Page 98 of The Design of Goodbye
“I’ll come back tomorrow with my dad, then.” My voice had been infuriatingly timid, but I’d said it.
He cursed.
“Fine,” he snapped. He opened the front door, and I squeezed by him. “Make it quick.”
“Okay.” I hovered in the entryway. “Where—”
“Upstairs.”
The upstairs was small—a short hallway with a bathroom and what I assumed was Liam’s bedroom. I knocked softly on his door, but he didn’t answer.
Quietly, I peeked in. Liam was in bed, back facing me. He was probably asleep, but I needed to make sure he was okay before I left. I walked over to his bed and peered down at him.
He was asleep. He was okay.
But.
Did I wake him? I wanted to. I probably shouldn’t...but what if—
Oh my god.
What if he had a concussion?
I shook him awake.
He woke up terrifyingly alert, slamming against the wall next to his bed.
“Madison?” He untangled himself from his blankets and grabbed his glasses off his nightstand. “What are—”
I fell onto his bed and wrapped my arms around him. I gripped fistfuls of his shirt and pulled him to me. Without question, strong arms hugged me back. I soaked up his warmth, his firm hold on me, all ofhim. I reluctantly pulled away, taking him in. He seemed fine. But then I saw red marks on his arm, and my vision blurred.
“What’s wrong?” he asked. “Are you okay?”
“No.”
He studied my face. “Have you been crying?”
“Yeah.”
He frowned. “Why?”
Tears threatened to spill. I’d planned to make sure he was okay and then confess what I’d seen, but, now, it felt wrong. “I can’t tell you here.”
“That’s okay.” He grabbed my hand and ran his thumb over the top of it, but he quickly pulled away, sheepish. His touch had been comforting, and I wanted it back. I almostdidask for it back, but then he added, “You can tell me later if you still want to.”
It seemed wrong that he was the one comforting me.
“I need to.” Once I had better control of my emotions, I added, “I went to your work. Olive said you got sick.”
“Oh, yeah,” he said, gaze shifting downward. “She made me leave.” He tilted his head in thought. “Did Olive tell you where I live?”
“Yeah.” I thought back to when I’d asked Olive for his address. At how quickly she’d gone from aNo, that’s illegaltoI’ll deny I gave you this. “You’re not mad, are you?” He’d never told me where he’d lived, and after tonight, I assumed it’d been intentional. “We were both worried.”
“Of course not. But what”—his face fell—“Oh. The coffee. I’m sorry. I forgot you were stopping by.”
“That’s okay.” I took in his pale face and tense shoulders. “You’re not feeling well.”
“So,” he asked, brows furrowing when he glanced at my empty hands, “where’s the coffee?”
