Wicked Heart (13 page)

He’ll leave, and you’ll forget about him, and everything will go back to normal. Stop freaking out.

After a warm shower, I exit to find him sitting on the bed with his head in his hands, wearing only his jeans. When he sees me, the look in his eyes almost makes everything not-fine.

“Elissa, listen—” But I’m sure if I do that, I won’t get out of here in one piece.

“Liam, I really do have to go. Thanks for . . . everything.”
All the orgasms, and kisses, and deep, longing gazes. Thanks for screwing with my mind and heart as much as with my
body.

I finish pulling on my socks and boots and grab my messenger bag.

When I stand, he walks over and puts his arms around me. Such a simple gesture, but the affection with which he does it makes me sigh.

He drops his head onto my shoulder and squeezes me in a tight hug. “I don’t want this to be the end for us.”

I grip his arms, and try to bring him closer. “I don’t either, but we’re going to be on opposite sides of the country. I don’t know about you, but I couldn’t cope
with that if you were my boyfriend. It would be torture.”

He pulls back and gazes down at me. “True. If I were your boyfriend I’d definitely need to not be away from you. Ever.” He cups my face and slowly leans down. “I’d
need to be close enough to do this, every . . . single . . . day.”

He kisses me, soft and slow, and I’ve never wanted to live in a moment more than I want to live in this one.

“Liss, tell me not to leave. Please. I’d stay if you asked me to.”

“You know you can’t. And if you gave up this opportunity for me, I’d never forgive myself.” Fingers graze over my arms, and I shiver. “Anyway, there are thousands
of beautiful women in L.A. I’m sure you’ll forget about me in no time.”

“Not going to happen. Ever. Trust me on that.” He kisses me again, but this time, it’s hard and desperate.

After a few more frantic minutes, we pull back, and we’re both breathing heavily. It would be so easy to let things get out of control, but we both know there’s no point in taking
this further. The kiss, or the relationship.

Standing on my toes, I give him one final hug before pulling away. I hate how the distance between us suddenly makes everything feel cold.

I walk to the door and open it, then turn back to him. He looks at me with a conflicted expression, and I know exactly how he feels.

“I’m not saying good-bye,” he says as he shoves his hands into his pockets. “Because this isn’t over. One day, fate’s going to fix this. Bring us back
together. I believe that.”

I smile. “Yeah. One day.” My smile is too fake, and my heart is too sore, and I can’t begin to cope with how he’s looking at me.

“See you soon, Liss.”

I nod. “Bye, Liam. Travel safe.”

I clench my jaw against the tears that threaten as I close the door behind me.

Eight Months Later

Central Park

New York City

I used to think missing someone was a choice, but that was before Liam. Now I realize all you can do is choose to
ignore
missing someone. The actual longing never
goes away. It stays in your body like a toothache, deep in your bones, and every time you forget to deny it, the hum of it builds into a roar that’s so loud, it’s the only thing you can
hear.

He’s been gone eight months now, and I still have to concentrate to stop thinking about him every day.

It doesn’t help that Josh is also gone. He got his acceptance letter to The Grove the same time I did, but decided to accept an offer from the UCLA School of Theater, Film and Television
instead. For years he’d fantasized about living in L.A., and even though I suspected his decision was fueled by his obsession with all things young, hot, and actressy, I tried to be as
supportive as possible.

The result is that the two people I want to be with most are both thousands of miles away. This has worked out well.

I sigh as I cross the road and head into Central Park. Stupid Liam. Making me feel things. Forcing me to miss him. If I didn’t love him so much, I’d hate him.

As I head toward the lake, “I’m Too Sexy” blares out of my phone, and even before I answer it I’m smiling.

“Madam Elissa’s House of Snark. How may I help you?”

“Move to L.A. Right the fuck now,” Josh says.

“Certainly, sir. I’ll be on the next plane.”

“Don’t mess with me, woman. I’m homesick, and haven’t been laid in over a week. I’m in a very vulnerable place right now. What are you doing?”

“Walking through Central Park. Heading to my reading tree.”

“You back home for the weekend?”

“Yeah. I had a few days off in between Grove shows, so I’ve come home to recharge.” I reach my reading tree near the lake and drop my bag on the grass before sitting.
“What’s up?”

“Nothing. Just wanted to talk to my bestie. How’s your love life? Found anyone interesting at The Grove?”

I lean back against the tree and stretch my legs out in front of me. “Nope.”

“Aw, come on. It’s an arts college. There has to be a decent quotient of hot men.”

I pick at the grass. “Oh, there are lots of hot men, but it’s a drama school. It’s full of damn actors.”

“Okay, then branch out. There are also musicians and artists, right? Find a hot rock god. Or a sensitive painter. I know for damn sure you could get a date with anyone you liked if you
just tried. At least have some meaningless sex. You’re wasting your college experience.”

The thing is, as much as I’d like to use sex to blow off steam, I’m just not interested in any of the guys at The Grove. I’m only interested in the man who’s closer to
Josh than he is to me.

Josh clears his throat. “Aaaand we’ve reached the part of our conversation where I mention sex, and you go quiet so you can daydream about Liam Quinn.”

God, am I that predictable? “Sorry, Josh.”

