Unwrapping Liam: A Good Girls Don't Novella (3 page)

“You did it,” he said after I dumped a round ball of dough onto the counter. I could feel his lips twitch into a smile, but he didn’t step away from me as he reached for a nearby rolling pin. He placed it in front of me. “Ever used one of these?”

I couldn’t help myself as I picked it up. “It feels so powerful in my hands.”

“That’s what she said.”

“I know something else that feels powerful in my hands.”

Liam groaned, but he didn’t step away. “Eyes on the pies, chicken.”

I made a clumsy attempt at pushing the rolling pin across the dough, but my wrists betrayed me and I lost my grip on the handles. Without missing a beat, I picked it back up hoping Liam had written it off as novice dough making and not my tell-tale Parkinson’s symptom. But his hands closed over mine without a word and guided the rolling pin down to the dough. His strong arms pinned mine slightly as we worked, but I wasn’t complaining. His whole body encircled and enfolded me and somehow, despite the minor episode, I didn’t feel useless or broken. I felt strong and safe as he came to my aid. Liam knew exactly what I needed, even when I didn’t. I thought I was missing having sex with him, but standing here in his embrace, feeling how his body cradled my own—how it reacted instinctually to my smallest movement—was more intimate than most of our under-the-covers encounters. I needed to be close to him, but even more than that, I needed a reminder that when I stepped forward he was behind me to keep me steady. I hadn’t thought it possible to love him more, but standing here in my mother’s kitchen making Christmas pies I felt myself spiral a little further into the achingly beautiful territory of new love.

A couple of hours later, I could boast the ability to make pie. When Liam pulled the last one out of the oven, I couldn’t help but admit that it was a tad Martha Stewart of me to feel so proud. But I guess that was a good thing.

“Well, I’m for bed,” Liam said. 

Checking the clock on the microwave, I was surprised to see it was past eleven. No wonder Tara hadn’t bothered us. I was fairly certain she turned into a vampire or another creature of the night after the sun set. 

“I’m game for that.”

“If only, chicken.” Liam took my hand and drew me slowly to him. Brushing hair from my face, he cupped my chin in his hand and kissed me. I felt like the butter we’d used in the crust as he said his good night—slightly melty and slippery.

“Tara is in bed,” I pointed out.

“I’m pretty sure she has sonic hearing.”

It would prove my point about her being a vampire—crazy hearing, evil, and blood-sucking. Yeah, this holiday was going about as well as I imagined it would.

“We’ll be home soon,” he said, letting his hand slip down to my throat, “and then we have two weeks before school starts.”

“I hope you don’t have plans.” I couldn’t quite keep a pout out of my voice.

“My plans involve making you scream my name every hour.”

“Only every hour?”

“Behave.” But his eyes twinkled as he said it. “Good night.”

My gaze followed him—or rather his butt—as he left the kitchen. As soon as he was gone, my eyes landed on one last measuring cup. I placed it in the dishwasher and took one last look at my accomplishment before I turned to find Tara standing in the doorway.

“You finished them.”

My arms folded over my chest involuntarily as though I could ward off the coming attack. “Liam taught me how to make them.”

“He cooks then?” 

“I can tell what you think about that.”

“No, it’s good,” she said with a wave off her perfectly-manicured hand. “He can take care of you.”

Coming from anyone else this might have been reassuring, but I braced myself for the worst.

“It’s not like you’ll be able to in a few years,” she added.

“There it is,” I muttered.

“There is what?”

“The afterbite.”

“Jillian, I only want you to think about the longterm consequences—”

“I’m twenty-one.”

“You won’t be twenty-one forever,” she said.

“Let it go, Mom. We’re dating. We’re in love. I’ve heard that’s normal for girls my age.” My hands were starting to tremble. I needed to get out of here before she set off another attack. I’d discussed what to do with Dr. Fales if this happened, and our best plan was to remove me from the situation.

“But you aren’t a normal girl. You never will be.”

I darted for the doorway, but she caught my arm and held me in the hallway.

“I don’t want to see you get hurt,” she said.

“Then stop hurting her.” 

