Muscle

by Lexi Whitlow

  Placing my hand gently against the door frame, I open my mouth to say something, but I think better of it. There’s something sweeter about just watching—seeing Liam in what I imagine is his normal state. With women—grown ones—he’s always on guard, not able to say what’s truly on his mind. Or perhaps he’s just that way with me.

  Brie turns back to me and smiles. “Thank you for the stickers, Skye.”

  I smile, and my heart beats a little faster. I can’t help but be enchanted by this kid. She talks to adults like they’re her peers, and she’s spent the past two years in such a miserable place. When they’re done with the castle, she clings to her father, not wanting to let him go. Liam turns and looks at me, an unreadable expression on his face. They sit together on the floor, father and daughter, an impenetrable tribe, facing the world together.

  I know Brie might welcome someone like me in her life—but would Liam? Would he start over? Where will I be after he decides it’s all over?

  “Dad said we can stay up late and watch Moana.” Brie looks over at her dad and puts her arm around his neck. Liam turns his head and gently kisses Brie’s hand. “Is that okay?” Brie asks, looking over at me. “Staying up late?”

  “I don’t see why not. I was planning to make popcorn. Did you already have dinner?”

  “I had some bread,” Brie says. “That’s all.”

  Liam’s face grows slightly red. It’s hard not to read too much into everything she says, but it’s seven in the evening now, and she should have eaten more than that.

  “Sweetie,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady. “Is that what you asked for? Or is that what your grandmother gave you?”

  “That’s what she gave me. I get bread and water when I’ve asked for snacks too many times that week.” She says it simply like it’s an aspect of her reality that she’s come to expect.

  Liam looks like he’s about to explode, but I catch his eye and shake my head. We don’t need a single word coming out about Liam losing his cool. Not that Brie would tattle on us—but six year olds have a way of letting things slip.

  “Well, I’m not too great of a cook, but I think we can whip up some tacos from the things we have in the fridge. Do you like tacos?”

  Brie nods, and she stands up slowly. When she does, I see that she’s all knees and elbows. Somehow, she seems skinnier and more fragile than I remember her from the wedding. I could just be imagining it.

  “Come on,” I say. “We’ll make a big batch of chicken for the tacos. With tomatoes and lettuce and all sorts of healthy stuff. And then we can pig out on popcorn.”

  “Yeah,” she says, giggling and taking my hand. “We’ll make like a thousand pounds of popcorn. Or a hundred.”

  “The most popcorn ever.” I start walking with her to the kitchen, and I can feel Liam’s eyes on my back as we go. “I like to put M&Ms in my popcorn. And put a little extra salt, so it’s super sweet and super salty all at once.”

  “Whoa. I’m not allowed to have chocolate,” she says, her voice rising in amazement. I brush aside the feeling of anger that rises quickly. Mr. Donnelly, Liam’s lawyer, keeps telling us we need to assume goodwill and not put ideas in the kid’s head. After all, lots of parents don’t allow tons of sweets. Maybe it’s normal. But the bread thing—that’s definitely not.

  “Well, we will. For tonight. It’ll be a fun secret, right?”

  Brie nods, and I pull a stool from a corner of the kitchen, setting it up at the counter so she can help me. She cuts lettuce with a butter knife, and pulls apart cooked chicken while I search the cabinets for tortillas and salsa. When we’ve spread our feast out on the kitchen table, Liam finally joins us. He looks tired, more tired than I’ve seen him.

  I remind myself again that I might be doing too much. But it’s too late to stop any of it now.

  But there’s no room for thinking like that when you’re already so far in.

  After dinner, we crowd into the living room together and set up in front of the TV. It’s after eight now, and I can see that Brie’s eyes are tired. But she’s so happy, stuffing her hand into the bag of popcorn mixed with M&Ms and shoving fistfuls of it into her mouth.

  “I think this is my favorite movie,” she says, snuggling between me and Liam. The three of us are leaning against the couch. He puts his arm around both of us, his hand resting on my shoulder. I almost flinch away, with everything we’ve been talking about. With the uncertainty that rests over us like a dark cloud.

  “I thought Tangled was your favorite movie,” Liam says.

  “I like this one better,” Brie replies. “The princess gets to live on an island and swim all the time. I’d like that. And she has her mom and dad and grandmother, and they’re all nice to her. Even Maui is her friend.”

  I glance at Liam, but he’s watching the movie and eating popcorn.

  The movie ends, and Brie is asleep against her father’s broad chest. Her features are so like his. There’s no mistaking them for part of the same family, the same blood running through their veins. I can’t quite define the feeling I have when I see them together because one word doesn’t sum it up. Rhiannon would say—in fact, she has said—that this is all way too heavy for a fake bride. Someone who was supposed to be temporary.

  But like she said, too, he never put a time limit on it. The expiration date isn’t set. I’ll just be sitting here in this house, waiting for the other shoe to drop. It’ll happen suddenly.

  Maybe that’s best, like pulling off a Band-Aid.

