Page 62 of City of Liars

“Will shares the same gene pool you do. Are you saying he should never have had children?”

“Of course not.”

“You deserve happiness, too.” She sounded so adamant, it almost made me smile. “No one’s perfect, Theo. Everyone’s got something. Like, Chloe’s allergic to garlic. One clove, and we’ll wind up in the hospital. So, I plan around it, which is a pain, because she loves Italian food, and you wouldn’t believe how many sauces have garlic in them.”

She wrinkled her nose, looking unfairly adorable. “But it doesn’t matter. It’s not an inconvenience, because she’s my daughter and it’s my honor to be there for her. When you love someone, supporting them through the hard times is what it’s all about. It’s what you do.”

“My depression isn’t a garlic allergy!” And had she just said ‘love’? What the hell was happening here?

Liv heaved a sigh. “You’re right. That was a terrible analogy. How about this? What if, God forbid, Will got sick, you wouldn’t hold that against him, would you? You’d show up and help him, because he’s your brother and you want to be there for him.”

The thought of anything happening to Will made my stomach hurt. “Of course I would. But it’s not the same.”

“Why not? Because that wouldn’t be his fault, whereas you’re convinced that your depression and anxiety make you defective and therefore unlovable?” Her voice was gentle, but each word hit me like a blow. My response jammed in my throat, and damn it, she just kept talking.

“If…if we were dating, you’d be supporting me, too. There’d be times when I had to work late, and I asked you to pick up Chloe or make dinner. Just the fact that I have a daughter is a lot to contend with. It’s a give-and-take.”

I wished she would stop talking about children. And dating. And love. “I’m aware of that,” I bit out. “And I’d be a whole lot of take and no give. How am I supposed to support you when I can’t even scrape myself off the bathroom floor? When I’d know that you’d only be staying with me out of pity?”

Her jaw dropped. “I don’t pity you,” she said. “I wouldn’t. You’re a numbers guy; well, over twenty million people in this country suffer from depression. Do you think all of them are unlovable, or is it just you?”

“I—”

“It’s just part of who you are,” she said, her tone coaxing, persuasive. “Would it be easy to see you like that? Probably not. Would it hurt me to see you hurting? Absolutely. Would I do everything I could to help you feel better? You bet I would.”

“That’s not the point, Liv. You don’t need a fucked-up boyfriend when you could have a perfectly normal one.”

Liv’s cheeks flushed. “You’re not fucked up, Theo. I wish you’d stop talking about yourself that way.”

“Oh, yeah? When I came back to the city, I realized the longest non-familial relationship in my life has been with my goddamn doorman. My parents are both drunks and my mother’s idea of a vacation is drying out on the psych ward. I take pills every morning just to freaking function. Does that sound like a paragon of virtue to you?”

She didn’t back down. “Plenty of people take pills every morning, for blood pressure or high cholesterol or diabetes. So what? What you’ve gone through—to be standing here in front of me, like this, today—it doesn’t make you bad, or weak. It means you’re strong.”

I couldn’t understand why she saw me like this. At some point, she’d realize who I really was and I’d come tumbling right off the pedestal she’d stuck me on. It would be a nasty fall for both of us. “How would you know?”

Liv narrowed her eyes. “For one thing, all the research I’ve done tells me so. Trauma psychology is my field of study, in case you’ve forgotten. What happened to May changed your biochemistry. It’s not something you can help.”

“I—”

“Shhh.” She put her hands on her hips. “For another, I know you. And…look, I’ve been married, okay? I know what it’s like to be with someone who doesn’t support me, and believe me when I say you don’t fit the profile. Even though we’re on opposite sides of this feud, you’re still here, with me, trying to figure it out, like an equal partner. That’s more than I ever had with Gray. And I swear to God, Theo Dressler, if you say you’re fucked up one more time in my hearing, I won’t be responsible for what I do to you next.”

I stared at her, trying to decide whether she was delusional or the best thing that had ever happened to me. And then, before I could think better of it, I crossed to her, knelt down, and took her mouth with mine.

Her response was instant: her tongue licked into my mouth, her hands tightened in my hair, and when my hands rose to her face, cupping it so I could get the angle I wanted, she didn’t resist. In fact, she leaned into my touch, as if she’d been aching to feel my hands on her as badly as I’d been to have them there.

“You’re not fucked up,” she whispered against my lips, as if willing me to believe it. “There’s nothing wrong with you.”

God, I wanted to lose myself in her—to wash the past twenty-four hours away. Settling onto the couch beside her, I lifted her so she straddled my lap, one of her knees on either side of my body. I groaned as her heat soaked into me through the cotton of her yoga pants. I was pretty sure she wasn’t wearing anything under them.

Maybe having sex in this apartment was the best idea I’d ever had, a sort of in-your-face to generations of Carters. Or maybe I was just looking for excuses. Because I sure as hell didn’t want to stop.

“Kiss me,” she demanded, and I obliged, invading her mouth with my tongue, claiming it the way I wanted to claim her. She sank her teeth into my lip in retaliation and I growled, sliding a hand under her shirt to cup her bare breast. No underwear, no bra—was she trying to drive me crazy?

Her nipple hardened against my palm, and when I brushed it with the pads of my fingers, it was her turn to moan—a sound that nearly pushed me over the edge. “Liv,” I said, tugging the shirt over her head and dropping it onto the rug, “I don’t have anything with me—any condoms, I mean. But I’m clean. Tell me you’re on birth control.”

I nearly lost my train of thought at the sight of that glorious fall of hair tumbling over her shoulders and brushing the tips of her pale, full breasts. But through the blood that pounded in my ears—and everywhere else—I somehow heard her say, “I’m on the Pill.”

“Thank fucking Jesus,” I muttered, a heartfelt prayer that made her laugh.