I pressed my lips together. Was he serious with that pose?
“It’s your house,” I said.
He closed the door behind him and crossed to the railing, leaving a respectful distance between us.
“It’s my father’s house, actually. He reminds me all the time.”
“Probably beats living in an RV, though.” Shut up, Ellie. Shut up.
Liam raised his eyebrows. “I don’t know. You kind of live like a rock star.”
“More like a senior citizen.”
He laughed. It was a soft, deep sound, and it caused an unfamiliar warm sensation in my midsection.
“You look different,” he said. “Your hair is longer.”
“Yeah, that happens.”
“Still a smart-ass, though.” He laughed.
The truth was I couldn’t afford to get it cut, but I wasn’t going to tell him that.
Liam turned to face me, leaning his elbow against the railing. “It’s good to see you again, Ellie.”
I bristled when he used my name; it was such a bro technique. Use their name, make them feel special.
I turned away. “Your house is huge.”
“Like I said, it’s my father’s. Well, technically, it belongs to his trucking company. It’s a tax thing.” He was quiet for a moment as he looked down at the wedding below. “He still treats her like she’s five years old. Hence the backyard wedding in October.” He gestured at the tents. “For favors, we’re handing out umbrellas.”
Great. Just when I’d almost gotten the song out of my head.
Liam leaned forward, about to say something else. Please, not my name.
He seemed to change his mind before saying, “Could I interest you in some vodka?”
I bit my lip. “Actually, do you have any food?”
Liam offered to take me out back for leftover canapés, but I didn’t want to risk being seen by anyone else from Eastside. So while Dad set up for his finale, I sat on Liam Miller’s front steps in the cool autumn evening, drinking apricot punch spiked with Smirnoff and eating the best goddamned peanut butter and jelly sandwich I’d ever tasted.
I hated PB&Js, probably because I’d lived on Wonder Bread and Jif for so long. But the sandwich Liam made me was of an entirely different paradigm. The bread was some kind of artisan multigrain ambrosia. The peanut butter was organic and had to be stirred. He just sat there while I ate, and I started to feel self-conscious. I must have looked like a starving orphan.
“You don’t have to babysit me. Go be with your girlfriend.”
Liam leaned back on the top step. “She’s not my girlfriend. She’s the maid of honor’s little sister, and she’s obnoxious.”
“Oh. Okay.” I was an idiot. I stuffed the last bite into my mouth.
Liam tugged at the zipper on his jacket. “Have I done something to piss you off?”
I frowned. “What do you mean?”
“It’s just . . . you’ve been kind of cold to me since I answered the door.”
I brushed bread crumbs from my lap. Did he really not know? Or was he just trying to pretend nothing had happened?
Finally, I said, “You basically ignored me at Eastside. Why should I be nice to you?”
His eyebrows shot up to his hairline. “That’s not true.”
“Yes, it is,” I said. “Once the play was over, you barely said hi to me.”
“I said hi to you in the halls.”
“Once. When you were alone. When you were with your friends, you didn’t even look at me.”
He opened his mouth, closed it. “I don’t remember it like that.”
“I do.” I held his gaze for a few seconds, and then he looked away, frowning as if reliving something unpleasant.
“Wow,” he said. “Okay. Yeah. Maybe I was kind of an ass.”
I watched him out of the corner of my eye. Was he being sincere?
I shrugged. “It is what it is. I was a theater nerd, and you were one of those guys on the baseball team.”
“A dumb jock, right?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“But you thought it.” I didn’t want to argue, but he pressed the point. “I was the dumb jock, and you were the misunderstood girl. Like Laura and the Gentleman Caller.”
Now it was my turn to raise my eyebrows.
“What?” Liam folded his arms. “Jocks can’t like Tennessee Williams?”
I started to respond, but he cut me off.
“Don’t worry about it,” he said. “It’s kind of refreshing to be underestimated for a change.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Everyone expects me to be perfect. My parents, my coach.” His eyes drifted toward the woods across the road. “And then when I fuck up, I have to deal with their disappointment. It’s kind of exhausting.”
I gave him a searching look. I didn’t know what I had expected when Liam Miller opened the door, but it wasn’t this.
He blew out a breath. “I’m sorry I was a dick to you in high school.” He clasped his hands together and looked away; his discomfort seemed genuine. I didn’t know how to react.
“Does this usually work?” I asked.
“Does what usually work?”
“Isolate the high school girl. Give her vodka.”
He smiled. “Usually the peanut butter closes the deal. I must be losing my touch.”
He expected me to laugh, but I didn’t.
“I’m not like that,” I said.
He looked right at me. “I know.”
My face suddenly went hot. For a long time, I said nothing; we just looked at each other. The pause stretched until it became an uncomfortable silence. Literal crickets chirped. I felt a strange certainty that he was either going to get up and walk away or else lean in and kiss me. The air between us was delicate. Electric. I wanted more punch. I wanted to leave.
I could only keep his gaze for a few more moments, and then I turned away. “Why did you come find me?”
“You were on my balcony.”
He was right, and I was making a total ass of myself.
“I’m kidding,” he said. “I did come to find you. I just . . . I don’t know. It’s been a long time. I wanted to talk to you.”
I felt that not-unpleasant warmth in my midsection again. “So talk.”
He seemed about to say something, but my ringtone cut him off. I checked my phone: it was the same unfamiliar Las Vegas number. I forgot my embarrassment at once; this could be the gig we needed.
“I have to take this.” I stood, walked up the steps to the Millers’ porch, and accepted the call.
“Hello?” I said, leaning against one of the Victorian columns.
On the other end, a woman’s voice said, “Is this the number for Elias Dante? The Uncanny Dante?”
“Yes, it is. How can I help you?”
“My name is Grace Wu. I’m calling on behalf of F—”
The phone beeped in my ear, cutting off the caller—and then a robot voice informed me I had less than a minute of prepaid time left.
“I lost you for a second,” I said, panic rising in my throat. We needed this gig, whatever it was. “Could you say that again?”