Page 8

Chapter

Six

Liam picks up on the second ring. “Hello?”

“Hey!” I say cheerfully, phone tucked between my ear and shoulder as I smear peanut butter onto toast. It’s almost noon, but it’s never too late for breakfast in my book. “What’s up?”

“Just working. You know. Teaching. ” It’s Tuesday. “Summer school’s not out till three.”

“I know damn well this is one of your off periods or I wouldn’t have called, friend.”

“Yeah, yeah. Still, if you’re just calling to try to get me to tell you where Alora went—”

I’m tempted to give it another shot, but even after I harassed him for answers for the last two days, he remained tight-lipped.

I smile at the memory of the stunned silence that had settled over the table after Liam’s plot twist, the way Noah had knotted his fingers in his hair in shock, and the Kain-like rage that had set Jules’s eyes on fire.

I’d thought she was going to flip the table.

Suffice to say, we’re totally invested now.

But I have something else on my mind. “I wanted to see if you were game for happy hour after work today.”

“Where? Chili’s?” he asks. It’s embarrassing, but Liam and I are sluts for Chili’s. It helps that there’s always one within a ten-mile radius, and I suspect that the Texas locations aren’t too different from Connecticut’s.

But that’s not where I want to go. I don’t really have the budget for happy hours at all, frankly.

But for a free drink?

“I was thinking we could try Alchemist.” I keep my tone cool, nonchalant.

I can hear the smile in his voice when he speaks again. “Uh-huh.” He sees right through me.

“Do they have any…happy hour specials?”

“If by that you mean to ask if you can claim your first beer on the house…Yes, he’s working today.”

Excellent. “See you at six?”

He barks out a quick laugh. “See you at six, Sadie.”

I hang up, finish the rest of my toast, and sip at a yogurt smoothie as I think through the afternoon’s agenda.

For the second morning in a row, I managed to get outside for a run—or, if we’re honest, a brisk walk.

It wasn’t anywhere near the hour-long jogs I used to take when I was at my peak, but it’s a start.

Now I want to shift my focus to the state of the guest room.

I’m still living out of my suitcase, and coffee mugs and forgotten dishes have started to clutter the desk.

But when I arrived at Liam’s, I swore to myself I wouldn’t let the guest room reach the state I’d left my New York room in, so as soon as I finish my Captain America pinup commission, I plan on spending time cleaning it up.

My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I wonder if it’s Liam wanting to change plans. But it’s my mom’s face that flashes across the screen.

I consider pretending to be busy, which has been my go-to strategy over the last few weeks with her, but I jam the answer button at the last second.

“Hi, Mom.” My voice is all careful neutrality. “What’s up?”

“Sadiebug, I am so glad you picked up,” she croons. “Do you have a sec? I have got to tell you what Meatball did this morning.”

“I’ve always got time for Meatball.”

As my mother regales me with a story about their latest pit bull foster—a habit she and my dad have gotten into since becoming empty nesters—I wander back up to the guest room and start organizing my dirty clothes to wash later and collecting my dishes to take downstairs.

There’s something calming about listening to my mom chatter on about the mundane and sometimes hilarious aspects of her newly retired reality, and a pang of homesickness takes me by surprise.

“The whole thing, Sadie. The lasagna, the broccoli—he licked the container clean! I had to send your poor father to work without his lunch!”

“I’m sure he’ll live,” I say with a laugh. “He’s always looking for an excuse to visit the pizza place on the corner.”

“Don’t I know it.” She pauses, and I listen as she noisily sips what I know is coffee.

It should be a crime to consume as many cups as she does each day.

She exhales a sigh, and I straighten instinctively, bracing myself.

“I miss you, honey,” she says, her tone more wistful now.

“It was so much easier when I could just hop on the train and come see you!”

“I know, Mom,” I say. She used to visit at least once a month during the summer.

We’d take our time walking from Grand Central up to Central Park, where we’d find an empty bench and people-watch as we talked for ages, catching up on gossip, work, and family drama.

In the evening I’d get us discount Broadway tickets through Incite’s benefits program, and then we’d end the evening sipping overpriced cocktails and tipsily befriending tourists in Times Square.

