Page 120 of Fake As Puck
I grab her face and kiss her lips. “We will,” I say with promise.
She smiles and kisses me back.
I lie awake for a while after she falls asleep, listening to the sounds of the city outside her window and feeling her heartbeat against my chest.
This isn’t what I planned when I flew to LA.
But it’s exactly what I needed.
Her, this, us.
32
West leaves early in the morning while I’m still half-asleep.
I hear him moving around the apartment quietly, trying not to wake me, and I keep my eyes closed and my breathing steady because I’m not ready for goodbyes.
Not ready to watch him walk out of my life again.
The shower runs for ten minutes. I hear him getting dressed, the soft rustle of fabric and the quiet zip of his suitcase. Then he’s standing by the bed, and I can feel him looking at me.
“Liv?” he whispers.
I don’t answer, even though I’m awake. Even though I want to.
“I’ll call you later,” he says softly, and then I feel his lips brush against my forehead. I think he knows that I’m faking it.
The front door closes with a quiet click, and I’m alone.
I don’t cry.
I’m not sure why I expected to cry, but I don’t. I just lie there in my bed that still smells like him, staring at the ceiling and feeling off.
Like something important just walked out and I’m not sure when, or if, it’s coming back.
I spend the morning puttering around my apartment, watering plants and doing laundry and all the normal weekend things that should feel familiar and comforting.
Instead, everything feels slightly wrong. The space feels too quiet, too empty. Like it was made for more than just me and now I’m rattling around in it alone.
Which is ridiculous, because this is my apartment. I’ve lived here for two years. I’ve been perfectly happy here by myself.
But now I keep looking at the shower and remembering the way he looked when he came out with that towel around his waist. I keep glancing at the bed and seeing him there, content and sleepy and completely at peace.
I keep expecting him to emerge from the bathroom or call my name from the kitchen.
By noon, I can’t stand it anymore, so I drive to Tessa’s house.
“You’re here,” she says by way of greeting when she opens the door.
“I am.”
“Did we plan for you to babysit?” she asks, confused.
“No, but where are the kids?” I ask.
“Napping. Which means we have a moment to talk about whatever’s making you look so depressed. Let’s whisper. How was it with West?”
I whisper, “It was good.”