Liam stood up from the sofa in the living room. My father watched the scene unfold and Liam glanced briefly to him before Dad nodded. They’d obviously been discussing something until Tara and I had interrupted. Liam didn’t say anything else, he simply strode over and took my hand, removing me from Tara’s grasp.

“Good night,” he said to my mother, leading me toward the guest room. Nobody spoke again. My mother didn’t try to stop us. But when I found myself in his bed, he took me in his arms and let me cry, whispering promises until I fell asleep.

T
he turkey was laid in the middle of the table, its bare skin roasted golden brand, a gleaming knife at its side. I knew just how it felt. My mother having had enough of awkward silence had taken to producing a constant stream of chatter ranging from questionable facts about celebrities to country club gossip. I wanted to tell her that if she didn’t shut up she was going to be what the neighborhood was talking about in the morning. I could almost see the headlines: Mother smothered with roast turkey on Christmas Eve.

Liam sat across from me in a gray button down that made his usually bright eyes look stormy. His blonde hair was tousled artfully, which only served to remind me of how he looked right out of bed. But although he smiled, I could see it was strained. He was cracking under the stress, and it was getting worse with each passing second.

I had just raised my glass of wine when Tara said, “Maybe we should say a prayer?”

At the moment, I discovered someone could actually choke on a drink and spray it all over the table.

“Wh-what?” I gasped. “Oh God, don’t tell me you’ve been saved.”

Tara glared across the table, and I realized the carving knife was closer to her than it was to me.

"I thought it would be nice to take a moment to remember what we're thankful for this year." But instead of bowing her head, Tara reached for the turkey platter.

"Oh, that's easy enough," I said, watching as she sharpened the knife against the steel. "I'm thankful for kilts and pancakes for breakfast and going to college two states away."

"How lovely, Jillian," Tara snapped. "I'm thankful for ungrateful daughters who act like porn stars on the bathroom counter." She'd begun to gesticulate wildly with the carving knife.

My father rose to his feet and took it from her. "Sit down, Tara."

"I don't need you to do this for me."

"You've made that clear," he said in a firm voice. "But I'd prefer not to spend the holidays in the emergency room."

Tara sunk into her chair, shoulders back, head held high, and peered at each of us as though daring any of us to challenge her authority. She'd placed herself as the head of the table, like a proper matriarch, which meant her gaze could reach each of us no matter how we sat in our chairs. There was no point to sulking, so I sat up straighter, matching her posture, and met her glare with a smile.

Liam cleared his throat beside me. "I'll say grace."

My eyes flashed to him. We'd discussed the subject of religion before and neither of us were into it. Of course, one could hope he was about to recite Rub-a-dub-dub, thanks for the grub in front of my mother. Dad looked to Liam gratefully and laid down the knife—out of reach of my mother. 

Liam folded his hands and bowed his head. I stared at him until my father gestured that I should follow suit. We'd never really prayed at the table before. Like most well-to-do people in our community, my parents went to a few services a year to keep up appearances. I'd never heard them use either a-word, but I also hadn't really been brought up to consider myself Christian. Everything about this felt weird and out of place, and I hated Tara for managing to make things even more awkward for everyone.

"Heavenly father," Liam began, and I had to stifle a giggle, "bless this food, lovingly prepared and shared amongst family this evening. I thank you for bringing me here to spend the holidays with these kind people, and for the blessing of placing Jillian in my life this year."

It was like a slap in the face. I doubted Tara felt the sting between Botox and her perpetual bitchiness, but I did. Because I was part of this family and I had been just as crappy to all of them as they had been to me. I'd met every single one of Tara's poisonous comments with equal venom. I'd barely shared more than ten words with my father. The only person I had been kind and generous to was Liam, but he'd seen us—he'd seen me—for what we truly were. Mean. Spiteful. Petty. All that was clear from his tone. What wasn't clear was whether the rest of his so-called prayer was tongue-in-cheek, as well? Was he beginning to see me for the blessing I really was? 

I hadn't felt this sick at Christmas since the year my parents went on a cruise and didn't remember to call, leaving me a few fifties as a present. I'd been unwanted then and I had a feeling I was rather unwanted right now. 

