Summary: Liam deals with his memories, and his guilt. This is the second and last in the Keychains series, but from Liam’s point of view.
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Liam
Long after they’ve dragged her out of your home, you find that you can’t stop staring at your hands.
It reminds you of a play that your mother used to take you to, your very first. Somehow, in the last years of her life, she would always cry at the sight of the queen sleepwalking around her chambers, rubbing her hands against each other till you were sure her skin would peel. You were too young to understand what was going on, but her words stayed with you. Out, damn’d spot, out I say*.
Maybe Mama knew even then, that Cordonia wasn’t capable of that kind of guilt.
You remove your frock coat with trembling hands, your fingers fumbling furiously over your buttons. You don’t even bother removing your medals – for the first time, all you want to do is tear up this outfit, burn it, throw it away. Anything except see it again. It smells too much of you – your sweat, your stains, your betrayal.
You don’t want to remember how she clutched at your lapels when you kissed her. How your hands slid slowly from her back to her hips, leaving goosebumps over her naked skin. How her fingers traced the outline of the key chain she’d given you barely three hours ago. How she moaned against your mouth. As if she would fall apart if you were to ever stop holding her. As if you were both the ocean she was drowning in, and the raft that would save her.
Don’t touch me, you should have told her while you still had the chance, I’m dirty. Everything about me, around me, in me…is dirty. Run, Esther. Run before my greed for you ruins us both.
Your engagement to another woman may have saved her life tonight, but you still have blood on your hands.
–
The shower is hot. Scalding. Merciless. Just the way you want it right now. You made sure of that as soon as you stepped into the bathroom. You stifle a cry as the water hits you, struggle to breathe, struggle to see through the rising mist.
You scrub vigorously, wondering if your skin will peel from the impact. It should. This is what you deserve. Not her scent lingering on your body. Not the raised welts her nails left on your back. Not your name whispered softly against your bare skin. Not her.
You scrub harder, keep scrubbing, convinced that if your skin peels off maybe there will be nothing of you left. Yet here’s a spot*.
…unfortunately, there are limits to how harsh you can be when all you have at hand is a loofah.
–
You don’t see the keychain until you’re ready and dressed for bed. From your vantage point it’s a glimmer atop your discarded dress-suit, lying forgotten in your desperation to get rid of everything that could remind you of tonight.
You rush to pick it up, cursing yourself for not noticing before. Nothing she has ever given you deserves to be on the ground.
Lady Liberty lies cool now against the warmth of your palm, the moonlight behind you transforming the steel to silver. Even in miniature she is regal, tranquil, unwavering. Every bit like the almost-Queen your country rejected. Even if you tried you just can’t forget how watching that statue rise from the mist made you feel.
Esther may have joked about the Noodle Incident of Senior Year, but you know what it took for her to let you have that dream. How hard she had hustled just to get you – a veritable stranger – on that boat, all the risks she had taken just to make her way here. All the ways she broke you down and built you up again. All the gifts she had given you, the ones no one here will ever see. Your return to childhood. Your laughter. The shedding of your walls. Your little outbursts of freedom. Your ability to believe in love again.
You must know I admire you, you’d told her that night, Your adventurous spirit. The way you follow your heart.
Her eyes glimmered blue-grey in the moonlight, promising things you no longer had any hope for. You can live that way too.
Maybe you could, if you were a different man. A better man. A braver man. A man who loved his woman enough, to turn an entire country upside down just to protect her.
A man who didn’t call a woman his wife while he made love to her, without making good on that promise.
Maybe you will.
The dampness on your cheeks doesn’t surprise you, and for one blessed night you don’t want to wipe them away. Not this man, darling. Not this man. But one day – hopefully not too far away from now – a man who is worthy of you will. And I will either be him or die trying.
When Drake and Bastein come back to your room to check on you, you are already fast asleep. Your face exhibits a peace that will never be a part of your waking hours from now on.
Your right hand is a fist, wrapped around her keychain – holding on to it like the talisman that it has become.
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* Macbeth, Act 5, Scene 1