Page 16 of The Summer I First Saw You
Liam’s smile is easy, guilt-free. “Hey, stranger. What are you doing down this way?”
“Just meeting a client.” I’m not normally so terse, but this situation is a disaster in the making. Everything I’d normally be inclined to ask Liam is something I shouldn’t know about:I hear you’re sleeping with that girl you’re doing work for; I hear Bridget and Scott are back together.
Worse yet, there are the truths I can barely admit to myself, truths he’d punch me in the face over, like the way I can’t stop thinking about his niece. And the things I’m thinking when I do.
Punching me would be entirely fair. I want to punch myself too.
“How’s it going with the girl in LA?” he asks.
“Good,” I say, then change the topic before I’m forced to make up a bunch of facts about my pretend girlfriend, facts I’m unlikely to remember later. “What’s new with you?”
“Not much. Daisy’s home for the summer. Applying to law school—can you believe it?”
No, actually, I can’t. She hasn’t mentioned law school once.
And the entire conversation feels like a trick. If I act as if I’m unaware that Daisy’s here, it’ll turn out she told him she saw me. If I say I’ve heard she’s home, he’ll ask who told me, and a whole new set of lies will be necessary. Fabricated mutual friends, a chance run-in at a restaurant when I’ve been telling him I’m too busy to go out.
He shakes his head. “It’s weird, man. It’s like Daisy grew up while I wasn’t looking.”
Yes, I know.God, do I know.
“Tell her I saidhi,” I say, glancing at my watch. “Hey, I’ve got to get to a meeting. Let’s catch up soon, yeah?”
He nods, but it’s impossible to miss that he’s hurt. He’s been one of my best friends for most of my life, and I can’t even give him five minutes of my time.
But the truth would hurt him a lot more.
I work late Wednesday night,mostly to avoid her. When I get home on Thursday, she’s sitting at the kitchen counter eating lasagna. I’d sworn I was going straight to my room—I mostly skip dinner these days—but the smell has me salivating.
“I know you want some,” she says, smirking. “It’s in the fridge.”
I don’t want to give her the satisfaction. I don’t want her thinking it’s okay that she’s here.
I’ll go back to making a point tomorrow when I’m well-fed and less tired.
“So what did you do all day?” I ask. “I mean, aside from blackmailing me?”
“Blackmailing you takes up a surprising amount of mywaking hours.” She licks her fingers. My eyes catch on the motion. “But actually, I got a job yesterday. The seafood place down on the pier. I start Monday.”
I set the lasagna in the microwave. “That won’t be very convenient for you once you’re back at your mom’s.”
She laughs. “Nothing you’ve done has given me the impression that I’ll be back at my mom’s.”
I pour myself a drink. Even the sound of the ice crackling as the bourbon flows over it is a hit of dopamine now, a sign that relief is on the way.
“Oh, is it that time already?” She pulls a bottle of Malibu from the chair beside her. “Sweet.”
“I’m not sure what you’re doing there.” I lift the glass to my mouth. “Are you even old enough to drink?”
She rolls her eyes as she twists the top off. “It’s so flattering, how little you remember about me. And what we’re doing is drinkingtogether. Every sip you take, I’ll take one too.”
I pause. “I’m twice your weight. You realize you’ll be under the table by the time I’ve finished this lasagna, yes?”
Her eyes twinkle. “Why yes, Harrison. Idorealize that.”
Ah, clever. She thinks my conscience will keep me from getting her drunk, and it probably would under normal circumstances, but I’m not playing this game with her.
I take a nice long drink of my bourbon, holding her eye the entire time.
