by Cassia Leo
It was then that I began looking through all my old correspondence, searching my Gmail inbox (on my phone) for four-year-old emails from Liam during that time. What I found was I wasn’t misinterpreting his flirtations in Starbucks that day. He’d been flirting with me for days following up to that meeting. Asking if I had a boyfriend and if I wanted “to study at Starbucks or in my dorm. It’s warmer in my dorm. ;-)” He never tried to make a move on me during our study session, but he definitely established a pattern of dishonesty, which I didn’t realize until he decided to spy on me.
The elevator twenty feet behind the receptionist’s desk dings and the brushed metal doors slide open. “Hey, babe,” Liam says as he strolls confidently in my direction, completely oblivious as to how much I now know about him and why I’m here.
“Hey!” I reply enthusiastically, trying not to cringe as he leans in to plant a kiss on my cheek. “TGI Friday! I’m here to take you to lunch, but I was hoping to say hi to Matt while I’m here.”
Liam looks confused. “You want to see Matt?”
“Yeah. I haven’t seen him since we went to Taco Tuesday. Just wanted to say hi and see how he’s doing.”
Liam glances at the receptionist, knowing he can’t say Matt’s not here because she’ll know he’s lying. “Sure. Let’s go see Matt.”
His hand lands heavily, possessively, on the small of my back as we head into the elevator. He presses the elevator for the third floor, then places his hand right back where it was, just an inch above my ass, which he still thinks is his. It takes considerable effort to maintain my composure, but I grit my teeth and hold on, knowing this will all be over soon.
I smile at a few people as we walk down an aisle of cubicles. Liam doesn’t bother trying to introduce me to any of his coworkers. Halfway down the aisle, Liam stops at Matt’s cube.
Matt looks over his shoulder at us and I’m certain there’s a flare of panic in his eyes before he remembers to put on his friendly façade. “Hey, Rory!”
“Hi, Matt,” I say, leaning in to give him a one-armed hug while he remains seated in his generic black desk chair. “I just wanted to drop by and say hi and ask you a technical question, if you don’t mind.”
I know how much techies hate being asked for tech support by friends and family, so I hope to God I’m bothering the shit out of him right now. Or at least igniting a flame of terror under his ass.
He swallows hard, glancing at Liam. “Uh… sure. What kind of question?”
“Well, I think I might have a virus or something. I’m getting this weird process listed in my Activity Monitor. I don’t recognize it. And I’m totally not tech-savvy, so I was wondering if you recognize it. I wrote the name in a note on my phone. Hold on.” I dig my phone out of my pocket as slowly as possible to see just how sweaty his armpits can get in the interim. “See? This is the name.”
He blinks a few times in rapid succession as he stares at the name on my phone screen and tries to formulate a response. “I… I’ve never seen that on a Mac, but it’s probably in your best interest to run a spyware and antivirus scan just to be safe. You know… when you work on your laptop at cafés, all you have to do is walk away to use the restroom for a couple of minutes and someone can install something on your computer.” He taps his fingers on the desk. “You have to be really careful.”
I grit my teeth, wanting so badly to smack the shit out of him for allowing himself to be Liam’s lapdog. Instead, I force a smile and nod as I tuck the phone into my pocket.
“Thanks, Matt. I really appreciate your help.”
He nods, his eyes darting around the office. “Any time.”
Liam and I get back in the elevator to head downstairs, and as soon as the doors slide shut he chuckles. “What was that about?”
“What?”
He glances at me sideways, wearing a poker face. “Nothing. Let’s go eat.”
As the elevator doors open, an Asian guy in a sharp gray suit beams when he sees Liam and me. “Liam! Is this the famous Rory?”
Famous Rory?
Liam’s poker face withers away as we step out of the elevator. “Yeah, this is Rory.” He turns to me, his hand landing on the small of my back again. “Rory, this is my boss, Mr. Xiu.”