My mom has a talent for making friends with anyone, which is fun until she tries to set me up with any bartender who pauses long enough to listen to her.

It’s a tradition we won’t get to have this summer, and I’m horrified by the way my throat tightens at the thought.

I have to swallow a few times before I speak again. “I miss you, too.”

“I’ll see you soon enough.” I can’t tell if she’s saying it to soothe me or to assure herself. “And how’s my boy doing?”

“Liam’s great,” I gush. “His house is beautiful, Mom. You’d be really proud of him.”

“You’ll give him my best, won’t you?”

“I always do.”

“Good.” I can hear the smile in her voice. “Well, I’ve got to take this big lug on a walk, but I’ll check in with you later.”

I’m surprised that she hasn’t pressed me on my job hunt progress, but perhaps she’s realized that I’ll answer her calls more often if she doesn’t bring it up. “Okay. Tell Dad I said hi.”

“Of course. Take care, honey. And—” There’s a brief twang of tension in her tone. “Let me know if you need anything, okay? Anything at all.”

“I will.”

We exchange I-love-yous and goodbyes, and when we hang up, I stand alone in the kitchen with a dirty mug in my hand, forgetting what I meant to do with it.

I set it aside and reach for my tablet where I’d left it on the countertop, but instead of pulling up my half-finished commission, I open my inbox again.

Feeling nostalgic, I begin to page through the industry-related emails I’m still subscribed to.

There are a few mentions of promotions at Incite, and discussions about the challenges and ethical issues of new tech being introduced in the marketing world.

I glance through the hiring boards, hardly ready to begin applying but letting myself imagine what it might be like to work somewhere new.

Perhaps I’d have less oversight and more freedom to be experimental and bold with my campaigns.

Perhaps my new manager would be more flexible, and I’d get a salary that would let me live closer to the city.

I could take my mom out to Broadway shows without needing the discounts.

There’s an ad for a position at Paragon Media, and the name rings a bell of recognition in the back of my head.

Although Paragon is something of a new kid on the block in the city’s media marketing scene, the startup already has a reputation for creativity, innovation…

and great pay. Even while at Incite I’d considered applying to them, curious about their strategy.

After a few minutes of pacing the kitchen, sipping my smoothie, and avoiding Howard’s judgmental stare from where he sits perched on the countertop, I retrieve my laptop from upstairs and pull up my old résumé and cover letter.

In a month or so, I’ll have to get more serious about job hunting.

Applying to Paragon while the stakes are still low will minimize the terror I feel every time I think about returning to New York—right?

Before I can talk myself out of it, I click open Paragon’s application.

At the very least, I have a tall glass of beer to look forward to as a reward.

Alchemist looks just as welcoming as before, with its stylized neon-green “A” glowing like a beacon above the entrance.

Heller’s still solidly in the grips of summer, but we got lucky tonight—there’s a hint of coolness in the air, and the brewery has plenty of customers happy to take advantage of the break from the heat.

On the deck, people cluster under the shade of the canopies, laughing with friends or winding down with a beer in hand, their voices carrying over the breezy bluegrass music humming from the speakers.

I spot Liam leaning against the railing and wave as I head toward him.

“You look nice,” he says, his tone teasingly accusing.

I’ve paired ripped jeans with a cropped green tank top and my favorite combat boots, though I’ve thrown a cardigan on top of it all to soften the look.

It’s the most care I’ve put into an outfit in weeks—and it’s not Liam’s attention I’m hoping to catch.

Even the dagger earrings are in again. I’m on a mission.

“Thanks. You look like you’re trying to convince your students you’re cool.”

Liam looks down at his Vans, khakis, black button-up, and denim jacket. “My kids do think I’m cool.”

“Uh-huh,” I deadpan. “No math teacher can be cool. It’s against the rules.”

Privately, I do think Liam’s the coolest. The prospect of helping hormonal, angry middle schoolers navigate the trials of growing up scares most people shitless, so I’ve always admired Liam’s dedication to the role he plays in his students’ lives.

He shoves my arm playfully as we turn and walk inside.