Page 55 of Raise Me Up

I take another hit from my cigarette and blow out the smoke. “I appreciate it, sweetheart, but I’m not looking for solutions to a problem. I'll figure my own shit out.”

When she doesn’t respond, I glance over at her. She’s got her nose scrunched up in a troubled expression, and that doesn’t sit right with me. Dropping my cigarette, I stomp it out and pull her against my chest. I hold her for a while.

“You smell like an ashtray,” she mumbles in complaint.

“Sorry. I’ll quit.”

“I should head home. I’ve got babysitting duty for my niecetonight.”

I drop a kiss to her forehead and walk her to her car. “Text me if you can, okay?”

“No promises. Felicity’s already a handful. A chaos baby born from the most anal retentive people I know.”

Chuckling, I steal one more kiss from her. She goes to hand me my hat, but I stop her. “Keep it. I like knowing you have something of mine.”

As soon as she pulls out of the parking lot, my mood plummets. It’s like my sunshine has been stolen away, and I’ve been plunged into a cold, starless night.

I glance back at the studio, knowing I should finish my shift. But I can’t bring myself to head back inside, so I call up an Uber instead.

I think I need a long nap.

Liam hasn’t come home yet.

I’ve been laid out in his bed for hours, full starfish pose, with my finger hovered over the button to call him.

Am I being too needy? Is he mad that I bailed out earlier? Wouldn’t it be a good thing to have him push me away?

I don’t realize I’ve hit call until he speaks my name like a prayer.

My pulse leaps. “So youdohave my number saved in your phone.”

Staggered grunts and heavy breaths come over the line. At first, my stupid brain assumes I’ve caught him at the wrong time. Normal people wouldn’t answer the phone during sex, but Liam’s not normal.

“Sorry.” The clang of something heavy sounds. “At the gym.”

Air rushes out of my lungs in relief. “I didn’t mean to interrupt—”

“Don’t you fucking hang up. Talk to me. What’s wrong? Why’d youleave today?”

I wriggle deeper under his blankets, further messing them up. I have no intention of fixing them. I want him to know I was here. Want him to think of me when he finally crawls into his bed tonight.

“You know, for someone who claims he’s not good at this relationship shit, you’re doing a pretty good job,” I say.

“Give me time to fail.”

“Nope. Wrong answer.”

His breath hitches—a sign he’s working through another set of reps.

“Arm or leg day?”

“Legs.” He grunts. “Worst day of the week.”

“Mmm, I disagree. Those thighs are unholy. Feel free to send me a pic.”

“Shameless flirt on the phone, too. Your little selfies have been distracting.”

I’ve enjoyed sending them any chance I get since Liam gave me Stasi’s number and I created a group chat between us.