familiar knock on my door. I know his knock. It’s strong, yet hesitant. Just like he is. I open up. “You ready?” he asks, wearing shorts and running shoes.
I glance at the clock. It’s after six. It’s their day off, and I forgot we were supposed to meet in the lobby. “Sorry, I lost track of time. Give me a minute to change.”
I grab what I need and duck into the bathroom. We’ve been running almost daily. And he’s gotten much better, faster. But sometimes I think he runs fast to keep from talking.
When I emerge, he’s got one of my sketches in his hands. “Ella, this is fantastic.”
“I’m not finished yet.” I try to swipe it from him, but he keeps it. “I still need to color it.”
“I have to show this to everyone. This may be our next album cover.”
“What? That’s crazy.”
I scrutinize what I drew. It’s a rough sketch. And I took liberties, such as changing the background to something abstract.
“It’s not. This is exactly what we need.”
I take it back. “Let me finish it.”
“No way. It’s great as it is.”
“You don’t have to flatter me, Liam.”
“That’s not what I’m doing. Can I show this to the rest of the band?”
“Suit yourself.” I motion to the door. “Ready?”
At the beach we stretch, then start our run. He comments on the weather. I say something about the sunset. Small talk.
Halfway into it, I do something I never do. I stop. “Liam, do I need to be here anymore?”
“What are you talking about?”
“You never talk to me anymore. You’ve been avoiding me since, you know. It’s awkward. And everyone has noticed. Bria keeps asking if we’re fighting.”
“We’re not fighting.”
“Then what are we?”
He takes off. I catch up and tug on his arm until he halts.
“I’m here because you thought I inspired you, but now I feel like I’m a burden.”
“You’re not.”
“Then talk to me. About your music, the album cover, your new living arrangements when you get back to New York. Anything but the stupid weather.”
His gaze travels to my chest, and he cringes. Is he still upset about what that guy did to me?
“It’s going to be dark soon,” he says. “We should head back.”
He runs so fast, I can’t keep up with him. By the time I make it back to the hotel, he’s nowhere in sight.
I go upstairs and pack my suitcase.
~ ~ ~
There’s a knock on the door. It’s a different knock, but it’s him. And he’s got a half-full bottle of whiskey in his hand. He stumbles into my room, sits on the couch, and takes a swig. He sees the packed suitcase and backpack on the bed. When he tries to stand, he trips over his own feet and ends up on all fours.
He gets off the floor and goes to the suitcase. “I thought we weren’t going to Tampa until tomorrow.”
“You’re going to Tampa tomorrow. I’m going to New York tonight.”
His eyes are glazed. “What? Why?”
“Why do you think? There’s no point in my being here, Liam.”
“There is.”
“I’m not doing anything for you. I’m not your muse anymore. I’ve become some groupie who tags along with the band.”
“I like having you here.”
“Do you? You could have fooled me. You don’t even talk to me. You can barely look at me. Are you mad at me for not calling the police on the guy in the bar?”
His attention goes to my breasts, and every line on his face screams of tension. He twists off the cap to his bottle and drinks. “You should have turned him in.”
“Maybe. But it was my call to make.”
He slams the bottle down on the table and liquid splashes out the top. “He’s going to do it again, and you’re the one who allowed it.”
“So now it’s my fault?”
“You should have done more.”
My blood boils. “I never knew you could be such an asshole, Liam. I think you should leave.”
He stumbles to the door, then glances back like he wants to say something. But he doesn’t. He walks out. I sit on the couch, a vice gripping my heart. I’m not sure what I expected. I’ve always been clear that I don’t want anything more than friendship from him, so why does the thought of leaving him hurt so much?
His bottle is still on the table. I pick it up and take a drink, feeling the burn all the way from my lips to my stomach. Then I cry.