Losing Liam Read online

  Two years later

  Evie

  The phone pings, and I reach over to the nightstand to grab it. I read the text, huff out a frustrated sound and put the phone back down, snuggling back into Liam.

  “Your mum?”

  “Mm hm,” I hum into his chest, not really wanting to talk about her while I curl up against his warm, naked body.

  “What does she want?”

  “The same thing as always; someone to blame.” My hand reaches across his torso, and I cling to him. “Can we please not talk about her?” My lips brush over his chest.

  He flips us over in a quick movement and settles between my legs. My favourite place for him to be as of late. “What would you rather be talking about then?” His lips capture mine in a soft kiss that erases all traces of her. And then it’s just us again. Me and Liam and the power in his body, the persuasion in it. It’s intoxicating.

  “I have to get to class,” I moan, not really wanting to leave our bed, not wanting to leave him.

  “Okay.” He pretends like he didn’t hear me at all.

  His warm fingers brush my jaw, and I melt against his touch. My own hands sink into his hair before they travel the length of his strong back. He leans in, our foreheads touching, and the heat of his breath feathers my lips before he gives me one of his cocky smiles. They are my favourite; they scream mischief and fun with a little arrogance for good measure.

  His velvety lips find my skin. They are soft and warm as they kiss a path along my jaw dipping down to my neck and along my collarbone. My nails dig into his back, and he releases a raspy breath before working his way back up, his tongue slipping out of his mouth and tasting my skin, teasing it. My skin tingles as he works his way up to my mouth sealing it with his, devouring me in a hungry kiss as his hard length pushes against me, again and again.

  God, I love the way he kisses me, like every part of me belongs to him. The way he invades my mouth, with the possessive flicks of his tongue guiding my movement and swallowing my moans. Powering through me, demanding that I feel his kiss in every part of my body, in the tips of my fingers that latch onto his back, or the arch of my neck that wants more of his mouth or in the aching throb between my legs.

  His hands touch my body, freely. He knows that I belong to him, wholly. He brings his weight down on me and kisses my cheek again, his hot breath fanning my skin. His hips spread my legs wider and his breath burns my skin. He rocks against me, grinding, thrusting, till he finds entry and he’s inside me with one hard powerful push.

  My spine bows, and he growls against my skin, “Fuck.” He nips at my flesh before pulling out slowly and plunging again, over and over. My teeth find his shoulder and my nails claw at his back, leaving long furrows down his back as his thrusts push me closer to the edge of pleasure.

  My thighs clamp around his hips, matching his speed and movements, and all I know is that I need him faster, deeper, harder. His pace becomes erratic and fitful till he buries himself to the root, clutching at my shoulders, his chopped breath against my neck as his body sags.

  He rests his forehead against my shoulder and his breath settles. He peeks at me from beyond his hair. “I’m sorry, I wanted you to…”

  I kiss away his apology. “I know.”

  “Evie.” His velvet lips capture mine in a long intoxicating kiss, and my throbbing pussy aches with need.

  I push him away, not because I have any desire to detach myself from him but because I have to get to class. “I have to go.”

  Liam doesn’t release me, instead, he presses down on me, and his fingers dig into my flesh as he lowers himself down, then buries his face between my thighs. His tongue lashes out, and my sensitive clit comes to life at the slight flicker. I moan, bucking my hips against his mouth while his tongue punishes me and his fingers bury themselves deep inside me. He licks and kisses, and his fingers move inside me till I crumble under the pleasure. I come hard and fast. Wave after wave of pleasure washes over me, my hands bunching the sheet between tightened fists, and his name toppling from my lips like a desperate prayer.

  Slowly I find air in the room, and when I open my eyes, Liam is on his knees between my legs. Sweat sheets his torso, and his mouth glistens around a satisfied smile. “Now you can go.” He winks at me, and I groan, melting into the mattress.

  I don’t want to leave.