The man cocks an eyebrow at Liam’s introduction, then he reaches out his hand to me. “Please call me Jian.” He shakes my hand gently and I can’t help but marvel at how soft his hands are. “It’s such a pleasure to finally meet you. And we’re so glad you convinced Liam to take the position. We understand moving to a new state, new city, from a place like Portland can be a wild experience. Culture shock! Where’s the rain?”
He laughs like a madman, but I’m too stunned to join in. Liam told his boss that I convinced him to take the position in California? Is there a man on this fucking planet who doesn’t feel the need to lie to me?
Liam excuses us, his hand never leaving my back as we walk out of the SaltMedia building. As we walk to Liam’s truck, I remember the first time I rode with him. He had basically refused to let me ride my bike home from Ración. Then he insisted I let him take me out despite the fact that I clearly told him I was still fucked up over Houston. He was so persistent. At first I thought it was cute, maybe even a little sexy. But now I see it was just the first brick laid in the wall between me and my entire former life in Portland.
How long had he known about the position in Mountain View?
Ugh. I don’t even want to know the answer to that question. All I want to do right now is get him to a public place so I can confront him with all the pieces of the puzzle I’ve collected over the past eleven days. A puzzle that paints a very disturbing picture. A picture that shows he’s been spying on me and trying to separate me from my friends and family since we first met.
Liam opens the passenger door for me to get inside. I don’t bother flashing him a phony smile as I climb in. The time for lies is over. Now is the time for truth.
He slides into the driver’s seat and sticks the key in the ignition, but he doesn’t start the engine. “You think I’m stupid? You think I don’t know what you were doing back there with Matt?”
“Oh, I know you’re not stupid,” I reply, glaring at him across the bench seat, each breath burning my lungs with seething anger. “You were smart enough to fool me and Matt, and apparently Mr. Xiu!”
He throws his head back with laughter. “So I’m the one deceiving people? How about you?” He waves his arm at me. “You lie to me. You lie to yourself. You lie to everyone. And you expect me to trust you?”
“I have done no such thing!”
“Oh, yeah! What’s in your book, Rory? Huh? How about we start with that?”
I suddenly feel as if the truck walls are closing in on me. Heat rises into my neck, into my face, stinging the corners of my eyes.
“You read my book?”
He glares at me, nostrils flaring and completely silent. Liam has been poring through my deepest, most private thoughts and memories of Houston, not to mention my thoughts about him. I can see it in the way he looks at me, his eyes mirroring the fury in mine. He knows everything.
He knows how I lost my virginity the day Hallie died. He knows every gruesome detail of the abortion and the breakup. He knows every word Hallie wrote in her suicide note. He knows about her affair with my father. He knows I called Houston on New Year’s Eve. He knows about the Sierra Nevada box and the engagement ring.
He knows I’ve been trying to force myself to love him.
“You read my book?” I howl at him.
He doesn’t even flinch, he just nods ever so slightly, his gaze locked on mine as his top lip curls into a snarl. “Yeah, I read your fucking book. I read that pile of steaming dog shit that no publisher in their right mind would touch with a fucking ten-foot pole.”
There should be a word to describe the kind of insult that’s delivered with surgical precision. The kind that cuts through bone and sinew straight into the heart and implants itself in there, then mul
tiplies. A flesh-eating virus that will consume you unless it’s carved out and disposed of immediately.
I suppose Liam might refer to this insult as a flawless takedown. I’d prefer to call it the striking of the match that set my blood on fire.
My vision blurs momentarily as his words search the dark recesses of my heart for the best place to take root. The places where I’m most vulnerable. My weaknesses.
My mind flashes to the smooth pretty-boy face of my fellow junior editor at Unbound magazine. He had to stifle a laugh when he read one of my short stories. He also thought my work was a steaming pile of dog shit.
