Page 140 of Liam

“Right,” I say, nodding, though I still can’t picture him in my mind. “I’m gonna need a summary of your friend group. They’re separate from Juan, right?”

“Who’s Juan?” Liam asks, and I’m only now realizing how relaxed he is. I wish I could pinpoint the exact moment his anxieties fled, so I know how to repeat it for next time.

“Juan was my cellmate in prison.”

“And now he’s Roman’s tattoo artist,” I add. “Show him your arms.”

Roman holds out both arms over the coffee table, rotating them slightly.

“Aren’t they great?” I ask.

“Yeah. He’s insanely talented.”

“Right?” Roman agrees.

I ask Liam, “Which one’s your favorite?”

“The ribbon,” he answers, not skipping a beat. “Definitely the ribbon.”

54

Liam

Unless my entire family has an event that we’re all attending that night, every day, at 4 p.m. sharp, Dad sends a text in a group chat to ask who will be home for dinner. It’s been that way for at least five years now. Though, Lachlan was only added a couple of years ago. And even though three of my six siblings no longer live in the house and Lucy has a family of her own now, he still continues to ask.

It’s usually only me, Linc, and Lachlan who are home, but since I’ve been practically living at the studio since the start of the year, I’ve been going less and less.

Today, though, I’ve been counting down the minutes, hoping that sitting around the table will help distract me from the fact that Addie’s on her way home from meeting with her ex-boyfriend who, you know, pleaded guilty to something he didn’t do just to save her.

No big deal, right?

Ha!

As if that isn’t bad enough, she won’t tell me what happened because it’s, in her words, “too much to type out over text”—as if that’s a thing in our generation.

All we do is text.

Whatever.

Have I officially lost my mind? Sure.

It’s been three years since she’s seen him, and I bet he’s changed. Probably got jacked while he was in that military boot camp school or whatever the fuck it was.

You know what would’ve helped? If she’d sent me a text like:Bruh, he looks like Olaf now. And I’d reply,FromFrozen?And she’d say,Yes.And then we’dloltogether.

But I bet he doesn’t look like Olaf. I bet he looks likeGastonfromBeauty and the Beast,minus the misogyny. I bet she wanted to?—

“Shut up,” Lincoln deadpans, breaking through my insanity.

I close the dishwasher (I don’t even know why I opened it) and turn to him. He’s leaning against the kitchen counter, staring down at his phone.

I peer over at Lachlan sittingonthe kitchen island. “I didn’t say anything,” he tells me.

“Neither did I.”

“Out loud,” Linc says, slipping his phone in his pocket. “You didn’t say anythingout loud.But your head, bro”—he taps at his temple—“whatever those thoughts are, kill ’em dead right now.” He shoves past me to get to the cabinet where we keep the plates. “Don’t let them win.”

Silence passes as I take in his words.

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