25. Liam

Chapter twenty-five

Liam

I can’t get Shiloh out of my head, even if I’m certain she won’t be mine much longer.

As I drive down the familiar streets to Ma's place, my hands grip the wheel a little too tight. It's Wednesday—our dinner night—but my mind is tangled up in thoughts of Shiloh. Her laugh, the way her eyes crinkle at the corners when she's amused—it's all playing on a loop in my head, and it's driving me mad.

I can't shake the fear that's settled in the pit of my stomach since yesterday when I snapped at her over the damn office printer. It was nothing, really. Just a printer. But it wasn't just a printer, was it? It was the sudden, crippling realization that she could slip through my fingers like sand.

That she might.

That she will, unless I lock this down.

"Fight or flight, Liam," I mutter to myself, shaking my head. The streetlights cast flickering shadows across the interior of the car as I contemplate the idea of losing her—like hell I'll let that happen. Maybe it's time to fight for something, for once. To fight for her.

Pulling up outside Ma's building in Fort Point, I cut the engine and sit for a moment, taking in the sight of her apartment complex. It's a stately old building, with wrought iron balconies and windows that catch the last glimmers of the setting sun. She's been here about ten years now, a far cry from the academic bustle of Harvard where I spent my childhood.

This is where I feel most at peace, even more than my own place on Beacon Hill. Maybe it's the Irish lilt in Ma's voice or the way she always knows how to cut through my crap with a look. Or maybe it's the shepherd's pie and whiskey that tastes like home.

Whatever it is, I need it tonight. I need the grounding before I decide what comes next with Shiloh.

I grab the bouquet of lilies from the passenger seat and push open the car door, stepping into the crisp evening air. The lilies are Ma's favorite—she claims they remind her of home in Ireland, though I reckon it's just because they're as stubborn and resilient as she is.

The lobby is quiet, save for the soft hum of the fluorescent lights overhead. The elevator dings as I press the call button, and I step inside, hitting the button for the fifth floor.

As the elevator ascends, I try to steady my thoughts, but Shiloh's face flickers behind my eyelids; her laugh echoes in my ears, and I can't help but feel a twinge of fear at the thought of stepping into whatever comes next with her.

When the doors slide open, I stride down the hallway, the scent of fresh paint and old wood mingling in the air. I reach Ma's apartment, pausing for a second before knocking on the door.

"Come in!" Her voice, unmistakably warm, floats through the door.

Pushing it open, I step inside and am met with the familiar sight of her open floor plan apartment, bathed in the golden hues of the setting sun streaming through the large windows.

Ma stands by one of them, an artist's brush in hand, focused on a canvas propped up on an easel. She's painting a still life of an orchid, its petals vibrant against the dusky backdrop of the city skyline.

"Thought you might be bringing flowers," she says without turning around, the corners of her mouth lifting into a smile that reaches her eyes. "Got a vase ready for you in the kitchen."

"Never could keep anything from you, could I, Ma?" I say, moving toward the kitchen as I admire her work. The orchid on the canvas seems alive, almost pulsing with a silent, captured energy—a testament to her skill.

"Ah, not often, love," she chuckles, glancing over her shoulder with that keen gaze that's always been able to read me like her favorite novel. "You know where to find the vase."

I nod, unable to suppress the smile that creeps onto my face. I head into the kitchen and find the vase—a simple, glass affair that's seen better days but holds more memories than most of my possessions combined.

I fill it with water from the tap, a little too fast at first, then slower, watching the bubbles rise and pop. Carefully, I place the bouquet in the vase, adjusting the stems until they sit just right.

"Ma, how are you doing?" I call out, trying to sound casual as I glance over to where she’s now dabbing a bit of color onto the orchid’s throat.

"Grand, Liam. And yourself?" She doesn't look away from her painting this time. "There's a shepherd's pie in the oven; should be ready soon. Take a peek for me, will ya?"

"Sure thing." I pull open the oven door, the heat brushing against my face like a welcome home. Inside, the shepherd's pie bubbles under a golden crust, but not quite enough. "Needs a few more minutes," I say, closing the door gently.

"Good, good," she murmurs, pausing to clean her brush on a rag. "And how've you been, love? You alright?"

"Same old, same old," I lie, trying to keep my tone light. The words feel heavy and foreign on my tongue like they don't belong to me at all.

"Is that so?" She finally sets her brush down and turns to face me, wiping her hands on her smock.

Her eyes narrow slightly—not in anger, but with the kind of intense focus that comes from years of peering at fine details through lenses of paint and patience. I can feel her gaze on me, searching, probing beneath the surface as if I'm one of her canvases.

"Ma, why are you staring like that?" My voice is steadier than I expect, but there's an edge to it, a hint of defensiveness.

She frowns, and I notice a flicker of concern in those hazel eyes that have seen so much of life.

"Liam," she starts, "when you were a boy, you'd look just like that when you were trying to hide something. Spill it now. What's eating at you?"

"Nothing." The denial slips out too fast, the lie transparent as glass. I avoid her gaze, pretending to be interested in a non-existent spot on the gleaming kitchen countertop.

She chuckles, the sound rich and knowing. "That's the same face you'd make in high school when you were sneaking off with some girl you weren't supposed to see. You think I wouldn't recognize it?"

I sigh, heavy and long, and rake my hand back through my curly hair. It's a nervous tick I've never managed to shake off. "You're always too good at reading me," I admit, though I don't meet her eyes. It feels like I’m giving in.