  Living with Liam is like a fairy tale. It’s the stuff dreams are made of and everyone covets. It’s in the little things really; the way he kisses my shoulder as he grabs something off the dinner plate I’m not yet finished cooking. It’s the way he makes me a coffee at ten at night knowing I have to stay up for a few more hours to study. It’s the way that even when he comes home exhausted after his shift, he makes time for me, even if that means falling asleep on the couch while I snuggle into his warm body. And it’s in all the ways he fucks me. In the shower, on the kitchen bench, in our bed, over the railing of the stairwell that one time when he couldn’t wait to get in the door. It’s all the small ways that he shows me he loves me. And I love him too, dearly. He is my family, my future, my fucking everything.

  When he moved up to the city a two years ago and found me, I thought my heart would never stop thundering. I was elated, and my mother was annoyed. And when I turned eighteen and he was twenty, there was nothing she could do to stop us moving in together.

  Our flat was small and cramped and everything we ever wanted. It was a stepping stone to a future we would build together. It was the two-room matchbox place we would one day look back on and remember with fondness. It was our origin story.

  Liam worked in a factory. I knew he hated it. I knew he missed the outdoors and the waves he surfed on every day since he was kid. I knew he missed the sun kissing his skin and the salt water cooling it. But he kept saying he didn’t care, and that after I finished school, we could look at moving closer to the beach again. I believed him, even though every now and then I caught him staring at the blue skies with melancholy notes in his eyes.

  I wonder if I knew then what I know now if I would do anything different. If I would say more or less. If I’d commit so much more to memory, or if I’d take the time to dwell on each detail and let it be etched into my memory like a tattoo instead of a shadow, one that’s always with me but changes as time moves on. I often go back to that time and try to grab on to that feeling, that unadulterated joy, uncorrupted by time or age or baggage. It was so perfect, and no other feeling has ever matched it, none has ever come close. I wonder how I would have done things differently—or maybe I wouldn’t have—maybe they were perfect just as they were.

  But that morning when he left for work—I often ask myself if I would have kissed him harder? Longer? If I should have told him I loved him one more time. Would any of it matter now?

  The thing about last times is that you never know they are the last. You take them for granted, assuming things will evolve with time but never really change. You assume the people you love will always be there because they love you back, because you are their home, their heart. And when bad things happen, they happen to other people because you’ve already had your share of tragedy.

  Liam disappeared on a Thursday. It was just another day. We shared a moment in bed where he just held me like I was his whole world and he kissed me goodbye as he did every day, parting with one of his quirky smiles that assured me everything will be okay.

  That day is etched in my mind like a heart in a tree trunk, carved deep and meticulously. My classes dragged on, and my sandwich collapsed onto the floor, the lettuce soaking through the bread rendering it a soggy useless mess.

  I made dinner; fish and oven-baked chips with veg on the side. I didn’t really need the vegetables, but Liam always insisted, and then I waited, watching the food turn a shade of grey as it grew cold. He was two hours late. But I wasn’t worried, not yet. He’d been late before. But he didn’t call, and when I did, the phone went straight to voicemail. I put it down to a dead battery and watched the news
, then some comedy show.

  After four hours, a worm of panic crawled inside me and settled in the pit of my stomach. I found myself looking at the door more and more, jumping at any sound and running to the window.

  After the sixth hour, the worm had managed to gnaw its way across my abdomen and had multiplied. My stomach twisted and knotted with the feeling of them wriggling inside me, and all I felt was a sick sense of trepidation.

  I called his boss and apologised for the late hour. When he told me Liam left work early and in a rush, my stomach plummeted.

  I call his sister, but just like Liam’s, her phone goes straight to voicemail. I leave a frantic message and try him for the hundredth time.

  “Where are you? Please come home.” My voice cracks as I hang up and sit at my laptop bringing up a list of hospitals.

  There are over a thousand hospitals in the city, and I’m not even halfway through the endless list when light creeps in through the window.

