Page 42 of Stuck with my Guarded MVP
“Liam, if I am overstepping, just tell me.”
He continued to inspect his clasped hands.
“It’s hard reading the patient when I can’t see their facial expression. Plus, I want Maeve to see a friendly face. Another person in her corner.”
Finally, he turned.
"You make it sound simple.” Then, almost under his breath, "She’ll see what I see."
Which is what?
I didn’t ask what that meant. I had bulldozed my way in enough already.
He didn’t offer.
Instead, we sat in silence for another breath or two. Not awkward. Not entirely. Just… weighty.
"When you’re ready," I said. "Let her know. And I’ll be here."
By the time I got back to the apartment, the light had shifted—late afternoon sun casting long shadows across the floor. I’d picked up a rotisserie chicken, just in case Liam didn't feel like cooking.
My brain was still buzzing, two returned calls, three emails out, and a pending response from the specialist uptown. Maybe it was just the weight of the day finally catching up with me.
The door clicked shut behind me, and almost immediately, a phone rang. It wasn't mine. I didn't see Liam. What I did see was his phone, on the coffee table.
I glanced down.
Maeve.
I didn’t think. Just picked it up and answered.
“Maeve? Hi, it’s Claire. Nice to meet you. Well, phone-meet you. I just got in. I don’t know where Liam is, but—”
A door creaked behind me.
Liam stepped out of his room, tugging his sleeve down his forearm. He was already dressed, mostly, hair still damp from a shower, eyes sharp looking at me talking into his phone.
I held out the phone, mouthed, “It’s Maeve.”
His whole body shifted. Like someone had flipped a switch from sleep to alert. His jaw tightened. Shoulders squared. The bracing-for-impact kind of posture I recognized all too well.
I started to hand him the phone and step back, but his hand caught mine.
He looked at the phone, then at me. “Hold on, Maeve,” he said, quickly hitting mute, but not taking the phone from me. “Can you stay?”
His fingers were still wrapped around mine.
My heart gave a traitorous little thump.
“Sure,” I said, a little too fast.
He unmuted the call, put it on speaker, and sat. I eased down beside him on the edge of the couch, trying not to overanalyze the half inch between us. I held the phone in my palm, facing up and held it close to him.
“Hey.” His voice had dropped to something softer. “What’s going on, Maeve?”
There was a pause on the other end. Then Maeve spoke.
“The results came in. The genetic test. It’s negative.”
