Liam drags his thumb once across the seam of his jeans, as if he needs friction to steady himself.
A reckless, impossible thought flickers alive in me—that whatever I broke by running might rebuild into something better.
That hope splinters apart with the next words out of his mouth.
“We should get divorced.”
The world tilts.
A ringing fills my ears, high-pitched and cruel, drowning out the warmth from the fire.
I gape at him. My lips part, but no sound comes out.
He doesn’t drop his gaze. His expression is careful… measured.
He’s been thinking about this!
This isn’t an impulsive idea he blurted out.
My heart doesn’t just break. It shatters. Glass dropped from a great height, and shards that explode, scattering in every direction, too small and too many to ever piece back together.
And then it pulverizes.
Because Liam adds, his voice so quiet the fire almost swallows it, “And you should move out.”
The silence that follows is absolute. Wood burns. The lake glimmers through the dark windows in an orange blaze as the sun sets.
And inside me, a different fire ignites. It starts in my chest, in the hollow where my heart used to be, and spreads fast. My lungs blacken and curl. My ribs crack from the heat, splintering into charcoal. It consumes everything, leaving me a colorless heap of ash and char.
36
LIAM
I know I’ve said the wrong thing the instant Peyton’s face crumbles and the light behind her brown eyes goes out.
I try to course-correct with humor. “What?” I tilt my head, forcing a self-deprecating smirk. “You don’t want to divorce me?”
Her gaze slides sideways, toward the fire, where the flames are licking greedily at the fresh logs. The orange light catches the moisture building along her lower lashes.
“It isn’t funny,” she whispers.
“Hey.” I lean forward, reaching for her, but she shifts her hands into her lap, fingers knotting in the fabric of her skirt. “I didn’t mean it like that.”
Peyton finally turns her head. “Are you asking for a divorce just to be cruel, then?”
“No. Fuck, Peyton. No.” I scrub both hands down my face. “I wasn’t joking about the divorce,” I say. “But not because I’m done. That’s the opposite of what I—” I break off. “I’m new at this. I’ve never been in a serious relationship. And I’ve no idea what I’m doing.”
She crosses her arms and stares me down as if to say I need to do better at explaining myself.
I stop. Take a breath.
Start over.
“I want to divorce you, only so we can date like normal people.”
Her walled-off stance relaxes a fraction.
“Without the pressure,” I continue, “or the lies to our families, or the constant performance.” I lean closer. “I want everything between us to be real. Every word. Every kiss. Every touch. Not because we’re playing parts, but because we mean it.”