My throat thickens painfully, tears stinging the corners of my eyes. Liam’s words carried the weight of an anvil dropped straight on my head. Yet, I feel weightless. Intangible. As trifling and insignificant as a discarded piece of trash floating across the highway. My first instinct is to curl into myself and skulk away into obscurity. But if Liam has taught me anything, it’s that first instincts are not always trustworthy.
I sit up straighter in the passenger seat, my eyes burning into him. “Never call me again.”
I reach for the door handle to let myself out and he throws himself across my lap to grab my hand.
“Wait! I didn’t mean that.”
“Get off me!” I shriek, pounding on his back.
He twists around slightly, lying on his side across my thighs as he struggles with me. He wrests both my wrists into his grasp. Then he sits up again, one foot on the floor of the truck, his other knee planted firmly on the middle of the bench seat. The painful hold on my wrists never loosens as he looks down at me with a boiling madness in his eyes.
“Listen to me, Rory.” His voice is a dark, seething snarl that makes my bones quiver. “I’m trying to apologize!”
My mind shuffles through the various ways this can end. Is he going to hit me? Does he really just want me to listen to him? If I listen to him, will he let me go without further injury?
His fingers dig painfully into the tendons of my wrist as the back of my head is pressed against the cold passenger side window. As hard as I try, I can’t stop the tears from sliding down my cheeks.
How could I move in with someone I hardly knew? Why didn’t I see that Liam and Houston were two different people? Two different circumstances. Liam wasn’t my second chance to get it right. He was my second chance to get it wrong, because moving in with someone you hardly know is stupid.
Shit. I’m already blaming myself, like any typical victim of violence.
Fuck that.
“Liam, please let me go so we can talk,” I say, hoping he’ll excuse the tremor in my voice instead of seizing on it and using my fear against me. “Please. I know you didn’t mean what you said. You’re just hurt because of what you read in my book. I know that. Please let go so we can talk.”
“You just don’t fucking get it,” he says, and the anguish contorting his face scares me more than the thunder-grip on my wrists. “I love you, Rory. I fucking love you! And you love that fucking piece-of-shit cheater! That’s fucked up! I did everything for you.”
His weight is leaning into me now and I begin to fantasize about making a quick yank on my wrist, just hard enough to reach the door handle. I’ll probably tumble out of the truck and land headfirst on the asphalt, but I don’t fucking care at this point. Why can’t somebody just walk by and see us in the truck?
“Liam, you don’t understand. All that stuff with Houston is in the past.” My stomach somersaults as I force out the next lie. “What I have with you is… it’s real.”
His grip on my wrists loosens a little. “Don’t fucking lie to me, Rory. I’m sick of the fucking lies.”
“I’m not lying to you!” I shriek, my voice tinged with panic. “I’m… I’m trying to tell you that it’s different. What Houston and I had was based on lies. What you and I have is true… It’s… it’s better. Maybe it’s not love yet, but…”
His eyes gleam with understanding as he lets go of my left wrist. “Maybe it’s not love,” he says, reaching up to brush my hair out of my face. He swallows hard as he looks down at me in wonderment. “Maybe it’s something less traumatic.”
“Yes,” I whisper, then I press my lips together, praying he interprets these as happy tears.
Bile rises in my throat as I realize how stupid I’ve been to think I could run away from my love for Houston. That I could force myself to love someone else. Maybe I did lead Liam on, but I never once implied that I loved him.
His hold on my right wrist loosens even more, and I seize the opportunity. In one swift motion, my hand and knee come up at the same time, my hand reaching for the door handle while my knee lands squarely on his crotch. He curls inward, covering his crotch as I pull the handle and the door flies open, assisted by the weight of my body. I manage to catch the lip of the doorframe just enough to slow my descent, but I still land on my back with a hard thud that knocks the breath out of me.
I roll over, my hands scraping over the rough asphalt as I scramble to my feet. Racing toward the front door of the SaltMedia building, I’m certain if I look back Liam will be right behind me. I’m a couple dozen feet from the entrance when I hear the familiar chug and scrape of the ignition. When I glance over my shoulder, all I see is Liam’s truck screeching out of the parking space, almost hitting a black sports car behind him.
