I could say all of this to Liam. I could be my most obnoxious self and lecture on the topic for hours. But I don’t, and the reason is that even through his clipped, hesitant tone and his currently lowered gaze, I can recognize an olive branch when it bites me in the ass.

Which, right now, it absolutely is. Biting, that is.

It’s been about two weeks since I first became aware that Liam is capable of human emotions. And as it turns out, being in a truce while living together means having significantly fewer shouting matches, but still doesn’t make finding topics of conversation any easier. Which is fine. Most of the time. It’s a big house, after all. But on the rare occasions in which our schedules overlap and we end up in the living room or in the kitchen together . . .

Awkward.

As fuck.

“Yeah.” My nod is sprain-your-neck enthusiastic—overcompensating. “It’s nice. To have good weather, I mean.”

Liam nods, too (stiffly, but maybe I’m just projecting), and just like that, we’re back to square one: silence.

I bite my thumbnail. Apparently I did not stop doing that when I turned fourteen. I need something to say. What do I say? Quick, Mara. Think. “Um . . . So . . .”

No thoughts. Head empty.

I let my sentence dangle like an overcooked noodle and temporize by turning around to grab a . . . a what? A spatula? A toaster? A snack! Yes, I’ll have a snack. I think I bought single servings of Cheez-Its. Trying to cut back and all that. Except that I can’t find them in my cupboard. There’s a family box. Another. A third one, in cheddar flavor—Jesus, I have a problem. But the little bags are not . . . Ah, there they are. Highest shelf, of course. I remember throwing them up there, thinking it’d be a problem for Future Mara.

Future Mara tries, but cannot reach them. So she looks back to ask Liam to grab one for her, and her heart sinks.

He’s staring at where my shirt rode up on my lower back—i.e., my ass.

Well, no. He isn’t. William K. Harding would never stoop so low, and the idea that he’d voluntarily glance at my scrawny ass is laughable. But he is looking at me, there, his lips slightly parted and his hand forgotten in midair, which likely means that he’s . . . horrified? By my eight-year-old sweatpants, I bet. Or by the explosion of freckles on my skin. Or by . . . God, what panties do I even have on? Please, let it not be the ones with Jeff Goldblum’s face Hannah got me last year. And how many holes do they have? He’s going to report me to the underwear police. I will be executed by the Victoria’s Secret mob, and—

He clears his throat. “Here.” He bravely overcomes his disgust and comes to stand behind me. He is just massive. So big that he completely blocks the overhead light. For a microsecond I feel warm, oddly tingly. Then he drops a bag next to my hand without me even having to ask, and says, “Should I move them to a lower shelf for you?”