Page 58 of Tell Me It’s Right

She swats my arm, and I chuckle, more relieved than anything that she seems herself again. She had me worried there for a second.

“Thanks, Liam,” she says quietly. “For picking up, for coming to get me, for everything. I don’t know what I would’ve done if…just, thank you.”

I reach for her hand before I think better of it, but she doesn’t pull away as I lace my fingers through hers. Her hand feels so small in mine, her fingers cold from the ice pack. Her nails are painted light blue, the same color as her dress. They hadn’t looked that way at work earlier, which means she did them just for this date, and he wasn’t remotely worth it. I rub my thumb back and forth along the back of her hand.

I don’t say anything else, and neither does she. I can’t imagine any words that could make this right. What am I supposed to say? “I’m sorry this happened”? “You didn’t deserve this”? What good will that do her?

But I don’t move, and she doesn’t let go of my hand. I just sit on the floor beside her and wait until she falls asleep.

Chapter Twenty

GRACIE

The sunlight pouring in from the window across the bed wakes me, and I start to roll over until I notice the pressure on my hand.

Another hand.

The one that belongs to Liam.

Who is sleeping sitting up, his head resting against the bedside table and his poor spine in a very awkward contortion.

And his hand is still in mine.

I don’t move. I don’tbreathe.

I’ve never had a chance to see the intricacies of his tattoos up close. The ones on his hands, especially, since they’re so much smaller than the others. Most of his tattoos seem complex—full of details and shading. But the ones on his hands are minimalistic, in a way, the scorpion wrapping around his wrist being the outlier. The rest are thin—birds and lines and intricate patterns that look like they might be coordinates or constellations. They blend seamlessly over his long, slender fingers, the perfect mix of ink and empty space. He didn’t take his rings off, and I can feel the warm metal of the one on his pinky against my skin.

His fingers tighten around mine—just barely—and my eyes snap to his face, but he’s still asleep. His eyebrows draw together, and he shifts, trying to find a more comfortable way to prop his head against the nightstand. He suddenly looks so much…younger. His lips are parted, his features soft.

Keeping an eye on his face, I gently extract my hand from his. For some reason, my stomach sinks as soon as I break the contact, like he’d been some kind of buffer, and without him, memories of last night come rushing in. My face throbs in remembrance.

I have no idea how bad it looks. I couldn’t bring myself to look in the mirror last night.

I climb out of bed on the opposite side so I don’t wake Liam and slip into the bathroom. He loaned me a pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt last night, and the too-long legs drag beneath my feet with each step. Steeling myself with a deep breath, I close the door behind me, flick the light on, and face the mirror.

The girl staring back at me is a disaster. Liam did a good job of cleaning the blood off, but my skin is stained pink in places, though some of it is probably a bruise forming. My bottom lip is swollen to twice its usual size, just on the left side. The worst is my makeup. I’d put on way more than usual, wanting to look good for my date, and now my mascara and eyeliner is everywherebutmy eyes.

I grab one of the washcloths from the basket beside the sink, wet it with warm water, and get to work scrubbing at the makeup. I doubt water alone will get rid of it, but I’ll do what I can.

I pause as I finish the first eye. I hadn’t paid much attention when I was in here last night—hadn’t paid much attention since the moment Liam picked me up, really. It was like the moment my body realized it was safe and could switch out of fight-or-flight mode, I just shut down. I can’t remember a single thing Liam said or my responses, if there were any.

The bathroom isimmaculate. It’s tiny and cramped, but I don’t think my bathroom—hell, any part of my living situation—haseverbeen this organized or clean. The counter is clear aside from the basket with the towels, and every surface shines and smells faintly of cleaning supplies.

And he had no way of knowing I’d end up here last night, so it’s not like he cleaned because he was anticipating company. Is it just like this all the time?

Come to think of it, every time I’ve been in Liam’s truck, it’s been pristine.

Is Liam Brooks…a neat freak?

The thought is irrationally funny to me.

When I step out of the bathroom, the floor beside the bed is empty. I glance around the apartment for Liam. The place looks different in the light. It’s not quite a studio, not quite a one bedroom.

It’s an L shape with the bedroom area on an elevated platform and tucked in the back. The bathroom sits between it and the living space, where he has a leather couch and two matching chairs facing a mounted television. The kitchen and a small seating area are beside the front door, and I head that direction as the sound of glass clanking together fills the silence.

Liam’s in the kitchen with his back to me. He opens a few cabinets, then the fridge, then sighs and puts his hands on his hips.

The floor creaks beneath my feet, and he turns.

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