  My eyes burn, and fatigue hooks its claws into me. But I don’t stop. I can’t. Liam is out there somewhere, and I don’t know where he is or what happened.

  I stretch my legs and go to the kitchen, finding our uneaten meal still on the table. A crusty layer has formed on the fish, and the peas have shrunk into dried-out, green, wrinkly marbles. I discard the food and make a coffee. My heart squeezes in my chest; Liam makes us coffee in the morning.

  I keep calling hospitals, taking breaks to call Liam, till my voice is too hoarse and my lids are too heavy and my heart, that’s been running overtime, begs me for a break. The panic has nestled itself warmly inside me like a cat on a windowsill and keeps clawing at my insides. I need rest, but I can’t close my eyes. Every sound has me jumping and my hands clutch at my phone like a lifeline.

  Grabbing the quilt off our second-hand sofa, I wrap it around me. It smells so much like him I feel like cracking. I pace the small space, and my mind keeps running scenarios that scare the shit out of me. I can’t fathom a life without Liam. A life where I don’t have his voice or can’t hear his laughter or can’t taste his kisses or feel his arms around me.

  I push all the thoughts away and am about to return to my list when my phone trills. My heart leaps and bashes against my rib cage then plummets into the festering pit of my stomach when I see my mother’s name flash across the screen. I pick up anyway because, like me, she is tenacious, and she won’t stop calling till I do.

  “Hi, Mum.” Somehow, I hold myself together.

  “Evie, you have to come, your dad is having a bad day—” She prattles on, making her problems mine, but today, I can’t shoulder more of her burdens.

  “I can’t.”

  “You don’t have class on Friday morning, you can come help your dad for a few hours.” She lances me with the blade of guilt, and I stitch up the wound of her words.

  “I can’t come today.”

  “Why? That boy?”

  Swallowing the lump of emotions that pushes its way up my throat, I draw in a long breath, sealing my anger inside. “Liam didn’t come home last night. Something’s happened.”

  “Probably ran off with some girl.”

  “Mum!”

  “Evangeline, you know I love you, and part of loving someone is telling them the truth. The sooner you face the reality that he is a no-good waste of—”

  I hang up. Spears of anxiety and anger skewer my chest. There are so many unknowns, so many questions that swirl through me, and all I need is Liam.

  As the day moves on, details become less clear; more phone calls, more silence, more worry until at some point I fall into a fitful broken sleep where Liam holds me in his arms and promises everything will be okay before he dissipates into thin air leaving nothing behind.

  The first week is a blur. I check every homeless shelter and drive into every hospital in town, just in case, but no one has heard of Liam Morrison. He hasn’t shown up at work, and the slew of Facebook messages I’ve sent him remain unread, then vanish as does his profile. Food and sleep become foreign concepts reserved for those who have peace.

  The drive down to Blue Haven feels like an out-of-body experience. I’ve travelled this road so many times I could have driven it with my eyes closed, and yet the closer I get, the more my empty stomach tightens with anticipation and nervousness. My clay hands slip off the steering wheel and my heartbeat drowns out the radio. I can barely continue by the time I hit the edge of town and see the hotel that used to be nothing but a skeleton that hid all our secrets in its unfinished closets.

  I keep going. I can’t stop till I park my car outside his house. The place he’d lived in all his life till he left his father and sister behind to come and live with me. The house is at the top of a cliff, on the other edge of town, almost inaccessible. His own secret slice of paradise. Someone had carved stairs into the cliff face, and there was a time when we would slip down there in the late afternoons, and I’d sit on the tiny, secluded beach while he surfed till his sister’s voice would drift from somewhere above us and call us in for dinner.

  I think that I run up to the front door, but really, it’s more like I’m floating outside my body. I see myself knocking frantically at the whitewashed door with the crack slicing it all the way down just slightly off centre. I knock till my knuckles ache and my fists burn and my palms can’t take the battering. When there is nothing but silence and emptiness, I creep around the property, like a stalker, peering into windows. There is no movement anywhere. Even the garage stands empty. There are no cars, no signs of life.

