Page 75 of Ward Willing
“That sucks,” I mumble.
“I’m used to it now. The pills keep me even. You should talk to someone about it,” he adds.
“I know.” Swallowing, I ask another question. Or rather, make a statement. “You haven’t written anything in over four years. Because of my parents?”
He looks over my shoulder, almost grimacing as he responds. “Yeah. I think I’m still in shock, to be honest. In one day, I lost my best friend and became a guardian.”
“To me.” The niggling thought about being a burden suddenly bursts through my consciousness, and I visibly wince.
Liam leans forward, and as I look him in the eyes, he gives me a solemn smile. “I didn’t stop writing because I became your guardian. I stopped writing and had to go on medication because I lost my best friend. Because it reminded me—just like when my mom died—that life is too fucking short. One day they’re there, and the next, they’re gone. And quite frankly, I stopped seeing a point in writing. In creating. Why bother, you know?”
My eyes burn as I wait for him to continue.
“But… for the first time in years, I’m starting to feel like I might be okay. I’ve started dreaming about my books again, at least, so that’s something.”
“I dream about my books, too,” I tell him, smiling softly.
We watch each other for a few intense beats before Liam clears his throat. “I meant what I said earlier. You becoming a lawyer isn’t something that’s predestined. You’re allowed to change your mind.”
“That’s just… scary to think about,” I admit, my voice a whisper. “For as long as I can remember, it’s what I’ve been working toward.”
“I know. But those names were on that test for a reason.”
I chew on my bottom lip as I consider his words. The burrito isn’t as good as I imagined it to be, and the bite I took a moment ago sits uneasily inside of me, making me slightly queasy.
Or maybe it’s the quarter-life crisis; can you get those at nineteen?
“If money were no object, what would you want to do for a living?” he asks, blue-grey eyes boring into mine.
I shrug. “I’d probably write.”
“Then write,” he says, smiling.
A barrage of excited butterflies flits through me at the thought of being awriter.Of staying up late to meet a deadline, of carrying my laptop everywhere so that I can write in coffee shops or cafés. I’m suddenly dreaming of querying agents and selling my book for pennies, and the thought ofhavingLily and Ethan’s story in my hands in the form of a physical book.
My smile widens, and I let out a nervous laugh. “Oh my god, I can’t believe I walked out of the test because of a book,” I say, nearly breathless again.
“But it feels good, right?” he asks, his voice low. “That excitement? I can see it in your eyes,” he murmurs.
My heart skips a beat as his eyes peruse my face. Something soft and warm washes over me, and I’m suddenly so grateful for him.
“Liam, this is crazy,” I say softly, leaning forward so that we’re inches apart.
“What’s crazier is that you were content to live a life without that excitement.”
His words hit me like a ton of bricks.
I’ve been running toward the goal of being a lawyer for years without thinking of what I mightactuallywant. Instead of moving forward, I’m clinging to some semblance of the past.
“You’re right,” I say, pushing the tray away.
For the first time in my life, I have an inkling of clarity. Somethingtangibleand exciting is on the horizon. I have no idea what will happen with my book, or Lily, Ethan, and the demon, but it’s insanely exciting to think about.
“It doesn’t hurt to regroup and really think about whatyouwant, Zoe. The world is your oyster,” he adds, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Take advantage of it. Life is short.”
What would he say if I told him that I wanted him?
That I wanted to be held by his strong arms and see the look in his eye when I come.