"Wasn't that nice?" Tara asked as she lifted her head.

I thought my father shook his head a little at her obliviousness, but I wasn't surprised. Tara couldn't see her true self if she looked into a goddamn magic mirror.

"Pass the gravy," I said in a flat voice. I was definitely going to eat my feelings tonight.

"Not too much," Tara warned, just as she had every holiday. Tomorrow she would remind me that summer fat farms were full of holiday indulgences. 

I poured half of the gravy boat's contents over what had to be three servings of mashed potatoes and smiled at her.

"Liam," my father said, ignoring the thick tension building between Tara and I, "have you thought at all about where you plan to do an internship this summer?"

Liam glanced at me and shook his head.

"I imagine it will be in Scotland," Tara said as though this closed the conversation. 

"Perhaps" was all Liam replied.

"Well, if you're considering staying in the states I might have a friend at the country club who could set you up," Dad continued as though Tara had never spoken.

"That's very kind of you. I'll let you know," Liam said. He didn't sound in the least bit interested and my stomach turned over. Suddenly my plate looked terrible. Liam had hinted at trying to stay here after next semester. Now he couldn't drum up any enthusiasm over my father's suggestion. I had a horrible feeling that I knew exactly what I was getting for Christmas.

"He won't want to stay here." Tara tore apart her roll but didn't eat any of it. "He wants to get back to his real life in Scotland."

"I don't have any internship plans next summer," I butted in. I couldn't stand thinking about this anymore. The last thing I wanted to do on Christmas Eve was thinking about the ticking clock that loomed between Liam and me. 

"I knew that." Tara let out an inelegant, and uncharacteristic, snort of laughter at my statement.

"Is there something that you want to do?" Dad asked. "I'm guessing you'll want to stay in Washington, especially with your last year of school coming up. Or maybe you'd rather travel somewhere before you get a job.”

In the last two years, my parents had skirted talk of jobs. My mother insinuated that I could work while going to school, but that was as far as it got, except for her dropped hints that I would never find work. Hearing my dad talk about me starting a career inflated me.

“There are quite a few counseling centers that might have an internship open,” I said. “That might be good since I’ve been considering grad school.”

Tara dropped her fork.

“That makes sense,” Dad said. 

“That makes no sense,” Tara said.

“Tara.”

She ignored the warning in my father’s voice and went on. “You’ve barely studied for the last two and a half years and now you’re going to go to grad school.”

“If I want to go into therapy, I’ll need at least a Master’s degree if I’m going to make a living.”

This time her snort was a full-blown laugh. “A Master’s degree? A living?”

“What did you think I was going to do? Move back in here? You don’t want me. Get married? You’ve made it clear no one will want me.” I was shouting, my butter knife clutched tightly in my fist.

“I just want you to be realistic about what a girl like you—”

“Shut up, Tara.” The words were low but dangerously clear. I stared at my father in amazement. He’d never stood up for me before. My dad could be counted on for one thing: turning a blind eye.

“George!” Tara clutched her chest in surprise. “I will not be spoken to like that at my own dinner table.”

“Then leave.” And with that he picked his fork up and continued eating.

Tara pushed her chair back so quickly that it fell over. She didn’t bend to pick it up before she fled the room.

“Have you thought about looking for internships together?” Dad asked, returning to the previous topic as though nothing had happened.

“We, um, we...” I couldn’t find an answer to save my life. Surely, my father could see how tenuous things were with Liam. After all, he’d spent a lot more time with him this week than I had. 

“It’s a little too early to be looking,” Liam said, saving me from the question. “We’ll both need to think about our summer plans when we get back to Olympic State this week.”

This time when my stomach rolled, its contents heaved into my throat. I stood and grabbed my plate. “Excuse me. I’m finished, so I’ll clean up.”

I was barely aware that I’d just volunteered to do the dishes as I stumbled toward the kitchen. I needed to get out of there and away from all my dad’s questions about Liam and I’s future—and away from all of Liam’s vague answers. But when I rounded the corner I realized the kitchen wouldn’t be much of a haven. Tara stood against the counter, bottle of wine in her hand.