  Abandoned.

  Like me.

  I retreat to my car and wait.

  I don’t dare leave or close my eyes, not even for a second. What if I blink and I miss him?

  What if…

  I had so many of those in the early days, but like so many other questions, I never got my answers.

  I sit in the car till the sun sinks beyond the cliff and well into the night. I startle awake sometime later and wonder what woke me. It’s well after two a.m. but I don’t care as I go knocking at the front door, too tired to notice all the lights still out, all the cars gone. When all I get for my trouble is an aching hand and more silence, I get back in my car and tear off into the darkness.

  Two weeks after his disappearance there was still no sign of him. He’d just vanished. Here one day, gone the next. The police promised to help me look, but the look in their eyes as they left my apartment assured me they wouldn’t waste their time. They kept asking me if he was seeing someone else, if he had any reason to leave. They wanted access to his bank accounts that were all suddenly empty. They kept telling me that they usually find 84% of missing people and there was hope, or at least answers at the end of my tunnel. Their words gave me a renewed energy.

  I kept searching because there was nothing else to do. Obsession possessed me like a demon, and I’d spend every waking hour searching, driven by hope and passion. There were so many places to search and so many posters to hang up and so many hours in the day to fill up without him. If I stopped for only a minute, the pain would flood me, and worry would eat at me, and desperation would claw at my feet and beg for me to collapse and wail alongside it. So, I didn’t. I stayed positive despite all the warring feelings inside me. I didn’t stop, even when the nurses at the reception desks gave me pitiful looks and when the managers running the homeless shelters asked me if I needed a meal or a place to rest. I didn’t stop. I couldn’t. I couldn’t accept the truth. He’d left and he wasn’t coming back.

  Three weeks later when I call the cops back, they tell me they have nothing new and that maybe it is time to accept that some people just don’t want to be found. They still promise me they’ll keep doing their job and keep looking. Pretty sure the officer uses the term ‘keeping his ear to the ground’. When I hang up, I feel the last of my hope leaking out of me and I fall onto my bed where I stay and stay and stay.

  Everything hurts. My body feels heavy, so all I do is lie down and hide under the blanket.
It’s been too many weeks and his smell is starting to fade away, skewering me with fear that just like him, it will one day vanish altogether.

  My heartbreak feels like shattered glass. The day he didn’t come back the first crack appeared, barely the length of a hairpin, but as time dripped away, the crack grew and accelerated into a spiderweb before imploding. The shattering of my heart was instantaneous, vicious and agonizing, and it smashed into a million glittering fragments which scattered across my body, slicing me from the inside. As the initial pain subsided, the shards of what was left behind sliced into me slowly as I tried to gather them and glue myself back together. Every laceration ran deep, each a scarring memory.

  My mother lets herself in like she owns the place and, as usual, her face twists in the way that it does, like she’s smelling something foul. Maybe she is. I don’t remember the last time I showered, and the few cups I’ve used for coffee sit unwashed at the edge of the basin.

  “You look like death just spat you out.”

  I feel it too. I curl into a tighter ball on the bed and try to shut her out, her and the rest of the world. She has no idea of the void he’s left behind. The empty long nights when I long to hear his voice. Feel his touch. My days are full of solitude, and I hate everyone. I hate that they smile and walk and enjoy the sunshine. I often wonder how I’ll ever fill the growing emptiness.

  “When was the last time you ate something?” Her annoying questions pull me out of my thoughts.

  I ignore her grating voice. I wish she’d just leave me alone.

  The blanket whips off me by force, and I clutch at empty air, faced with my mother’s scowl. She doesn’t look sad or concerned, just disappointed. Her indifference stabs at my already tattered heart. “It’s time to get up, Evie, it’s time to stop this nonsense. This boy you’re crying over, he’s just a teenage crush, and all these feelings you think you have will pass.”