Page 57 of Blakely and Liam

I sat in my truck

(Liam)

I sat in my truck, running my hands down the steering wheel. I was parked in my spot behind the pub, close tae the dumpster, looking past the wall and the weed-covered lot beyond, and across the expanse of it tae my motel.

I had finished cleaning, sent Naisha home and had come out tae drive the hundred feet tae the parking lot in front of the motel office.

Em and Lily had decided tae continue staying at the inn in town, thinkin’ my shite motel winna good enough for Em’s needs — she was ‘prioritizing’ her needs since I told her I had changed m’mind about us. She needed ‘space’ away from me because I was the ‘biggest mistake she ever made,’ and I was goin’ tae be ‘filled with regret once I was an old man riding a lawnmower around.’ She blamed it on Blakely and although I denied it, told me I ‘looked ridiculous because she was totally out of my league’ and then declared that our problem had always been that she was ‘too nice.’

Now she was givin’ me the silent treatment, and Lily was stuck, regrettin’ bringing her along. I told Lily I would be working late, and they were both upset, and it had been a shite night at the pub: Only two customers and when I kicked Big Bub out for being belligerent, Naisha told me I needed tae ‘calm down.’

I pulled my phone from my pocket, found Woodshee’s number, and spent ten minutes composing a text. I deleted it.

Then I looked at her photo for a long moment, remembering how she looked the night she packed tae go on her hike: daft, a certifiable chancer, but also verra braw.

How come I was thinkin’ on Woodshee? She was married, from LA, half-mental, the kind of girl who wheeled a pink suitcase behind her and went on hikes full of her own mind and wouldna let anyone talk any sense intae her.

She was a fecking talent agent for fuck’s sake, and I was livin’ in a tiny little town in the middle of — I pushed the button and dialed her number.

I hung up the phone and tossed it on the seat beside me. “Fuck, what ye doin’ Liam? Being an idjit? She daena want yer trouble—”

My phone rang — Woodshee.

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