Escaping Reality

as he asks, “Can you walk that far in those shoes?”
    “After walking around New York for years, my feet are oblivious to
    pain. I can walk.” Or I might stand here in the beam of his scorching gaze
    and melt in my shoes. He still wants me, but it will be cold comfort in my
    empty bed tonight. I’m letting him go. He’s letting me go. I’m complicated.
    I’m always complicated.
    I start to turn, to get this over with, but his fingers curl on my elbow
    and he pulls me close, his legs pressing to mine, sending waves of heat
    through me. And just like that, everything but Liam fades away. There are
    no people walking about, no doorman a few steps away, no horns honking.
    There is just me and this man, and I tingle with awareness, alive when I was
    barely living before meeting him. There are many things I want to say to
    him but cannot. I am confused and conflicted in all ways possible with this
    man, stuck between right and wrong.
    “Liam—”
    “Amy,” he says softly, his tone just sharp enough to be warning, a
    command of silence, and maybe he simply wants me to stop arguing with
    him, but in my mind, he is saving me from something I might say and we
    both will regret.
    “Yes,” I say as if he’s actually issued the warning, and wishing he’d
    say whatever he stopped me to say. Wishing it would be something magical
    that made everything all right. “Let’s go to the store, Liam.”
    I do not know why I said his name. Why I felt the absolute need to
    say it, or why it lingered on my lips almost wistfully, but his eyes narrow, his
    head tilting slightly and there is no question he’s noticed. I hold my breath,
    not sure what he will say. Not sure what I want him to say. Not sure what
    he intended when he pulled me close. But when he finally replies, I get
    nothing more than, “Yes. Let’s go to the store.”
    Air trickles from my lips and I am both relieved and disappointed by
    his non-response.
    But he does not allow distance between us, drawing my hand in his
    again as he turns us forward.
    Easily, comfortably, we fall into step together, silence settling
    between us and I find myself obsessing about our fingers twined together.
    About what that means about his intentions and even mine.
    Too quickly we are at the store and Liam releases my hand to open
    the door. I freeze with a jolt of reality. We are not one but two again, and
    he may never touch me again. Once we are done here, we are…done.
    Emotion wells in my chest and I can feel Liam looking at me, willing me to
    look at him, but I can’t. Not without forgetting why I have to do this.
    Feet heavy as lead, I walk into the store, the cool air conditioning
    adding to the chill I have suddenly developed. Hugging myself, I stop just
    inside the entrance and see phone displays in the center of the store,
    accessories hanging on the walls and a small service counter in the back.
    Liam steps beside me, and as if washing away my fear he will never touch
    me again, his hand settles on my back. The touch is electric, sizzling down
    my spine and washing away the cold.
    “Hi, folks.” The greeting comes from a lanky guy no more than
    twenty, with dark, wavy hair and black, thick-rimmed glasses, wearing a
    store t-shirt, who stops in front of us. “I’m Scott.
    Can I help you?”
    “We need to have you look up our account information,” Liam states.
    Scott shoves his glasses up his nose and indicates a counter in the
    back of the store. We follow him there and Liam does not remove his hand
    from my back. We stop at the counter and Scott walks behind it, pulling a
    keyboard closer to him. “What can I help you with?”
    Liam sets the phone on the counter. “Can you confirm the name on
    the account and who has access?”
    Scott’s face pinches. “Only if I’m talking to the person who owns the
    account, and surely they would know this information already.”
    “Not if a good friend set the account up for them,” Liam corrects.
    “Then I need the ID of whoever is on the account,” Scott replies. He
    obviously takes his job seriously and I have to respect the guy, considering
    how I value my privacy.
    Liam glances at me. “He’ll need your ID.”
    I’d seen this coming, but as I open my purse a sliver of unease ripples
    down my spine as a thought hits me. Is this Liam’s way of seeing my driver’s
    license? I remove my driver’s license that reads Amy Bensen and it hits me
    that it is a Colorado license. Liam is a smart man. This is