My legs are stiff as I start to stand, using the wall for guidance and leverage. Never, have I been so consumed with something that I’ve let so much time pass. Even after Liam left I had to function. The baby growing inside of me needed me to survive.
Darkness filters through the blinds in my kitchen. Glancing at the illuminated clock on the microwave tells me that I’ve been in the bathroom for about six hours. That’s far too many hours wasted on something that means so little to my life. It’s the journal excerpts that gave me pause. Reading and re-reading them over and over to let the tales of Sam and the other women soak in is what took me so long to process the garbage that has been written in that stupid book. It’s like a car crash on the highway. You know you shouldn’t look because it’s disrespectful to stare, but you turn your head anyway as you drive at a snail’s pace, only to mutter an “Oh God” and say a silent prayer of thanks that it wasn’t you in that accident.
When I saw the mangled truck that Mason drove the night he was killed, the sentiment of “Oh God” had an entirely different meaning. The officers were slow to release the wreckage to the towing company and something deep inside made me drive by the scene the next morning. His truck, one that I had been in so many times, was a shell of what it used to be. It was easy to see how he didn’t survive even as his words echoed through my mind, “Nothing can break this baby.” He was wrong. An eighteen-wheeler with failing breaks coming down a hill did. That semi didn’t just destroy Mason’s truck, but all of our lives as well. However, with that destruction came hope and something new. Because of Mason, I was given another chance with Liam and I’m a fool to let some unauthorized biography based mostly on his psycho manager mess that up for me.
Do the words hurt? Yes, but they can’t matter to me. I won’t let them. I don’t know who this Calista Jones person is, but the story she tells paints the picture of a much different person than the man I love. I’m smart enough to accept that the Liam I fell in love with isn’t the same man I married and I know he would say the same thing about me. We grew up, each of us in our own ways, but I don’t care what people say, your first love is never forgotten no matter how many years pass.
My phone sits on the counter, mocking me. If I had to bet, I’d say Liam is on his way home because we’ve never gone this long without talking. I know him well enough to know he’s pacing, pulling at his hair and pounding his fists against the windows overlooking the town he loves so much. When he booked his suite at the Wilshire, the night that I met him there came rushing back. I was teetering that night, willing to give myself to him so I could remember what it felt like to be under his control. To have him hovering over me, willing my body to be at his command.
He wouldn’t let me. Instead he paced, often moving out of my grasp just as I had him in it. It pained him not to touch me and each time I’d look into his eyes; his resolve was breaking mine down. When I reminded him that I was engaged, it was for my benefit not his. I had to say the words out loud to remind myself that I already gave myself to another man.
When it comes down to it, Liam isn’t any different. He willingly gave himself away to his painkillers, as he called them. I can’t hold that against him.
I push the home button on my phone and look at the notifications. Liam has called and texted, along with Katelyn and Jenna. Swiping my finger across Liam’s missed call; I enter my passcode, listening to his voice sing out into my ear. In the first message he’s telling me that he’s checking in and would like me to text him when I’m free. In the second he wants to know what I’m doing and why I haven’t texted him. It’s in his third message that I detect panic in his voice when he tells me that he loves me and really needs to hear my voice. The fourth message he leaves is mostly cussing and asking where I’m at. The rest of the messages are from Katelyn and Jenna, following the same pattern as Liam’s: What am I doing, why am I not answering the phone?
I don’t bother reading his texts messages before replying.
I’m sorry. I’m home and have been sleeping. Just tired.
The lie - or, technically, omission of the truth - comes easier than it should, but telling him that I’ve been reading the book that he doesn’t want me to read won’t sit well with him and fighting over the phone is not something I want to happen while he’s in LA.