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“Sounds good.” He nods. “I’ll send you my itinerary on Sunday. Or at least what I think I’ll be doing.”
“Thank you.” And it’s weird, but knowing I’ll have a detailed plan of his week makes me feel like there’s a connection that shouldn’t be there. Then something occurs to me. Something he said a few minutes ago.
“Liam, when you said you were bidding to help a friend, did you mean it?”
He looks surprised. “Of course I did.”
“And I’m the friend?” I clarify. Because it wasn’t long ago that we were at each other’s throats.
“That would be the obvious conclusion.”
“Okay then.”
He tips his head to the side. “What does that mean?”
“Nothing.” I shrug.
His eyes dip to my dress then back to my face. “I’ll see you later,” he tells me.
I’m still smiling as I turn around and walk back to the ballroom, where I’m supposed to spend the night talking with our donors and representing the station. Why is it that I like the sound of being Liam’s friend?
It’s only when I see Ava and Lauren waving at me across the dancefloor that the smile slips. Because something else occurs to me.
You don’t lie to friends.
And yet I lied to Liam once.
The thought pulls me out of my nice, woolly feelings. Because once he finds out about that I’m not sure he’ll be so sweet.
CHAPTERELEVEN
LIAM
Sunday morning finds me in the sunniest of moods. I’m in Ava and Myles’ kitchen, cooking them some brunch and listening to a nineties radio station. Myles is sitting in front of his laptop, Charlie against his chest in some kind of rubber chair that looks like a potty even though it isn’t, and Ava is pulling weeds in their yard.
As I break some eggs into the pan, Will Smith comes on, “Getting’ Jiggy Wit It”.
“Bring it… uh uh uh…”
Charlie blinks, his head tipping to the side. He looks like he’s ready for some fun so I join in the rap and tell him tobe on his mark and get ready, let’s go…
He gurgles as I point at him with the wooden spatula, still rapping the lyrics. I’m actually surprised I can remember them all. This song has to be more than twenty years old. Maybe more like twenty-five.
All I know is that one summer we’d played it on repeat while at Misty Lakes. In the days before smartphones and WIFI, back when we thought we were going to rule the world.
Charlie’s still watching, his mouth closing and opening almost like he’s trying to join in.
And when I get to the chorus he gurgles louder. Almost hiccups.
“Wait,” Myles says. “Shit, did he just laugh?”
“You just swore in front of your kid,” I point out.
“Fu—.” He shakes his head. “Sing it again.”
“We’re on the next verse now,” I point out.
“Just keep rapping,” Myles urges. Words I never thought would come from my brother’s mouth.
