Page 221 of The Lies We Play

“Liv.”

“Losing his mom and growing up with those snakes has to bring a lot with it. And you have the league, and your body, and whatever terrifying Midwestern-nice things your family pretends are non-issues because there’s bread on the table. And I have my parents and a long list of neuroses I have alphabetized for convenience.”

I blink. “Dad’s from Canada and Mom’s from Portland,” I correct her. “There’s no Midwestern-nice.”

She wiggles her fingers. “You’re interrupting my rant with facts. I don’t need that Creed.” She groans exasperated. “The point is that your parents are nice, but with baggage too.”

She keeps going.

“We have to do the work, Creed. Before we marry. Before we build a life. Before we start having babies someday and then realize, oh, fun, we imported every family wound into a nursery.”

Fuck.

“What’s happening?” I whisper.

“Not now, Creed,” she says instantly, pointing at me through the screen like she can pin my spiral to the wall from Paris. “I don’t need you to freak out and think I’m already choosing names and decor for the nursery. Breathe.”

“I am breathing.”

“You are breathing like a man who just heard the word babies and saw a minivan.”

“I play in the NHL. I can afford a better car than a fucking minivan.”

“Excellent. You’re back.” Her expression softens. “It’ll happen when and if we’re ready. I’m just saying we have to become adults who can love without making our worst fear into someone else’s inheritance.”

I look toward the bathroom door again.

“He thinks he has to protect us from everything.”

“I know,” Liv says. “And you think if you can be strong enough, no one will have to worry about you. And I think if I can organize everything, nothing will hurt me without an appointment. We are all ridiculous.”

“That’s your clinical assessment?”

“Yes. Highly technical.” She leans closer. “But we can do better. For each other. For whatever comes later. Marriage. Family. Public life. Private life. A baby someday who should not have to learn our fear in three different languages.”

My throat feels tight, and I hate that because it is not one of her banned phrases, and yet it is exactly what is happening.

“I can do that,” I say. “Get ready.”

Her smile is small. Proud. A little wrecked.

“I know you can.”

The bathroom door opens.

Halston comes out in a T-shirt that is mine, which he doesn't usually wear because he prefers the dignity of his own pajama tops. Tonight, he is in my shirt. His face is clean. His eyes are red. His hair is damp at the temples.

He gets into bed, then glances at the phone.

“Hey, baby,” he greets Liv.

Her face opens.

“I wish you had waited for me,” she says, simple and honest. “But I understand why you didn’t.”

Halston goes very still.

But he immediately realizes she is not hurt because he told me first. She is only sad she couldn’t hold him through it.