Page 44 of Office Hours
But it can’t.
Not with him.
Not with us.
We endup on the sofa, wineglasses in hand, the last of the light sliding off the big windows like it’s embarrassed to intrude. The music’s softer now, just a shadow of piano and upright bass, the kind of thing that makes you want to talk about everything and nothing at once.
I tuck my feet under me, careful not to flash my panties unless I mean to, and face Liam full-on. He’s settled back, arm draped on the cushion behind me, but the angle of his body is totally locked in. He’s not playing it cool—he’s devouring me with his eyes, and it’s almost too much to meet his stare.
“So,” I say, swirling the wine and hoping I look casual. “Were you happy? In your marriage, I mean.”
He laughs, but it’s not mean. “That’s a loaded question.”
“I’m an English major,” I remind him. “I have to ask the loaded ones.”
He holds my gaze, and this time there’s no escape. “We were high school sweethearts,” he says, each word careful and deliberate. “You know how that goes? You’re supposed to go toprom together, then college, then get married, then do it all by the book. And we did, right down to the bad photos and the registry at Crate & Barrel.”
He takes a slow sip of wine. “It was fine, at first. I loved Sandra. I probably still do, in a way, because we’ve known each other so long. But after college, we just started wanting different things. She wanted the city and dinner parties; I was busy with my Ph.D. program and becoming the next great American novelist while living in a cabin in the woods to work on my “art.” After years of growing apart, it became apparent that we’d become different people.”
He pauses, leans forward to refill my glass even though I haven’t finished it. “It wasn’t some tragic blowout. Just a thousand tiny fractures, until neither of us could remember why we got together in the first place. Sandra’s married to someone else now, with twins. We’re not bitter.”
I take that in. For some reason, it’s easier than I expected.
“Why did you stay single?” I ask. “You’re, like, objectively very handsome, and have a cool job. Did you just give up?”
Liam smiles, a little embarrassed. “You don’t get how intimidating you are, do you?” I arch a brow at that, and he backpedals: “I mean, not you specifically. I mean, yes, you specifically, but also when talking about other women. I tried dating. I even tried dating a colleague, but it felt like a job interview every time we met for coffee.”
He looks away. “I guess I’m picky.”
I shift, knees brushing his. “Or maybe you just needed someone to call you out on your bullshit.”
He laughs, full-bodied this time. “That’s possible.”
The next question is waiting in the back of my throat, acidic and sharp, but I let it out anyway. “Do you ever get lonely?”
He doesn’t answer for a long time. “Every day,” he says, voice quiet. “But I’m not saying that for pity. I like my life, mostly. I just didn’t expect to want this again.”
I swirl the wine, watching it cling to the glass. “You mean, me and what we have together.”
He nods, and the motion is almost reverent.
It’s suddenly too much to look at him, so I tilt my head, focusing on the dark blue shadows in the corners of the room. “So what makes you lonely? Do you see your family? Friends?” I ask, almost a whisper.
He blinks. “Sometimes. But I had no siblings, and my parents are doing their own thing, which is good. A lot of my old friends kept their distance after the divorce. I guess I was the villain in someone’s version of the story.”
He shrugs, then turns, gently, to me. “What about you, Simone? You said your mom was all about not getting kicked out of college.”
I smile, but it feels rubbery. “That was a lie. My mom died when I was ten. My dad went two years later—stomach cancer. After that, it was just me and the Minnesota foster system. I sometimes fib and talk like I have parents because let’s be honest - no one really wants to hear about my sad childhood.”
His face changes—not pity, but something raw. “Fuck.”
I laugh, high and glassy. “It’s not that bad. I’m, like, the poster child for what happens when a scholarship committee wants a heartstring story. Now I just have to not fuck it up.”
He puts a hand on my knee, not heavy, just enough to anchor me. “You’re not going to fuck it up.”
I look at his hand, then at his eyes. “You don’t know that. I’ve never done any of this before.” I say it soft, but the weight behind it is heavier than I want to admit.
He strokes my knee with his thumb. “I know, but you’re getting through, Simone, and that’s something to be proud of.”
