He nods, and not that he needs to, but I notice he doesn't argue. Instead, he exhales heavily. "Alright," he finally says. "I guess I'll see you in the morning."
"Yep." I drop my hands onto my hips awkwardly. "I'll see you then."
He presses his lips into a straight line as if he's holding back his next thought, and reaches for the door. I finally let the breath I'm apparently holding seep out, only to inhale sharply when he twists back around.
"For what it's worth," he says, his hand still on the handle. Now I'm the one who feels at a crossroads—anticipating the end of his statement like it'll change everything.
And maybe it will.
Liam hesitates—or maybe second guesses—then sighs. "Even from what little I saw, you deserve better."
I stare at him, my chest tightening as his words soothe something in me that I didn't realize needed healing until now. He's right. And the validation that washes over me quiets the voice inside my head that insists that I brought this on myself. That me settling for good enough was the excuse—thepermission—that Trevor needed for treating me this way.
But Liam doesn't owe me anything. He could have walked out that door without another word. Hell, he could have skipped right over it from the very start.
But he didn't.
And now, he's looking at me with his eye contact gentle and steadfast. His expression is sweet and genuine, but also strong and—quite frankly, undeniably sexy—softened by his tired smile and the mess of hair falling over his forehead. He tips his chin down as if that's all he had left to say, then slips out the door.
I stay frozen, his scent still consuming me, the air still buzzing with our closeness. There's a physical wall between us now, but our almost-moment still hangs there too, my heartbeat almost too loud for the silence. I'm still thinking of the way he hovered over me, still picturing his hand on top of the dresser.
Still reeling from it all.
Trevor is gone, and I have no place to live when we get back to Golden City, yet somehow I feel less alone and more at peace than I have in a while.
The purr of Liam and Ruthie's lock opening bounces off the walls in the hallway and slips into my room. It calms me—grounding me again.
The sound of one door opening just afteranother one closes.
The sound of possibility.
20
Liam
"Getaway day," Holloway sings, stepping up behind my bench.
I look up at him hovered over me, more than his body weight in my hands. I don't respond. Instead, I finish my set, pressing the bar three more times before racking it above me.
"Damn, Two-Three," he says, stepping around the large metal plates. "It has to kill you that you're aging out cause I'm pretty sure you can still rep more than me."
I huff out a laugh, rolling my wrist. "I have an eleven-year-old daughter, Rook. I don't train for baseball." I stand, nodding toward the bench. "But I can definitely still rep more than you."
Jace rolls his eyes playfully, sitting down and dipping his head below the bar. He slides backward as I take the place behind him. Gripping the metal, he adjusts his palms until they feel right, then presses his shoulders into the cushion beneath him. "You figure out your plan yet?" he grinds out, un-racking the weight. He lowers the barbell until it touches the silver chain laying on his chest.
"You figure out your timing yet?" I toss back, knowing damn well his slow throw release has nothing on my lack of plans for the future.
He pauses at the top of his next rep, his brow creased as his gaze meets mine. "Why are you so scared?"
I follow the bar as he lowers it again, my expression unchanged despite feeling completely exposed. "I'm not scared," I lie, crossing my arms. "I've just been a little busy with everything else."
Jace chuckles, his motion still fluid as he continues to lift and lower the bar. "None of that shit will matter when you're begging for Zyn at a gas station."
My hand darts forward, stopping him from lifting the bar more than a few inches from his body. He struggles as he attempts to push past me, but I continue to resist until the bar drops to his chest. "Come on, man," he grunts.
I finally move my hand, and he presses it up shakily, throwing it back into the pegs. "Jesus, I was kidding. Are you trying to kill me?" He sits up and rubs his chest. "I'm just saying, I don't know much besides your kid that could be more important than figuring out how to keep baseball in your life."
I shrug nonchalantly as if the weight of this conversation isn't sitting on my shoulders. "Maybe I'm not worried about keeping baseball in my life."