“Don’t be. It’s just crappy he’s here instead of there. Did you see him in the latest Coke ad?”

“Yeah. It’s hard not to see him.” Shirt off, body glistening with water. A perfect-boobed blonde hanging off his arm as he smiles and embodies a man loving his life.

It makes me so jealous, I have to change the channel whenever it comes on.

“At least he’s getting work out here,” Josh says.

“Of course he is. He’s a casting agent’s wet dream.”

Josh pauses for a few seconds, then says, “You know, if you came out here to visit me, you could also see Quinn. I hate saying that because the risk is you’d fall into bed with him
and not have time for me, but still. It’s a thought. I predict that if you and him were in the same city, your no-sex embargo would vanish in a puff of very horny smoke. Might do you some
good.”

The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. God, what a thought. Seeing Liam in the flesh. Touching him. Kissing him. It would be amazing.

I squeeze my eyes shut.

Godammit.
Just thinking about him is making me miss him even more. My chest actually aches.

I lean back against the tree. “Can we not talk about this anymore? Don’t you have to go to class?”

“Only if I want to graduate. So, yeah. Call me tomorrow?”

“You bet.”

“And, Lissa?”

“Hmmm?”

“Just think about what I said, okay?”

“I will. Love you, Josh.”

“Love you, too.”

I hang up and sigh. Thoughts of seeing Liam wind around in my brain. It’s tempting. Very tempting.

I go to my contacts and pull up his number. Next to it is the picture he took the night we met. The one where he’s kissing me so deeply, I felt it in my toes.

When he first left, I sent him text messages now and then, just to check if he was okay. I tried to keep them casual and friendly, but it somehow made me feel closer to him.

He’d never reply. Not with texts, anyway. The first time he called me, I panicked and let it go to voice mail. He left a message. Just listening to his voice made missing him both easier
and harder.

I punch in the number for my voice mail. I’m embarrassed at how often I play these messages. When I hear them, I can almost imagine he’s with me.

“Hey, Elissa. How’s it going? Got your texts. I’m not great at replying to those things, so thought I’d call you instead. I made it to L.A. safely. Although after
nearly six hours on a plane, I wanted to murder someone. Preferably the dude who made sure anyone over six feet tall would have to bend themselves like a pretzel to fit into those stupid economy
seats. I suspect the asshole was a sadist. It’s the only logical explanation. Anyway, I’m going apartment hunting tomorrow. On my budget, I’ll be lucky to get something with
running water and electricity, but I’ll do my best. Are you at The Grove yet? Surviving living with your brother? Okay, better go. Hope you’re well. Give me a call sometime, okay?
I’d love to hear from you.”

A week later, I called him back. He didn’t pick up either, so I left him a voice mail. I told him about my course, the torture of living with Ethan. Everything and nothing.

After that, we fell into a cycle. Phone messages became our way of staying in touch without the pressure of an actual conversation. It worked for us. It took away the temptation of saying things
in real time that would make our separation even more painful.

Or at least, that’s how it started.

“Hey, Liss. Sitting here, thinking about you. Thought I’d give you a quick call. I have my first screen test today. I’m nervous as hell. Please tell me it gets easier. Hope
you’re well.”

“Liss! I got a national ad for Coke! It’s not Shakespeare but it’s a start. Now I can finally buy real food and pay my rent on time. Winning!”
There’s a
pause and a change of tone.
“If you were here, I’d take you out to celebrate. Hope you’re well.”

See? Casual. Easy. Nice. I always replied.

But one day, the tone of Liam’s messages started to change.

“Hey, Liss. I kind of want you to pick up one day so we can have a proper conversation, but I know it would make me want to jump on the first plane home. I miss you. And New York. L.A.
is driving me crazy, and Hollywood is . . . challenging.”
He pauses.
“The one thing that keeps me going is knowing we’ll be together again one day. I have no doubt about
that. Leave me a message when you get a chance. I miss your voice. Well, I miss all of you, but hearing your voice makes me miss you a little less. Hope you’re well. Bye.”

From that day, my messages also got more plaintive. I kept the content the same—life at The Grove, my brother and his tragic love life, shows I was working on, and so on. But I also let
him know I missed him. And putting that into words made the distance between us even more painful.

Then, a couple of months ago, I received this:

Every time I hear him say that, it makes me just as giddy as the first time. Of course, I called him straight back to tell him I felt the same, but when the message tone sounded, I
couldn’t go through with saying it to a machine. Instead, I asked him to call me back ASAP so we could talk properly. He didn’t. In fact, my next three messages asking him to call also
went unanswered.

Now, I have no idea where I stand. Is he embarrassed about saying he loved me? Or did he realize it was the booze and nostalgia talking rather than him?

Either way, I feel like I’m in limbo. And until I speak to him—the real-live him—I don’t see that changing.

I take a deep breath as my finger hovers over his number. Screw it. I’m going to keep calling until he answers. One way or another, we’re going to have a conversation today.

Adrenaline surges through me as I make the decision. I stand, sling my bag over my shoulder, and start walking. I try to expel nervous energy as I hit his number.

I tap my thigh as the call connects and starts to ring, once . . . twice . . . three times. After the sixth ring, it goes to voice mail. I hang up and redial.