Liam and the mystery girl are standing in front of a small airplane. The plane has Liam’s company logo on the side.
He looks younger than he does now. I’d say he’s in his early twenties in the picture. The girl looks to be about the same age. And she’s pretty. Really pretty. Long pale-blonde hair. Eyes so blue they stand out in the photograph. And she looks tall, standing next to Liam.
I turn to him, the picture still in my hand. “An ex-girlfriend?” I say the words calmly, but the jealousy I feel is shocking in its intensity.
The expression on Liam’s face freezes when his eyes meet with the photograph.
I feel an uncomfortable twist in my gut.
His eyes darken. “I didn’t know that was there.” The tone of his voice is hard and unyielding.
I’ve never heard him sound that way before.
He puts his glass down on a small table by the sofa. Then, he comes over and takes the picture from my hand. He stalks over to a cabinet and opens the drawer in it. Liam puts the frame in the drawer and shuts it so hard that the cabinet shakes. He walks back over and picks his glass up from the table.
My heart is beating hard. I’m not sure what just happened. And I’m not sure what to say.
But I do know that I feel rattled that a picture of his ex-girlfriend could elicit such a strong response from him.
“Who…is she?” I tentatively ask the question.
Liam doesn’t say anything. He just stares down at the liquor in his glass.
I figure he isn’t going to answer, so I’m surprised when he does.
“Kate.” The word comes out coarse and angry, and it’s all he says.
Kate? Why does that name sound familiar?
I search around my mind, trying to recall why that name sounds familiar, when Liam quietly says, “She was my fiancée.”
Oh.
Oh, wow. That hurts.
There’s an actual pain in my chest, and my stomach feels like it’s just bottomed out.
For a moment, I feel cheated. Like he’s lied to me. He didn’t tell me something as important as the fact that he once had a fiancée.
But then again, why would he? It’s none of my business. He’s just fucking me.
And it’s not like I’ve been truthful with him.
I’ve told him that my family died, but I haven’t told him that the reason they died was because of me. Because of my selfishness.
I haven’t told him that I’m dying. That I’m letting this brain tumor kill me, so I can pay penance and be with them.
It’s not exactly like I can get up on my high horse about this.
So, I just simply say and do nothing.
Liam seems to break from the trance he was in. In an angry movement, he downs the brandy in one gulp and slams the glass back down on the table.
“Let’s go to bed,” he speaks to me without looking at me, already moving for the door.
I don’t answer. I just quickly finish my own drink.
Liam is already a good way down the hallway, striding in the direction of the staircase. I have to hurry to catch up with him. When I do catch up, he doesn’t acknowledge my presence.
The walk to his room is painfully silent and filled with confusion on my part.
I feel like we’ve had a fight without actually having had the fight.
As soon as we get into his bedroom, I grab my pajamas and toiletry bag, and I head straight for the bathroom, closing the door behind me.
I’m dressed in my pajamas, and I’ve just finished taking off my makeup when the headache hits.
And it hits bad.
Fuck. No. Not now.
The weight of the pain in my head has me sinking to my knees on the cold tiled floor. Leaning forward, I cradle my head in my hands. The pain is so bad and intense, worse than anything I’ve felt before. Tears are streaming down my cheeks.
“Look, Boston, I’m sor—Jesus, Taylor, what’s wrong?” Liam is by my side in an instant, panic clear in his voice.
Why did he have to come in now?
I don’t want him seeing me like this. The last time I had a headache at his place and he saw it, it was bad enough, and this attack is much worse.
The attacks are getting worse and worse, Taylor. You know what that means.
I just need him to go. I need to be alone.
I try to part my dry lips to tell him to go when the wave of nausea hits.
I’m going to be sick.
Pushing away from Liam, I crawl to the toilet. I lift the lid just in time.
Liam’s there, beside me, his hands gathering up my hair and holding it out of the way, while I vomit dinner up.
“It’s okay, babe. Get it out of your system. You’ll feel better for it.”
This time, I will.
But it will happen again.
And again.
I feel like crying.
Liam will probably just think I’m sick with a bug.
But I’m not.
I’m sick because I’m dying.
I’m a liar and a fraud.
Liam is holding my hair back for me, caring for me, and he doesn’t even know the reason I’m like this.
I hate myself in this moment.
Hating myself isn’t a new concept to me. But, somehow, this hatred feels different to the hatred I’ve felt for myself ever since my family died.
Liam’s other hand starts to gently rub my back.