Page 95 of The Design of Goodbye
“I’m sorry I yelled.” His voice was full of pain that wasn’t from his migraine. “And for what I said to you.”
When Liam suffered through panic attacks, he was a prisoner, struggling to get free. During those moments, his terror changed him, and he said and did things he had no control over. I’d never blame him for that. “It’s—”
“Don’t say it’s okay because it’s not,” he said, sounding upset. “That was one of the worst panic attacks I’ve ever had.” He rubbed his temples. I waited patiently as he struggled to explain, through his pain, what he felt he needed to. “I wasn’t myself. I don’t think I’m your project. I don’t mind your help. In fact, as yesterday proves, I kind of need it. I hope you understand.”
“I do. So,” I continued, “no more worrying, okay?”
His lips curved up. “Yeah, okay.”
He propped his head up again, the support of his hand the only reason he was still upright. I could no longer hold back. I angled my body onto the couch, my knees resting on his thigh. Then I began running my fingers through the exposed hair at the base of his neck.
His eyes shot open. “What are you doing?”
My face heated. “Um...making you feel better?” He didn’t push my hand away. “Is it—” I swallowed back the embarrassment I wasn’t sure should surface. “Is it working?”
“Yeah,” he breathed, eyes closing.
I wanted to rest my head on his shoulder, but I was already internally freaking out about the running-my-fingers-through-his-hair thing, so I didn’t move.
“Liam,” I said, breaking our silence after a few minutes, “I tried not to bring this up, but I have to say something.”
“What?” His voice was low and thick with the edges of sleep.
“You’re wearing sweatpants at school.Sweatpants.”
chapter thirty-three
Liam wasn’t at work when I showed up with his coffee. After very little begging on my part, Olive gave me his address. Ten minutes later, I was parked in front of his house. I was honestly...a little freaked out. I’d always wondered where Liam lived, but I hadn’t expectedthis. The difference between my neighborhood and his was startling. His was run-down, lacked appropriate street lighting, and wasn’t an area I’d feel comfortable walking around at night.
His house didn’t look particularly inviting, either. Paint was peeling off the siding in gray sheets, and the landscaping was in desperate need of attention—overgrown shrubs and dead weeds covered the front yard.
I hesitated before getting out of my car. This was Liam’s house—hishome. I shouldn’t feel so unsettled. But that feeling only intensified when I walked up the front porch and heard yelling coming from inside. I didn’t ring the doorbell, unsure if I was welcome.
When the yelling stopped, Liam’s voice followed the momentary reprieve, but his words were too muffled for me to understand.
But...
Their kitchen window was cracked open. The blinds were broken, the left side of them lifting up. I could peek inside for a few seconds. That would give me enough time to assess the situation before I rang the doorbell. It didn’t take long to convince myself. I kneeled on the splitting wooden porch and peered inside.
Liam was leaning against the kitchen counter, oddly unfazed, given his dad’s anger. Hair disheveled, sleep clothes on, he looked like he’d been dragged out of bed.
Mr. Strom was sitting at their kitchen table—one of those cheap plastic kinds—glaring at his son. Every few seconds, he’d sip his beer, never breaking his stare. He did this for a long time. It gave me chills.
“Did I hear you right?” Mr. Strom finally spoke, voice low and chilling in its calmness. “You left work to take a nap?”
“No.” Liam focused on the tile. “I left because I have a migraine.”
In two quick strides, he was in front of Liam. “Don’t talk back to me.” He jerked Liam’s head up, and Liam grimaced. “Look at me when I’m speaking to you.”
Liam pushed his dad’s hand away. “I’d rather not.”
“Watch it.”
“I’m going back to bed,” said Liam.
Liam went to leave, but Mr. Strom gripped his upper arm. “You’re still working at Gary’s tonight.”
“I can’t. I don’t feel—”
