Author: Kristan Higgins

“How are they?” she’d asked.

He chewed assessingly. “Not the worst I’ve ever had.”

Her eyes narrowed, and before Liam saw her move, she’d snatched the cookie from his hand and tossed it in the trash. “No more for you, ingrate.”

Liam looked at his now-empty hand. “Really?” He grinned. “Who’s gonna stop me?”

“I am. You want another cookie, you have to come through me.”

They’d ended up doing it on the kitchen table.

And that was another thing. Liam hadn’t expected the sex to be so, well…mind-blowing. Here he was, a good month into seeing someone—granted, no strings attached—and was feeling a little bit like a randy teenager, walking around with a goofy smile on his face.

The only problem was that he suspected Cordelia might be getting a little…attached.

He walked down the hall and knocked on his daughter’s door. “Nic, how much longer are you gonna be?”

“Dad, this paper is killing me! Can you, like, stop interrupting?” She glared at him from her desk. Audrey Hepburn posters had replaced Edward the Vampire, he was happy to see, and the clock from Sweetie Sue’s glowed above her bed.

“Well, I just wondered if you wanted to do something later.”

“No. This will take the rest of the day. I may as well just chain myself here and, like, work until I pass out, and you can just throw some raw meat in here. This teacher is insane! She thinks we have nothing better to do than study!”

An excellent teacher, clearly. “Okay, well, I thought I might run out for a couple hours,” he said.

“Do it. Leave me alone, or I’m going to fail everything.”

“You okay here by yourself?”

“Dad!” The three syllables of doom, followed by a huffy sigh. “I’m not six years old, you know.”

“Just asking. If you wanted me to stay, I would.”

“I don’t.” She must’ve realized she sounded like a twit, because she gave him an apologetic glance. “Sorry. It’s just this is a hard class.”

He smiled. “But you’re smart. You’ll do great.”

“Thanks,” she grumbled, then looked up at him hopefully. “So, Daddy, any thoughts on the prom?”

“Plenty. You’re too young.”

“I’m sixteen years old, Dad.”

“You’re fifteen years and eleven months old,” he corrected.

“Grandma and Grandpa don’t think I’m too young,” she countered. “They said they’d buy my dress, too.”

“Not helping your case,” he said.

Her face fell. “Fine. You’re the boss.” She turned back to her computer. “I’ll just slave away at this and, like, never have any fun, ever, because my father won’t let me be normal and have a boyfriend, not that Tanner even is my boyfriend, because he hasn’t even kissed me yet.”

The threats must be working. Liam’s opinion of Tanner went up a thousand points. Nicole sat back down at her desk and started tapping away on the razor-thin laptop the Tates had just bought her. She really was a good kid, and she did work hard.

“What’s the paper on?” he asked.

“The themes of patriarchal suppression in The Crucible. Ironic, isn’t it?”

He narrowed his eyes at her. His child was now officially smarter than he was, and he didn’t like it. “Not funny.”

“Oh, it was funny, Dad. Get out of here. I have to call Tanner and tell him you’re gone so he can, like, bring over the drugs and the gang members.”

“Even less funny. No visitors. I’m telling Mrs. Antonelli you’re alone.”

“Okay,” she said. “Where are you going?”

“Thought I might take my bike out.”

Nicole nodded, unaware of the monumental impact of this statement. “Wear your helmet,” she said, turning back to the screen.

“I’ll call you.”

“I’m so sure.” She made huffing noise, then turned back to her computer. “I love you, Dad,” she added.

There it was, that shocking wave of love. She was the best kid in the world. It was a gorgeous Sunday afternoon, and she was doing her work, toughing it out. She’d been through hell, watching her mom die, and yet here she was, pulling in decent grades, playing lacrosse, on the debate team (her calling, he thought). And even though she was mad at him, she still told her father she loved him.

“You can go to the prom,” he said.

There was a beat of silence, then her shriek split the air. “What?” She leaped up. “Daddy! Are you kidding? Don’t answer that! Oh, Dad, thank you!” She threw her arms around him and kissed his face repeatedly.

“There will be a million rules and regulations,” he said, laughing. “Maybe a tracking device.”

“I don’t care! Oh, Daddy, you’re the greatest!”

“Tanner and I will be having a long, long talk,” he added.

“Of course you will,” she said, disentangling herself from him. “Daddy, thank you.”

“Okay. You’re welcome.” There was a lump in his throat. “I’ll call you in a little while, okay? And I’m buying your dress. Not Grandma and Grandpa.”

Liam’s mood was mixed as he walked toward the garage. On the one hand, it had felt great to give Nicole what she wanted. On the other, he was letting her go to a prom with a teenage boy, which felt more dangerous than if he’d fed her a lump of glowing uranium.

But if Emma had been alive, she probably wouldn’t have objected to Nicole going to the prom. Emma had been queen of high school, after all. They’d gone to their prom, of course—Emma had been in a silky ivory dress with a low back, her skin so smooth under his hand as they danced. The rest of his prom memories were foggy, but he knew he’d had fun. Especially after the prom…the exact type of fun he didn’t want his child to have.

