Page 145 of The Lies We Play

I look at her.

She holds my eyes the way she held them on the roof in October when she told me what His Dark Materials was about. The way she held them at the Brewers Table when she introduced me to Halston. The way she has held them every time she is about to give me a piece of herself in exchange for one of mine, and doesn’t know how to ask without making a joke first.

I know what she means.

I know what she might mean.

Those are not the same thing.

My hand covers hers on my shirt. I don’t move it higher. I don’t move it lower. I just hold it there, against me, because if I start wanting with my hands right now, I need to know we are both saying the same word.

“Time before what?” I ask.

Her lips part.

For once, she doesn't answer immediately.

That scares me more than a yes would have.

Then she looks at my duffel. At the socks on the bed. The things she has packed into her tote. Her toothbrush. Her book. Her missing earring. All the small evidence of her life crossing into mine without permission from either of us.

My thumb moves over the back of her hand.

She looks down at it.

Then back at me.

“Before I lose my nerve,” she adds.

The air in the room changes. The apartment seems to go quiet around us, the city beyond the windows dimmed by winter light and glass. Somewhere outside, a horn sounds on Columbus. Inside, there is only her hand under mine, and my name still sitting between us.

I want her.

I want Halston here too.

I want both truths without apology.

“Liv,” I say.

“I know.” Her voice is soft but not uncertain. “We’re careful. We’re very careful. We are so careful we could win awards in carefulness from a committee of emotionally repressed people.”

Despite myself, I almost smile.

She presses her palm more firmly against my shirt.

“I’m not asking you to stop being careful,” she says. “I’m asking you not to hide behind it.”

That lands.

Clean.

Fair.

A little brutal.

My hand tightens over hers.

She feels it.