and collapse on top of her.
18
Emma
The following morning, I wake up around seven and run my fingers over the empty spot next to me on the bed.
Liam is not here.
I rub my eyes and rise slowly, keenly aware of how tense my muscles feel from the exercise I got last night.
I stretch my arms high overhead, then slip on my leggings and a T-shirt, making my way into the main room. Skylar greets me with excited jumps and I pet her head and give her a little kiss on the nose.
I look for Liam in the room on the other side of the kitchen, but he's not there.
I look out of the enormous bay window onto the sun-drenched hills of the desert outside. There's a little lizard doing push-ups on a flat boulder and a few crickets hopping around nearby. My stomach growls and I realize that I need food.
On the desk next to a half-drunk cup of coffee is Liam's laptop. It's closed and plugged into the charging cable.
I look around and given the open floor plan of the house, I know that if he's here, he's probably somewhere in the bathroom.
I'm tempted to open the laptop and see what he is working on.
I run my fingers over the top, wondering if I should. Of course not, but I'm still tempted.
No, this is his workspace and he's entitled to his privacy. I will not snoop around in search of something that he's not willing to share with me.
Eventually, I decide against it.
When I walk back into the main room, I look out of the glass door and see Liam far in the distance. His body is moving swiftly, but he's out of breath.
When he gets onto the porch, he doubles over, drenched in sweat, and looks at the time on his watch.
“How was your run?” I ask, opening the door.
“Good, really good,” he says, trying to catch his breath.
“How long did you go for?”
“Five miles,” he says with a huff.
We are out on the back porch. It's wooden, resembling the kind of porches popular in saloons and westerns.
It wraps almost all the way around and has a deep brown railing, also made out of wood, which can double as a hitching post.
Liam lifts one foot up onto the railing to stretch out his hamstring and I see muscles protruding on his tan legs.
When he switches sides, he pulls off his sweat-drenched shirt, exposing a tight, neatly arranged six pack.
I can't help but lick my lips.
“Do you run every morning?” I ask.
“I'm trying to get back into it. I haven't for a while and my depression got the best of me.”
“Your depression?”
This is the first time that I have heard of it, but then again, I don't really know him very well.
“I get these spells. I know that you're not supposed to call it that anymore, maybe episodes? Anyway, it comes and goes. Every month or six weeks or so, I feel all the energy sort of drain away and it becomes really hard to do things.”
“Have you tried medication?”
“I don't think it's bad enough to require medication. Whenever I work out and eat right, I always feel better. So, I'm trying to get back into a good routine so that I can keep the momentum going through times when I feel like that.”
I nod my head, surprised by how open and frank he is about something that so many people are embarrassed about, especially men.
I'm about to ask him something else about it, but he gives me a brief kiss on the cheek and then says that he has to go jump in the shower.
When I hear the kettle beep, I go back into the kitchen and pour myself a cup of black tea. Then I come right out onto the porch and stare at the majestic mountains reaching up into the bright blue sky.
I have lived in Southern California for years, but it continues to surprise me with its beauty. Unlike the cliffs, the sand, and the towering palm trees by the beaches, the beauty of the desert is understated and yet opulent at the same time.
At sunset, the sky is painted with thick brush strokes of fuchsia and plum as the howls of the coyotes echo over the hills.
A bright yellow Monarch butterfly flies over to me and lands on the railing. She flaps her bright yellow wings over and over again as she cleans her feet and behind her head. A moment later she flies away,