Time for a subject change. A pretty big deal lay immediately ahead of him. The motorcycle.

He unlocked the garage and stepped inside, the smell of oil and metal as familiar as the smell of Nicole’s hair. There was the Triumph, the same make and model as the one he’d wrecked.

The last time he’d ridden a motorcycle, he’d almost ended up dead. A concussion and bruising so bad he’d hurt for a month. But if he didn’t get on a bike now, he probably never would. It was a beautiful spring day, he had a…friend waiting for him. He grabbed an extra helmet and strapped it on the back.

He wheeled the bike outside, locked the garage once more, and straddled the bike. So far, so good. Helmet on, check. He took a deep breath; the choking panic was still at bay—for now. But his heart was thumping, and his knees buzzed with adrenaline. He turned the key, and the engine purred to life.

And then, just like that, Liam flexed his wrist, and he was gliding down the street, free. No fear, no wave of dread, just him doing what he’d been doing for more than twenty years. It was like meeting an old friend after a long, long time apart. Strange, how easy it was, like he’d never stopped, never crashed.

Cordelia was lugging something to her truck when he pulled up. She shielded her eyes and walked over to him, frowning. Her face was a little pale. “Hey, Liam. I…I kind of forgot we had plans.” Then she tipped her head and smiled, and it was like someone turned a light on inside her. “Are you on a motorcycle, Liam Declan Murphy?”

“Seems like it,” he said, grinning. “In the mood for a ride?”

“Sure,” she said. She ran into the house, then emerged again, shrugging into the leather jacket he’d let her keep.

“How’ve you been?” he asked.

“Just dandy.” She pulled on the helmet, then slid on behind him and said nothing more, just wrapped her arms around his waist, and off they went. He drove on the back roads, the full-blown beauty of spring around them, the trees so green it seemed that they were underwater. They passed tumbled stone walls and lawns full of flowering trees, a pond so blue it almost hurt his eyes. The air was soft and sweet, the sun warm, the purr of the Triumph low and tight.

After about half an hour, Liam pulled over by an old cemetery. He turned off the bike and took off his helmet. Cordelia did the same, running a hand through her short hair, looking away.

“What do you think?” he asked, grinning at the world in general. “You love motorcycles now?”

“Yep,” she said, and her voice was a little funny. Still a little pale, too.

Oh, boy. He took a deep breath. “You okay?”

She nodded.

“Are you pregnant?”

“No! No,” she said. “Um…I’m not pregnant. No. I just got some news, that’s all.” And then her face got kind of scrunchy, and she looked away and swallowed.

“Come over here,” he said, leading her to the edge of the cemetery. Whatever it was, he felt an abrupt sense of protection—almost like the urge to beat up whoever had made her cry. Because, yes, there were tears in her eyes, and he felt it like a punch in the lung.

There was a granite bench under a tree; the leaves were so bright green they glowed. The breeze rustled overhead, and a blue jay streaked in front of them.

She wiped her eyes and pressed her lips together.

“Tell me,” he ordered.

She took a shaky breath. “My birth mother wrote to me.”

Was that good? Bad? “That’s big news,” he said.

She nodded, two more tears sliding down her cheeks. “Yeah.” She sighed and leaned back, looking up at the sky. “It’s just…” Her voice dropped to a whisper, same way Nicole’s did when she was teary. “It’s old news, too.” She swallowed. “I guess my birth mother sent me a letter when I was in high school, but my parents never told me. Gretchen did. Today. She read the letter back then. I’m definitely the last to know here…?.” She bit her lip again. “And I’m kind of stunned, I guess.” Her voice broke. “I never thought she wanted to meet me, and all this time, maybe she did.”

Not knowing what else to do, Liam put his arm around her, and she leaned into him, resting her head against his shoulder, her goofy hair soft against his jaw.

Then she wriggled out of his grasp and walked off a ways, into the cemetery. “Sorry,” she called over her shoulder. “I’m not the weepy type most of the time.”

“You don’t have to be sorry,” he said. “It’s a lot to take in.”

He followed her, figuring she’d want to talk—women usually did. She didn’t say a word, however, and Liam wasn’t quite sure what to do, other than wish for that useful manual. “So, do you think you’ll try to find her? Your birth mother?” he asked eventually.

She glanced at him. “I don’t know. I don’t know if her information is still current, or—heck, I haven’t even seen the letter. My mom might have thrown it away.” She stopped in front of a small marble headstone, its words erased by time. “I just feel so bad—she must think I blew her off, you know? If she sent that, what, fifteen years ago?”

“Do you want to meet her?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe.” She knelt down and brushed off some lichen. “Every once in a while, I run into someone who’s scrawny and has hair like mine, and I wonder, is that my relative? It’d be nice to see where I came from.”

“Sure,” he said. Of course, maybe it wouldn’t be. Maybe her birth family was a mess, like his was. Maybe her mom had been a drug addict, and her father was in prison. You never knew.

“When I was a kid,” Cordelia said, “people would constantly ask my parents if I was adopted. They’d never ask about Henry, because it’s pretty obvious, but it seemed like someone was always asking about me.”