Page 34 of Liam

“They weren’therdogs. They were other people’s. She planned tostealthem if they sold. So no, she doesn’t get my respect. In fact, she can suck my?—”

“Adelaide!” a woman’s voice calls from behind, and I turn slowly. “Oh, my… I thought that was you.”

I don’t recognize the woman rushing toward me. Not right away. But the second it clicks, my body turns to stone… then ash. Nerves flow through me in waves, ricocheting against my flesh. I take a step back, only to be met with the warmth of Liam’s arm brushing against mine. Instinctively, I push into it, needing the touch, the comfort. Suddenly, I’m eight years old again, sitting in the nurse’s office, asking myself,“Where does it hurt?”

My third-grade teacher, Miss Harden, stops in front of me, her blonde bob unchanged in the years since I’d seen her. Her gaze moves to Liam, her smile soft. “Hi, Lincoln,” she says.

Liam doesn’t correct her, just greets her the same way. “Hey, Miss Harden.” Then to me, his voice low, “We’ll be in the car.”

I don’t speak. Can’t. But the moment he starts to leave, I grasp his hand, a silent plea begging him to stay. With me. Here. And in that room all those years ago.

Miss Harden’s smile falters when she turns her focus to me, then my hand gripping Liam’s. “Oh, Addie…” she coos. “I’ve always wondered what happened to you.”

Without meaning to, I squeeze Liam’s hand tighter.

“Sorry, Miss Harden,” Liam says, his voice cool, calm, the complete opposite of everything I’m feeling. “My brother has some people coming around, so we have to get going. But next time…” His words hang in the air as he releases my hand to physically guide me to turn, then walk.

I make it two steps.

Beside me, Liam offers his hand again, and I carefully take it before half turning to the woman still standing there, still watching me. A part of me wants nothing more than to hug her. Tell her I’ve always wondered about her, too.

The days after my visit with the nurse, she often—and inconspicuously—asked me how I was doing. If I was okay. But then I’d think about what Roman said the morning after he found out about my parents.“I want you to look taken care of, Addie. Because that’s exactly what I’m going to do. No one has to know how you’ve been living, okay?”

I always told her I was fine. That I was happy and taken care of, which I was as soon as Roman took charge. But I suspect she knew… deep down in her heart, that something was different about me. Still, she cared enough to keep asking.

I should tell her I remember that… that Icherishthose moments with her and that I’ve mentioned her in my journal when I write about people who’ve impacted my life.

Beyond the somewhat broken memories and the ugliness that forms them, Miss Harden is the reason I believe there isgoodin the world, and there always will be.

I don’t hug her like I want to.

I don’t tell her all the thoughts and feelings brought on by her existence. Instead, I mouth two simple words I’ve wanted to say to her for over a decade. “Thank you.”

After a lot of back and forth between the Preston brothers (Lachlan forcing Liam to go back into towntwice—once to get ice, then again to buy a new cooler for the ice since their current one is missing), we finally make it back to their lake, where Liam and I help lug all the groceries for Lachlan and his friends out of the car and onto the dock.

I wait until Liam and I are alone again, walking back to his minivan, to say, “We don’t have to go to the diner… if you don’t want to.”

His steps falter, but he continues, turning slightly to face me. Even from the few feet distancing us as we walk, I canfeelhis frustration. Though it’s hard not to. He didn’t even try to hide it while Lachlan was ordering him around. “You don’t want to go anymore?”

“No, I want to. It’s just… you seem… I don’t know.” I shake my head, stare down at the ground. “Never mind.”

We walk the rest of the way back to the minivan in silence and, like the first time we did this, he opens the passenger door for me and waits for me to get settled before closing it. Then he rounds the hood, gets behind the wheel, and starts the engine. And then he just sits there, staring ahead. Finally, he says, “I don’t like surprises.” He shakes his head at that, as if those words aren’t appropriate. “I’m a creature of habit, I guess,” he corrects. “Maybe. I just…” he trails off, staring into the distance again.

I attempt to finish his thought. “Maybe you just don’t like it when things are out of your control.”

“Yeah.” He glances at me quickly before looking away. “Something like that.”

We finally make it to the diner and have barely sat down at a booth by the window when a server comes to take our order. Barb, according to her name tag, is in her late forties, dyed black hair, too much eyeliner, with a scratchy voice—likely from calling out orders all day. “What can I get y’all?” She doesn’t stop chewing her gum, not even to ask the question.

Liam knows exactly what he wants, and I take a moment to decide. Not because I don’t know what to get, but because I’m delaying the inevitable—sitting opposite a boy who’s clearly uncomfortable. My nerves from earlier stemmed from excitement. Now? It’s more like worry. There’s been a clear switch in Liam since he first asked me to join him, and maybe it’s exactly what he said it is—his plans suddenly being thrown off by his brother. Or maybe it’s something else. Maybe it’sme.

He doesn’t look at me, too focused on everything else going on around us. High school kids, boisterous and excited for summer break, have taken most of the seats. There are a few moms with their young children, and a four top filled with men, all dressed in suits. Liam’s hand sits on the table, knuckles quietly hitting the tabletop. Guarantee, if I look under the table, I’d witness his knee bouncing uncontrollably.

I dig into my backpack and pull out my carabiner, detach the baseball fidget clicker, and slowly reach across the table. Wordlessly, I flip his anxious hand over, use my fingertips to unravel his fist, and watch his face as I place the toy in there. The widening of his eyes is immediate. But his smile… his smile is theopposite. It’s slow, deliberate, and does something to my insides that has me sitting taller. Breathing easier.

“Why do you have these?” he asks, squeezing the baseball between his thumb and middle finger repeatedly.

“Dayna, my foster mom,” I start. “She’s a constant worrier, and that worry sometimes—often—manifests in physical form. She’s a nail biter. So Griffin?—”

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