Just then, the oven timer dings, a sharp sound that slices through the tension between us. I glance at the digital numbers—time's up. I use the interruption as an escape, opening the oven to peek inside.

Ma's smock crinkles softly as she sets it aside, leaving her in a wool sweater and yoga pants. Her hair, once dark like mine, is threaded through with silver and streaked with paint.

I pull out the shepherd's pie, the steam rising in a comforting cloud. Together, we set the small table by the window, the one she’d always preferred for its view of the city lights winking to life.

"Whiskey?" Ma surprises me by pulling out a bottle from the cabinet—Glenlivet, and a fairly good vintage given the lack of occasion.

"Since when do we drink on a Wednesday?" I ask, one eyebrow arching in suspicion.

She pours two glasses, the liquid gold hitting the crystal with a soft clink. "For you to tell me about the girl you've been sneaking around with," she says, pushing one glass towards me.

A bark of laughter escapes me, and I shake my head. The thought of Shiloh sends a twist through my gut, all sweet and sour. My fingers wrap around the glass, the cool surface grounding. Without much thought, I down the contents in one go, the burn a welcome distraction.

Ma starts on her own meal, cutting into the pie with precision. Her eyes stay on me, patient and expectant, just like they were when I was a kid, and she’d wait out my tantrums.

"You can start with her name," she eventually breaks the silence.

I sigh, the weight of my secret pressing down on my chest. I usually keep her up to speed on what’s going on with my father and his new family… and I’m certain she’ll know exactly who I’m seeing once she knows her name.

"Shiloh," I mutter, bracing myself for her reaction.

"Shiloh…?" Her fork pauses mid-air, and then a frown creases her brow. Recognition sparks in her eyes, and she gasps. "No, Liam. Please don't tell me you're seeing Chris's girlfriend?"

"Ex-girlfriend," I correct quickly, pushing the empty whiskey glass away from me. The room feels suddenly smaller, the walls closing in as I prepare to explain the mess that's become my life. "They broke up months ago. And—she started working for me recently."

"Working for you..." Ma’s voice trails off, her tone layered with something I can't quite decipher.

Is it disapproval? Concern? Both?

"Look, Ma, it's not what you think." I run a hand through my hair, a nervous gesture I can't seem to shake. "It just... happened."

"Isn't she a good bit younger than you?" There's no accusation in her voice, just gentle probing—the same tactful curiosity she's always used to untangle my lies.

I nod, acknowledging the truth in her statement. "Yes, about ten years younger… but our chemistry... it's crazy." I admit, feeling a mixture of defensiveness and vulnerability. "It's like we're drawn to each other, despite knowing we shouldn't be."

Ma watches me for a long moment, her sharp gaze softened by the compassionate tilt of her head. She knows I'm holding back, knows there's more at stake than just a casual fling. But she doesn't push, doesn't pry—I'm grateful for that.

"I think I'm falling for her, Ma,” I go on. “But she's planning to move to Ireland next year." My voice barely carries across the small kitchen. "She wants to study literature at Trinity."

"Trinity, is it?" Ma’s eyes light up with a flicker of pride at the mention of the prestigious university, but then she frowns slightly, piecing together my troubled look. "Oh, Liam. That's quite a complication."

"Yeah," I say, scratching the back of my neck, feeling the weight of the situation. "And we haven't made things official yet. This is all new, and I don't even know if Shiloh wants an actual relationship."

"Shiloh... I'd like to meet her, you know."

I sigh, shaking my head slightly. "I'm not sure if that will be possible, Ma. We're not exactly... well, it’s complicated."

"Complicated, is it?" Ma chuckles softly, the sound warm and familiar in the quiet of the apartment. She reaches across the table, placing her weathered hand over mine—an anchor in a sea of uncertainty. "Liam, you've always been a good boy with a soft heart, even if you act like you aren't."

"Ma..."

"Listen to me." Her gaze locks onto mine, fierce and unwavering. "You should pursue this. Even if it's complicated. Love—real love—is worth it, even with the possibility of heartache. Don't you forget that."

I nod, a lump forming in my throat. There's wisdom in her words, the kind that's been honed through years of love and loss. Ma has always been the lighthouse guiding me back to safe shores when I'm lost at sea.

"Alright, Ma. I'll think about it," I murmur, though deep down, I know there's nothing left to ponder. The decision has already taken root in the furthest corners of my heart.

"Good boy." She smiles, reaching for the whiskey bottle and refilling our glasses with a steady hand. "Now let’s enjoy our dinner. I’ll stop badgering you."

Later that night, as I step out into the crisp November air, the city lights of Fort Point blink back at me, indifferent to the turmoil within. But as I walk to where my car is parked, a firm resolve settles over me.

I have to tell Shiloh how I feel. I can't let her slip away without knowing the truth—that she's become the axis on which my world spins, even if she doesn't realize it yet.

I slide behind the wheel, the leather of the steering wheel cold against my palms. My heart thumps steadily, a drumbeat pushing me forward. I just have to figure out how to confess these feelings—a declaration that could either build or burn bridges between us.

"Alright, Liam," I murmur to myself, turning the key in the ignition. "It's now or never."

The engine roars to life, a beast waking from slumber, and I shift into drive. Determination steels my nerves. I will tell Shiloh. I have to. Because Ma is right—love, even with the risk of pain, is worth chasing.

And I intend to run after it with everything I've got.