  Later, when he carries Brie to bed, I stand back and watch him again. His strong arms lift her like she barely weighs a thing. He’s gone for a while, and I think I hear him singing softly. Something I’ve never heard from him before, even though I’ve known him for the better part of a month.

  When he walks back into the living room, his face is heavy again. “I can’t believe she has to leave after lunch tomorrow. She’s going to cry. She hasn’t stayed over at my house since I got out of prison, but she’s kept up this crazy hope that we’d be a family again.”

  “You will.” I say it with certainty. “There’s no doubt in my mind that Marta doesn’t take good care of Brie. Someone has to see that.”

  Liam runs his fingers through his hair and sits down in the chair. “Yeah, and her family is connected as fuck. That’s how it is with old New York families. Her mother grew up with the family court judge who helped train the judge who’s working there now. And so on. You get the picture.”

  “Yeah. That doesn’t mean there’s no evidence that you’re a better parent than that woman.”

  “We need solid evidence. None of this bread for dinner stuff. That’s… shitty. But I can’t prove it’s abuse.” He sighs, letting out a quick, harsh breath all at once.

  “We’ve got the stable household. You’re the biological parent. You’re gainfully employed. You’ve got a good place for her to live. It’s even closer to school than Marta’s place, right? That stuff is in our corner.”

  Liam laughs. “Our corner? You’re invested in this too, huh?” His voice is clipped when he says it, and it stirs up that anxious, helpless feeling inside of me—the one I get when I think about him and Brie.

  I don’t know if he’s looking for a response or not, but I don’t give him one.

  My heart drops to the pit of my stomach, and I walk back to the bedroom, stripping out of my green dress. Even though it’s made of soft cotton, it feels tight and uncomfortable after all of this.

  Liam comes in after me, even though I’m not sure I want him to. I’m turned to the window, and he’s watching me as I undress.

  “I thought I was a part of this,” I say. “I’m not just a tourist in Hell’s Kitchen. I’m not one of those women.”

  “No, you’re not,” he responds. “You wouldn’t be here if you were. None of them would have agreed to this. None of them would have been like you are with Brie. And none of them could get me to move to fucking Queens.”

  “That was sort of a st
retch for you.” I can’t help but smile. I turn to him, and I realize he’s lured me in again. “You’ve got to admit that it’s not that bad here.”

  “It’s not that bad because you’re here,” he says, stepping closer to me.

  I raise my hand, even though I can almost feel the heat of his body against mine. I want him to fill that gap between us. But he needs to hear this first. “I think we might be confusing things for Brie.”

  “We’re not,” he says. “You’re my ace in the hole. Two incomes, two parents. A woman to do all the mom shit the judge thinks you’re doing. When we actually know I’d be packing the lunches and making the beds. Brie will understand when you—when we decide—” He stops.

  “When we decide what?” My heart beats faster. “You just asked if I was invested. Like you thought I wasn’t.”

  “I can’t tell what you are or not. I’m saying if you want in, it makes our case stronger.”

  “I am in, Liam. I’m as far in as I can be. I want that little girl to be with you, but the deal was that we had an end date. And now it doesn’t seem like there is one in sight.”

  “What? You want there to be some kind of end?”

  “Yes. There should be. For Brie. For you and me—for use to move on after this. I’m not your real wife.”

  “Documents are all signed and file. You’re as real as they come.” Liam walks over to me and puts his hands on my shoulders. “It’s more than most marriages are based on. A lot of them, anyway.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying that—” He purses his lips together. “That you can stay as long as you want. I like having you around.”

  As always, my body feels lit on fire from the inside when this man is close to me. But his words don’t match the moment. Even if I don’t know what I want to hear, it’s probably not that. I try to pull away, but Liam puts his arms around my waist and draws me into his body, my skin pressed against his shirt, a thin layer between us. I can feel the heat rising off his skin.

  “Come on, Liam. Let me go.”

  “That was hard for me to say,” he whispers. “I don’t do commitment. You know that. This is as close as I’ve gotten. Do you think I would have taken a chance on just anyone? Moved out of my apartment?”

  “You did all of this for Brie. It’s pretty clear when I look at the two of you together that you’re a family.”

  He brings a hand to my hair and pushes a lock behind my ear. It falls back over my face. “I haven’t been much of a family guy in the past two years. For Brie, yeah, I am. But she hasn’t been living with me, and she and the bar have been my only concerns. Now, maybe, there’s room for something else.”

  My heart rate increases. Liam Dougherty is a man I shouldn’t get my hopes up for, but here I am. In this apartment, living with him. Married to him. Making popcorn for his kid. “Like what?”

  “Like us. Maybe this is something that can work. For longer than a few weeks.” He doesn’t give me a chance to respond. Instead, he kisses me hard and pulls me down to the bed.

  When he touches me, my thoughts become unclear. Everything is foggy, lost in a haze of lust.

  I don’t realize that I’ve fallen asleep, only that I’ve awaken, and it’s day. Liam isn’t in bed, but I can hear him in the kitchen.

