Page 85 of Debt of My Soul

I’ve tried to reconcile the man who stepped in on behalf of his brother with the man cackling at stomach-churning jokes. Or the fact he sits idly by as men and women drown in a high around him, sinking so deep their heads lull to the side in a state of unrepentant bliss. How do I harmonize the man who stepped in to save me with the Liam I experienced that night and the other nights since then? Because, yes, we had to go again. Then again.

I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to make the two mesh, but when I get out of here, even after intense therapy, I’m not sure I’ll be able to forget.

Each evening was the same—copious gambling and drugs, drinking, and women. Both times Liam pulled me into his lap, content to let me shelter there. To be honest, I’ve becomegrateful for it. Watching the other womenservicethe men or Darrin’s crew pawning them off to high-rolling players?—

Despite my apprehension with Liam, he’d safely tucked me away in his lap. His calloused, inky hands stretched over my thighs and hips. I’m not traded or told to do anything I don’t want to. And for that, I’m thankful.

My days on the compound are mostly spent on the cabin’s front porch. Occasionally, I brave the compound and walk around while Liam isn’t here. I’ve found early mornings are the best time to explore as the other men living here don’t seem to stir before 11:00 a.m.

Liam’s warned me about venturing too far from his place and having ridden with Liam to town and meetings a few times, I know how away from civilization we are. Getting lost wandering around the woods isn’t something I want to happen. So I stick close. Mulling about the cabin, reading, watching TV, and very rarely, going with Liam.

The only TV is in Liam’s bedroom, propped up on a stand sitting on the dresser. I’ve taken to camping out in there, especially when it rains, binge-watching trashy TV.

The warmth and comfort of his bed have, on occasion, lulled me into a deep sleep. My body relishes the softness of his bed over the lumps of the couch. Liam has offered, more than once, to switch with me; for him to take the couch while I sleep in his bed. But pride is a poor character trait of mine, and I’ve learned to be content with my afternoon naps wrapped in his masculine-scented down comforter.

The point is, I’m bored, and I eagerly look forward to the times when Liam says he has to leave the compound. I’m expected to come with him, and I gobble up each trip.

River texted Liam a couple weeks ago, letting him know my orders where delivered to the store, and we made a trip into town to pick up those desperately needed items. He even tookus to a hole-in-the-wall catfish house where I gorged myself on fried catfish, hush puppies, and coleslaw until I was sick. We didn’t talk while we ate, and the town’s people gave Liam a wide berth, their whispers of our marriage making their rounds.

I stilldon’tcan’t have a phone, so Liam has on occasion lent me his. I’ve fed my parents the same lie about an issue with my account and how they’re having trouble connecting a new phone therefore I’m using a friend’s. It’s irksome and I’ve reached out minimally because of it.

I’m slightly concerned I’m going mad. Literally.

Sometimes, at night, I wake in a cold sweat as if someone’s watching me. I never open my eyes, but this cabin and the woods are playing tricks on my mind.

I think about Liam way too much. Find myself wondering what he’s doing and getting anxious when he isn’t home before I fall asleep for the night.

Today’s different, though. He’s home before lunch and in the shower while I make myself a turkey sandwich.

My thoughts flicker to his thundering body hissing under the heat of the shower spray, and I blink them away while returning the mayonnaise and mustard to the fridge. As it shuts, I catch the door and take out the ingredients again to make one for Liam.

It’s not something I do. I don’t cook for him, nor do we typically eat together, but he’s been offering up as much privacy to me as possible these last few weeks, and I … I have a strange desire to know if he’s okay.

If there’s anything I’ve learned about Liam these past few weeks, it’s that he works himself to the bone. Exhaustion rides his face; the weariness sunk deep in his eyes.

The only drawer for silverware is to my right, and I open it, then reach for a knife. My gaze snags at the random pencils sitting there, and I linger, staring at them before shaking my head and closing the drawer.

After cutting his sandwich in half and adding some chips to the plate, I study both lunches side by side and wipe my hands on my shorts, nervous I’ve crossed some line.

When the door to the bathroom opens, the loud squeak makes it impossible to miss. Liam saunters into the living room, moving to skim through some papers on the small desk he keeps nestled in the corner of the room.

I clear my throat and he whirls around. Water droplets still drip from his wet hair, hanging around his face. He’s tightened up his beard, the scruff shorter than I’ve seen it since I’ve known him. My gaze drops to where both his hands slide into his blue jeans—wait, blue jeans?

Confused, I narrow my eyes but remember the plate before I can ask him what’s going on. I lift it, quirking my lips to the side. “I made you a sandwich. Not sure what you like on it but figured since I was making myself one …”

I let the words hang in the air between us. The shock on his face is somewhat disconcerting. Did he not think I was capable of doing something nice?

“I like anything. Thank you. Haven’t had a turkey sandwich in years.” He moves toward the kitchen and my knees almost wobble at his scent caressing my nose. Wood and pine wrapped in a fresh spring rattles my insides as he takes the plate I can’t seem to relinquish from my grasp.

He cocks his head to the side and studies where both our hands linger on either side of the plate.

One heartbeat passes, then two before I finally let go, embarrassment lacing my cheeks. A slight twitch at the corner of his mouth begs for my attention, and I back into the counter, distracted. My blundering earns me a smile and I chew on my lip and reach for a chip off my plate.

Liam moves to the table, sliding his plate over the pocked and pitted wood. He pulls out his phone, turning it over in hishands several times before sitting down and turning to me still standing.

“I, uh … my mom called,” he says. “Again.”

I don’t say anything, unsure where he’s going with this.

---