house, scratching your butt in front of a fridge full of tartar sauce, cooking tacos at three a.m. while listening to postmodern industrial pop on your gramophone. All around are giant screens, broadcasting video game playthroughs twenty-four/seven. Sounds nice, huh?”
“No,” he says flatly.
“That’s because I forgot to mention the best part: your pesky ex-roommate is gone, nowhere to be seen.” I beam. “Now, tell me you’re not going to love every second of—”
“I won’t, Mara. I—” He turns away, and I can see his jaw clench like it used to before, when my presence in this house annoyed him and he considered me the bane of anything good. But his hand tightens around the edge of the counter once, and he seems to collect himself. He studies me for a long moment.
“Please,” I press. “I won’t apply if you won’t. Do you really want to condemn me to a lifetime of Sean?”
He closes his eyes. Then he opens them and nods. Once. “I won’t leave my job—”
“Oh, come on!”
“—till I have another lined up. But I will start looking around.”
I smile slowly. “Wait—for real?” I did not think this would work.
“Only if you apply for the leader position.”
“Yes!” I clap my hands. “Liam, I’ll help you. Are you on LinkedIn? I bet recruiters would be all over you.”
“What’s LinkedIn?”
“Ugh. Do you at least have a recent headshot?”
He stares at me blankly.
“Fine, I’ll take a picture of you. In the garden. When there’s good natural light. Wear the charcoal three-piece suit and that blue button-down—it looks amazing on you.” He cocks his eyebrow, and I instantly regret saying that, but I’m too excited at the idea of this weird professional-suicide pact to blush too hard. “This is amazing. We’ve got to shake on it.”
I thrust out my hand, and he takes it immediately, his own firm and warm and large around mine, and—it might be the first time we touch on purpose, as opposed to arms brushing while we’re working at the stove, or fingers grazing as he sorts out my mail. It feels . . . nice. And right. And natural. I like it, and I look up to Liam’s face to see whether he likes it, too, and . . . there are a thousand different expressions passing on his face. A million different emotions.
I can’t begin to parse even one.
“Deal,” he says, voice deep and a little hoarse.
He uses his free hand to turn on the microwave—which, lo and behold, is working again.
Chapter 8
One month, two weeks ago
Rain is my favorite kind of weather.
I am most partial to summer storms, their strong winds and hot air, the way they make me feel like I’m sitting on the humid inside of a balloon that’s about to burst. As a kid, I’d run outside as soon as the rain started just to get all wet—which seemed to outrage my mother to no end.
But I’m not particular. It’s barely February, early in the night, and the hard drops beating a tattoo on the plastic of my umbrella, they just make me happy. I smile when I unlock the front door. Hum, too. I walk down the hall, listening to the rain instead of what’s happening inside the house, and that must be the reason I don’t hear them.
Liam and a girl. No: a woman. They are in the kitchen. Together. He’s leaning back against the counter. She’s sitting on it, at his side, close enough to lay her cheek on his shoulder while she shows him something on her phone that has both of them smiling. It’s the most relaxed I’ve seen Liam with anyone. Clearly a very intimate moment that I should not be interrupting, except that I can’t make myself move. I feel my stomach sink and remain rooted to the floor, unable to retreat as the woman shakes her head and murmurs something in Liam’s ear that I cannot hear, something that has him chuckling in low, deep tones, and— I must gasp. Or make some sort of noise, because one moment they’re laughing, arms pressed against each other, and the next they’re both looking up. At me.
Shit.
I try really hard not to let my eyes take in how cozy and comfortable he looks, how familiar and at ease. It’s nothing like what happens when he and I accidentally bump against each other in the hallway, like that charged, electric tension that seems to crackle between us when we forget ourselves and our hands happen to brush together. But that’s the point, right? Any physical contact between me and Liam is probably unwanted on his part, while this . . .
This is mortifying. I want to get out of this room and never come back. Buy an insulated lunch bag and a camping stove, shove them in my bedroom, and be completely self-sufficient.
The woman, though, doesn’t seem nearly as unsettled, or self-conscious about the fact that she’s currently perched on a piece of furniture in a home that’s not hers, her skirt riding up to show long, toned legs. She smiles at me, and somehow, somewhere, I find my voice. “Sorry. I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt . . . I wanted to get something to drink, and I . . .” And I? And I will now go to my room to flush myself down the toilet. Good-bye, cruel world.
“I thought you’d be . . .” Liam’s voice seems deeper than usual. I wonder if they were about to take whatever this is to his bedroom. Oh God. Oh God, I just interrupted my roommate and his girlfriend. I’m such a loser. “Out. I thought you’d be out.”
Oh. Right. I was supposed to go on a date myself. With Ted. Something I agreed to do the other day under the impetus of: meh, why not? This morning I told Liam why I’d be home late, except that I ended up canceling because . . . I didn’t really feel like going.
For some reason.
That is unclear to me.
“No. I mean, yes. Yes, I was. But . . .” I gesture vaguely in the air. As good an explanation as I can come up with.
“Oh.”
“Yeah. I . . .” I should really go to my room and do that self-flushing thing. But it’s hard, with Liam staring at me like that. Half-curious, half-happy to see me, half–something else. It’s the first time I find him with someone who’s not Calvin or another one of his dude friends he’s obviously known since forever, someone who’s clearly . . . Okay. He’s on a date. With a woman. About to get laid, probably. And I interrupted. Shit.