  I go to the window.

  The sun is shining, and green is starting to come in on the trees.

  And two women who look like they shouldn’t be working on a Sunday—they’re headed right for our front door.

  “Liam!” I shout. Suddenly, last night’s conversation seems to fade into the background.

  I can say with certainty who sent them, but I have no way to predict what’s coming next.

  Liam

  I speed over to the front door, trying not to scream curse words at the top of my lungs.

  Whoever Marta sent probably doesn’t think a steady stream of “Fuck, fuck, fuck!” is good for a little girl’s ears. I look over my shoulder to the little girl in question. Her hair is undone, and the braids have made her hair into a mass of crimped-looking curls. It’s all tangled in the back from how she’s been sleeping. In front of her, I have a giant plate of waffles with a scoop of vanilla ice cream on top.

  “Shit,” I mutter. I look over my shoulder to see Skye frantically pulling on the dress she was wearing last night. No panties, no bra—normally I’d like that kind of thing. And her hair—it looks like sex hair. There’s a wild piece of it sticking up in the back. “Skye—” I hiss. “Get into the bathroom—put on a bra—and brush your hair—”

  Her mouth hardens into a straight line. My stomach tightens into a knot, but there’s not much I can do about Skye right now. After dodging every question last night and throwing her into bed to get out of actual conversation, yelling at her to look proper is probably the last thing I should be doing this morning. But I have a sneaking suspicion I know who’s at the door.

  When I open it, my worst fears are confirmed. I hear the door to the bedroom shut, and the shower turns on. They can’t fault my wife for taking a shower—can they?

  “Good morning,” I say. I try to make my voice sound cheerful, and I plaster a fake grin on my face. I’d wager it looks more like a grimace, but it’s the best I’ve got at eight on a Sunday morning. Two women stand in front of me, both of them wearing black pantsuits with white button-down shirts. The older one has dyed red hair and holds a coffee in her hand like it’s a lifeline. The other one looks like she’s maybe twenty years old—and she has no idea what the fuck she’s doing here.

  “We’re here to speak with Mr. Liam Dougherty, and his wife, Skye Williams.” The older one digs in her bag and pulls out several sheets of paper, looking through them frantically like she’s searching for something she can’t seem to find. “Looks like Ms. Williams hasn’t gone through the process of changing her name yet.”

  “We’ve already found Jesus, if that’s what you’re here for,” I say. I hope for a smile from either one of them, but none is forthcoming.

  “Is Ms. Williams planning on changing her name, or is she not?” The older woman is still looking down at her papers. When she looks up at me, her rheumy blue eyes are blank and emotionless.

  “It’s up to her,” I say through gritted teeth. “Now, I’m not sure I caught either of your names. Or what you’re doing at my place of residence on a Sunday morning.”

  “I’m Donna Gunnis, and this is Amber Peterson. We’re from Child Protective Services, and we’re just here to see how you’re doing with Brie.”

  “And you’re working on Sundays now? I didn’t think the state government paid enough for that.” They certainly don’t, I think. But Marta might have found a way.

  “Yes, we work on Sundays when a little girl is having a first overnight with a known criminal and his brand-new wife who apparently appeared from nowhere several weeks ago.”

  “We’ve been together for months,” I say, even though my heart is beating slightly faster. It’s a lie, but it’s the best I’ve got, and I’m fairly sure they can’t prove much of anything in that department. “And I’m an honest business proprietor. No longer involved with any criminal activities. My former parole officer can tell you all about it. He’s actually a friend of mine now—and he’s helping me get the record expunged. Felony knocked down to a misdemeanor.”

  “That’s all good and well,” Donna says, trying to peer into the house over my shoulder. I see her make note of the tattoo beneath my sleeve. She takes out a small notepad filled with pencil markings and jots something down before looking back up at me with a strained smile. “But we’re going to need to come in and take a look around. Just to make sure that Brie is in an appropriate environment. Safe. Tidy. Nurturing. Healthy.”

  I nod quickly and step to the side. I know from experience that trying to get these people to go away always fucking backfires. “We’ve just moved in. It’s not perfect—”

  Donna and Amber push past me. It seems like Donna almost tries to bu
mp into me with her shoulder, but I step to the side. Fists clenched, I watch as they start walking around and looking through the apartment. Donna keeps her notebook out and jots in it every few seconds. Her expression looks generally displeased, but I’d bet that’s just how her face is.

  The younger woman, Amber, comes up to me, looking a bit like a deer in headlights. “Where’s the child, Mr. Dougherty?”

  “In the kitchen, eating breakfast.” I say a silent prayer that she’s finished with her ice cream.

  Amber pops around the corner, and I hear her voice change instantly to that sickly-sweet tone adults often use with children. Brie’s not that kind of kid—she’s smarter than most adults I know, and I cringe when I hear Amber speak.

  “What do you have there, honey?” Amber’s voice sounds like a high-pitched squeak.