Page 29 of One More Chance
“You can stay,” she said.
I blinked. I hadn’t expected that. Honestly, I didn’t think she’d want me there. The idea that she could tolerate me under the same roof, even if it was in the guest room for one night, felt both strange and impossibly tender.
“Hell, I’m kind of afraid now after that episode,” I said with a half-smile.
Her laugh filled the room like a song. “Well, it would be too obvious if I did it tonight.”
“But it is on the table. Noted.”
She rolled her eyes, but the corners of her mouth twitched again like she was trying not to smile. "I know you weren't planning to stay, but you do have some old clothes bagged up in the garage."
"The garage?" I asked. "Seems like an odd place to put them, since that's where we keep our sentimentals."
"It's also where we keep the trashcan," she said with a wry smile as she stood.
We padded into the kitchen, our footsteps barely making a sound against the floor.
"Goodnight," I said.
"Night." She veered toward her room - what had once beenourroom - without another word.
After I'd rummaged through a bag of my old clothes and found gym shorts and a t-shirt, I headed up to the guest room. I grabbed a quick shower and crawled into bed. I expected that I'd be too on edge for sleep, too bursting with everything that had happened throughout the day, but I must have drifted off at some point; I awoke to the unmistakable creak of the hallway floor outside the guest room.
I jumped out of bed to find Liam standing there in his faded band shirt and pajama pants, eyes rimmed red behind his shaggy bangs.
“Couldn’t sleep?” I asked.
He shrugged. “You were talking in your sleep. Kinda loud. I could hear it next door.”
I tensed. “I'm sorry, bud. What did I say?”
“Something about not letting us die this time?”
Fuck. Mental note: I needed to ball gag myself. Maybe Sloane would be into that?
Focusing on Liam, I stepped back and opened the door wider. “Wanna sit?”
He hesitated, then shuffled in. He sat on the floor with his back against the wall, knees up, arms hugging them as if he was bracing for bad news.
“You okay?” I asked.
“I dunno,” he muttered. “You’re acting... different.”
“Yeah," I said with a feeble laugh. "Your Mom said the same thing."
He shrugged.
"Well," I asked, "Is it good different or bad different?”
“Weird different. Like... old man wisdom and sensitivity crammed into a guy who forgets my birthday.”
“Old manwisdom?" I asked. "I guess that's a compliment, right?" I did my best to sound amused, but fuck me this kid was a lot more perceptive than I'd ever realized.
The smallest smile flashed across his face before he turned solemn and said, “I don’t get you, Dad. I don’t get why you left.”
Ah, there it was. The festering wound beneath all the others. I felt his words slam into my stomach, harsh gut punches of honesty.
He looked down at the floor and his voice wavered as he continued. “Mom, she… she’s hurt. I’m hurt, too, but I don’t know how to tell her that. Or how to feel about you anymore.” His words were loaded with suppressed anger and confusion.
