23
Liam
My phone buzzes violently on the nightstand, dragging me from sleep. I fumble for it in the dark, my brain sluggish and disoriented. The room is unfamiliar for a second, then I remember.
Toronto. The West Peak. Avery.
I grab the phone and silence it before it can buzz again, squinting at the screen. The brightness makes my eyes water.
Mom.
Fuck.
I glance at Avery, curled on her side facing away from me, her breathing still deep and even. Good. I didn't wake her.
The phone stops buzzing. A notification pops up immediately. Three missed calls from my mother.
I check the time. Eight AM.
Three missed calls mean she wants something. Probably another family gathering I'm supposed to fly down for, where I sit awkwardly at a dinner table with people who feel like strangers.
I silence my phone completely and set it face down on the nightstand.
“Hey, are you okay?”
I turn to find Avery awake, watching me with concerned eyes. Her hair is messy from sleep, and she looks soft and warm and perfect.
“Shit, sorry. Did I wake you?”
“The phone did.” She shifts closer, her hand finding my chest. “Everything alright?”
I lie back down and pull her into my arms, needing the contact. She comes willingly, molding her body against mine, her head tucking perfectly under my chin.
“Good morning,” I murmur into her hair.
“Good morning.” She tilts her head up to kiss my jaw. “You're avoiding my question.”
“Am I?”
“Liam.” Her tone is patient but firm.
I sigh, tightening my arms around her. “It was my mom. I didn't answer.”
“Why not?”
“Because.” I pause, trying to find the words. “It's complicated.”
She doesn't push, just waits. Her fingers trace idle patterns on my chest, and the simple comfort of it makes something loosen in my throat.
“My relationship with my mother isn't great,” I say. “Actually, that's putting it mildly. It's pretty fucked up.”
“Do you want to talk about it?”
I should say no. I should deflect with a joke or change the subject or distract her with sex. That's what I usually do when conversations get too close to things I don't want to examine.
But this is Avery. And for some reason, I want to tell her. I want her to know the parts of me I usually keep hidden.
“My dad left when I was twelve,” I say, the words coming out flat. “He just walked out one day and left a note saying he wasn't cut out for family life.”