“Coward!” I scream as his truck peels out of the parking lot.
He knows if he leaves now it will just be my word against his. And why would any of these people believe me over the gentle lumberjack they’ve worked with for the past month and a half?
I’m shaking uncontrollably as I watch him set off down Shoreline Blvd. Then the sobbing begins, chest-wracking, soul-shifting sobs. I don’t know if I’m more happy I got out of that situation almost completely unscathed, or if I’m more ashamed that my life is in shambles. Again.
I shuffle toward my bike, taking deep breaths to calm myself, hoping no one walks out of the building right now and sees me looking like such a mess. I kneel before my bike, the adrenaline coursing through my veins giving me a serious case of the jitters. It takes a moment for me to remember the code for the padlock on my bike. Finally, I pull my bike free, but I don’t get on.
I walk my bike to the Starbucks next door, savoring the sensation of the cold steel of the handlebars against the burning scrapes on the heels of my hands. I lock up the bike and use the Starbucks restroom to wash my hands and wash the dried tears from my cheeks. As I stare in the mirror in the Starbucks bathroom, it dawns on me that the story of Liam and me started in a Starbucks. I guess it’s fitting that this is how it should end.
I slap on a bit of fresh makeup and buy myself a small hot tea, so I don’t feel bad about using the café as my headquarters for however many hours it takes for me to figure out what I’m going to do with my life.
I set the tea down on a small table and slip my phone out of my pocket. Then I take a seat in an uncomfortable velvet armchair sandwiched between a window and a display of Sumatran coffee beans. I cast a furtive glance at the girl behind the cash register, then pull my feet up onto the chair so I can hug my knees to my chest. My mom would die if she saw me put my sneakers on someone else’s furniture.
I stand the phone on my knee and scroll through my contacts until I get to the name I’m looking for. There’s only one person I want to talk to right now.
My splintered heart is telling me to call Houston. My fractured mind is worried he’ll judge me for being so wrong about Liam. But it was my warped logic that got me into this mess. My clinical approach to love, thinking Liam and I could magically grow to love each other if we were kept in the same environment for long enough, like rats in a cage.
I press the number and my heart races as I wait for the ringing to begin.
One ring.
Two rings.
“Rory? What’s wrong?”
My sinuses sting painfully and I turn away from the guy sitting across from me so he c
an’t see my face, as if it’s possible to hide that I’m coming apart at the seams. “Houston,” I whisper, my voice strangled by the force of my regrets. “I need you.”
The Barley Legal restaurant is always busy during the lunch rush, so Troy and I opt to eat in the second-floor dining area, which we only open up if the first floor gets too crowded. Right now, we have it all to ourselves, enjoying our burgers and beers amidst the far-off sounds of chattering voices, clinking silverware, and whatever Pandora station Wilma decided to put on today. But it doesn’t take long for Troy to break the silence.
A sober expression comes over him as he sets down his sandwich and looks me in the eye. “You think Jennifer Lawrence is a loud fuck or a quiet fuck?”
I shake my head. “I don’t fucking know. I’d guess pretty loud.”
“You think every time she fucks it’s like a fight to the death?”
I stare at him, unable to believe this shitty pun. “Is there a point to this conversation?”
He sighs as he stares at his burger for a moment then sets it down on his plate. “I don’t know if I can do this.”
“Are you fucking kidding me? I know you’re trying to watch your weight, but it’s a fucking burger. Chef made it for you with love. Don’t be a bitch. Eat that shit.”
“I’m not talking about the burger,” he says, pushing his plate aside. “I’m talking about the fucking wedding. I don’t know if I can get married. This shit’s getting to me. Yesterday, she sent me a dozen emails with houses for us to look at. We’re shopping for houses! That’s a serious fucking commitment.”
I stop mid-chew, unable to believe what I’m hearing. “Where the fuck is this coming from?”
