Page 92 of Something Forever

Our food arrives, and we both dig in, an involuntary moan leaving my mouth as soon as it hits my tongue. We’re both stuffing our faces like animals when a young woman around my age approaches our table with a smile on her face.

“How is everything?” she asks.

“So good,” I reply.

“I’m thrilled to hear it. I’m Quinn, the owner. If you need anything at all, let me know.”

My mouth drops. This is Quinn Marks? One of the youngest restaurant owners in the city, according to the article I read. She’s already opening a companion restaurant to Mel’s, even though the place has only been open for a year and a half. Liam must be able to tell that I’m slightly awestruck by the culinary genius in front of me, because he reaches his hand out to shake Quinn’s and gestures towards me.

“I’m Liam, and this is my wife, Whitney.”

Again, his casual use of the word wife sends a jolt of awareness through my spine, warmth trickling through me.

“Lovely to meet you both. Bon appetit!”

Quinn walks away, heading to a nearby table, and I throw Liam a megawatt smile. “Best night ever,” I whisper, and he chuckles, the rough sound scraping against his throat.

By the time we get back to the apartment, I’m sufficiently tipsy and totally full. I tried to split the bill with Liam, but he insisted that he was paying, which made the night seem even more date-y. Yet, I didn’t seem to mind. I go straight to my room to put on sweatpants. As cute as I look, I cannot spend another minute in this tight dress. When I pad back into the living room, Liam is settled on the couch.

“Want to watch Love Island?” he asks.

I smirk. “I thought you hated it.”

He shrugs. “You like it.”

I open the fridge to get a La Croix, but Liam’s voice interrupts me. “I already have one for you over here,” he says.

Perking up, I close the fridge and walk over to him. Sure enough, he’s sitting on the couch, an unopened La Croix sitting in front of him. He reaches for my legs and lifts them to rest on his lap. He looks at me, his gaze softening. “Your mom left?”

I swallow, emotion welling in my throat. “Yeah,” I manage. “She’s gone.”

He squeezes my calf. “I’m sorry.”

I shrug, a pathetic lift of my shoulders that does nothing to hide my disappointment. Part of me is glad she’s gone. Part of me misses her. It’s a confusing mess of conflicting emotions, and most of all, I’m upset with myself over how we left things. I worry about her, despite everything.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Liam asks, his voice as soft as velvet, his thumb lightly stroking my ankle.

“It’s a long story,” I reply.

“Come here,” he says, patting his lap. He turns me around so that my head is resting across his thighs. “Tell me about it.”

So I do.

I tell him about my days on the road with my mom: the good, the bad, and the ugly. I tell him that tulips are my favorite flowers and I’ve never been to the top of the Empire State. We argue about which ice cream flavor is the best and agree on which cartoon character is objectively the hottest (Jessica Rabbit, of course). He talks to me about his childhood in England, how he was so angry after his parents’ divorce that he got into fights all the time and ended up in jail once or twice.

Liam Clark peels back layers of himself with my head in his lap and his fingers splayed across my hair.

By the time we finish talking, my voice is hoarse and it’s almost three in the morning. Eventually, my eyes flutter closed and I let myself drift. I’m floating somewhere between sleep and consciousness when I feel myself being lifted off the couch. Dimly, I register that I am being carried. That I am in my room. In my bed. Liam releases me onto my bed as I squint into the room. I feel his breath against my neck, his voice a soft, soothing murmur. Stirring, I try to blink, my mouth dry.

“Good night.”

He goes to release me, his arms unraveling from around me, but I tighten my grip on him.

“Stay,” I whisper.

His whole body stiffens, and he pulls back, his eyes searching mine.

“Stay,” I repeat, blinking up at him, waiting.

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