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It’s an unknown number, so I ignore it.
“I’m happy for them.”
I take a long draw of my whiskey as Harrison looks over at me. He’s lying, of course. I simply lift a brow.
“No, seriously,” he insists. “Liam‘s been in love with her for years. Obviously, he finally told her how he feels. Good for him.”
I swallow, welcoming the burn of the liquor. I set the glass down and link my fingers over my lower stomach. “You are so full of shit.”
“I’m a good fucking guy,” Harrison protests. “I am happy that Ivy got rid of Brad, that she’s moving on with a great guy, and that Liam finally gets what he wants after all this time.”
I am Harrison‘s rock. I know this. It has always been our dynamic that I am the steady anchor and he is the fun one. If everything was left up to me, our bank account would probably be twice the size that it is, we’d have opened three more restaurants, and it’s possible that we would both already be settled down, married, and maybe even have kids.
But I will admit that we don’t need more money, or more restaurants, and we probably would’ve married people just because we should rather than because we wanted to.
Harrison, on the other hand, makes sure that we enjoy the things we accomplish. Because of him, we’ve traveled far more broadly than we would have otherwise. We’ve spent our money on fun and frivolity, but we’ve had amazing experiences and met amazing people. We’re not settled down and married, but neither of us feels like anything is missing from our lives.
At least we didn’t.
Before now.
Before Ivy and Liam.
How is it possible that these two people could be with us for two days and three nights on a crazy road trip, stuck in a dumpy motel room, and turn our fucking lives upside down?
“You don’t care that the only man you cannot get out of your system no matter how hard you try, woke up this morning after spending the night in your bed and declared his love to the woman who spent the night in my bed?” I ask. He doesn’t need to answer. I know him well enough to know the answer. But he is not going to gaslight me. “You don’t care that you finally got to kiss him again, got your hands on him again, actually spent several hours not fighting with him, and then found him kissing Ivy and announcing that they are now in a relationship? That doesn’t bother you at all?”
Harrison‘s entire body is tense, but he leans back in the expensive leather seat across from me, links his hands behind his head, and takes a deep breath. “Nope,” he lies straight to my face. “Everything‘s good. Obviously, he got me out of his system and is able to move on. Good for him.”
Is that what happened? I let myself wonder about that for a moment. Is that what happened with Ivy? She got me out of her system? Because there was definitely something between us. Yes, chemistry, for sure. But I think it was more than that.
I don’t think it’s my ego talking when I say that I was good for her. She relaxed around me. She was able to let go of the prim and proper, sophisticated side that she seemed to always be putting on. She is effortlessly elegant, independent, creative and sure of herself. But it’s clear to me, even in the small amount of time I’ve been around her, that no one takes care of her or carries any burdens for her. She actually took care of Brad—that was always clear. And Liam lifts up her independent, strong side. He encourages her to make her own decisions and be his equal in every way. Which is amazing. She deserves that.
But she also deserves to be worshiped. To have someone fully focused on her and her needs. To be someone’s princess.
That’s me.
I’ll be her cheerleader too. I absolutely admire her and want to see her succeed in whatever she wants to do. But I have a burning desire to take care of her. To be the one to hold her when she’s sad, to be sure she’s eating well and drinking enough water, and to be there when she’s hungover or has the flu.
I shove a hand through my hair.
She and Liam are friends. They have history. She’s in love with him.
Fine.
But I can’t shake this feeling that she still needsme, too.
My phone buzzes with a voicemail notification. I read the text version of it. The FBI wants to talk to me about Brad? What the hell?
I relay this to Harrison, who frowns. “That’s fucked up. Do you think that’s why he ran?”
“I have no idea.” If he did something illegal, surely there would be more signs of it. “Maybe they want to ask him about someone else and are just trying to find him.”
Harrison grunts in acknowledgment.
“Should we try to get in touch with him? What if it’s serious?”
Harrison gives a very Harrison response. “Call him if you want. I figure the hell with him. He’s the reason we’re both in this mess. He’s on his own, as far as I’m concerned.”