Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 104050 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 520(@200wpm)___ 416(@250wpm)___ 347(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 104050 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 520(@200wpm)___ 416(@250wpm)___ 347(@300wpm)
He takes a slow sip of wine. “It was fine, at first. I loved Sandra. I probably still do, in a way, because we’ve known each other so long. But after college, we just started wanting different things. She wanted the city and dinner parties; I was busy with my Ph.D. program and becoming the next great American novelist while living in a cabin in the woods to work on my “art.” After years of growing apart, it became apparent that we’d become different people.”
He pauses, leans forward to refill my glass even though I haven’t finished it. “It wasn’t some tragic blowout. Just a thousand tiny fractures, until neither of us could remember why we got together in the first place. Sandra’s married to someone else now, with twins. We’re not bitter.”
I take that in. For some reason, it’s easier than I expected.
“Why did you stay single?” I ask. “You’re, like, objectively very handsome, and have a cool job. Did you just give up?”
Liam smiles, a little embarrassed. “You don’t get how intimidating you are, do you?” I arch a brow at that, and he backpedals: “I mean, not you specifically. I mean, yes, you specifically, but also when talking about other women. I tried dating. I even tried dating a colleague, but it felt like a job interview every time we met for coffee.”
He looks away. “I guess I’m picky.”
I shift, knees brushing his. “Or maybe you just needed someone to call you out on your bullshit.”
He laughs, full-bodied this time. “That’s possible.”
The next question is waiting in the back of my throat, acidic and sharp, but I let it out anyway. “Do you ever get lonely?”
He doesn’t answer for a long time. “Every day,” he says, voice quiet. “But I’m not saying that for pity. I like my life, mostly. I just didn’t expect to want this again.”
I swirl the wine, watching it cling to the glass. “You mean, me and what we have together.”
He nods, and the motion is almost reverent.
It’s suddenly too much to look at him, so I tilt my head, focusing on the dark blue shadows in the corners of the room. “So what makes you lonely? Do you see your family? Friends?” I ask, almost a whisper.
He blinks. “Sometimes. But I had no siblings, and my parents are doing their own thing, which is good. A lot of my old friends kept their distance after the divorce. I guess I was the villain in someone’s version of the story.”
He shrugs, then turns, gently, to me. “What about you, Simone? You said your mom was all about not getting kicked out of college.”
I smile, but it feels rubbery. “That was a lie. My mom died when I was ten. My dad went two years later—stomach cancer. After that, it was just me and the Minnesota foster system. I sometimes fib and talk like I have parents because let’s be honest - no one really wants to hear about my sad childhood.”
His face changes—not pity, but something raw. “Fuck.”
I laugh, high and glassy. “It’s not that bad. I’m, like, the poster child for what happens when a scholarship committee wants a heartstring story. Now I just have to not fuck it up.”
He puts a hand on my knee, not heavy, just enough to anchor me. “You’re not going to fuck it up.”
I look at his hand, then at his eyes. “You don’t know that. I’ve never done any of this before.” I say it soft, but the weight behind it is heavier than I want to admit.
He strokes my knee with his thumb. “I know, but you’re getting through, Simone, and that’s something to be proud of.”
We sit like that, the quiet pressing in. It feels, for the first time, like I’m seeing the man instead of the professor, the hard shell of authority melted into something vulnerable. I want to tell him everything. I want to say nothing at all.
He shifts a little closer, wine forgotten. “I want to see you again,” he says, voice almost hoarse. “Outside of class. Not just—” He gestures, helpless, at the candles and the dishes and the wreckage of dinner. “Not just occasionally for special dinners. I mean, every week. Maybe every day.”
I nod, heart jackhammering. “I want that too.”
“We’ll have to be careful,” he says, “but I don’t want to stop. Not unless you say so.”
“I won’t,” I promise, and I mean it.
He grins, and it’s like the first day of spring. “You know, you’re kind of amazing.”
I look away, embarrassed. “I don’t feel amazing. I feel like a science experiment that’s about to blow up.”
He cups my face, gentle but insistent. “Don’t.” The word is simple, but it settles something in me.
He kisses me, this time with no urgency. It’s a slow burn, a confession, a hope. I melt into him, and the need that’s been building all night turns molten.