Page 88 of Office Hours
I scroll my texts. There’s nothing from Liam, not since that stiff apology a week ago. What the hell was that anyways? It didn’t even sound like him. Maybe it was ChatGPT playing a trick on us all. Nonetheless, I keep telling myself I’m over it, that I don’t care, but every time I try to close my eyes, I see him in the library aisle—his hair wild, his eyes stormy, the way his voice cracked when he said my name. I want to hate him. I want to forget him. But mostly I want him to come here and fix everything, even though that’s not how any of this works.
I stare at the phone until the screen times out, black as a threat.
Andie’s soft snores stutter in the background, and I envy her the ability to sleep without fear. I think about waking her up and making her talk me down, but something about the peace in her face stops me.
I turn the phone back on, stare at Liam’s contact. My finger hovers over the call button.
No. Don’t be pathetic.
But then a hot surge of anger bubbles up in my chest, and I jab at the screen, almost hard enough to crack it.
The phone rings twice before he picks up.
“Simone,” he says, and my name is a sigh, not a greeting.
For a second, neither of us talks. The silence is its own kind of comfort.
Finally, I say, “I can’t do this.”
He doesn’t pretend not to know what I mean. “You don’t have to.”
“I’m scared,” I whisper, and I hate the way my voice trembles. “I’m really fucking scared, Liam.”
He exhales, the sound tinny and far away. “Do you want me to come over?”
My breath hitches. I want to say no. I want to say I’ll be fine. But the word that comes out is, “Yes.”
“I’ll be there in twenty,” he says.
The line goes dead, and the world seems to freeze around me.
He showsup in less than twenty minutes, which means he broke at least four laws getting here. I hear the knock and then the scuffle of someone shushing himself in the hallway.
Andie wakes up, blearily, when I cross the room to the door. She sits up, rubs her eyes, and then clocks the dark shape of a man standing in the frame of our half-open door.
“Seriously?” she stage-whispers.
I shrug, not bothering to explain.
She slumps back on the pillow but doesn’t look away, eyes alert, arms crossed like a bouncer at a club.
I crack open the door a little more. Liam stands there, breathing hard, hair wild, wearing a battered gray hoodie and jeans that look like he’s been sleeping in them. There’s stubble on his chin and bruises under his eyes, making him look haunted. He appears ten years older than last week and also—somehow—like the only safe place in the world.
“Hi,” I say, and for a second I think I might actually cry.
He looks at me for a long moment, then steps inside, not touching me. He glances at Andie, who is full of dragon energy now, daring him to fuck up even once.
“Hi, Andie,” he says, quietly.
She gives him a look like she’d rather eat glass than say hi back, but she nods.
“Okay, okay,” she says, flinging off her blanket and collecting her pillows. “I’ll, um. Go sleep in the lounge. Or with the psych major across the hall, whatever. Just don’t kill each other.” Her voice is sharp, but I can see the worry in her eyes as she passes me on the way out.
She pauses, hand on the doorknob, and says, “If you need me, yell.” The door closes behind her with a hush.
Now it’s just the two of us, in the weird, still dark.
Liam sits on the chair, knees spread, hands dangling between them. He doesn’t speak at first. I sit on the bed, hugging my knees, and wait for the words to come.
