Liam
 

I didn’t call her back right away.

I mean, I had a show to finish; a good forty minutes’ worth of music to play.

But I did have to call her before I left for the day, and I wanted to do it before the next jockey came in, so, after sending the station into my second-to-last music section, I drop my headphones to my shoulders and dial Kensley’s number into the ancient desktop phone, on a line that isn’t connected to the airwaves.

Now, I’m leaning into the table—it’s my go-to position if I’m not standing—and rest my forehead in my hand, looking down at the table as the phone rings in my ear.

I tell myself it’s because I don’t want to see Johnson’s knowing smirk.

I’m thinking hard about this girl.

About the call.

About the douche who is now her ex.

Hell, I hope he’s now an ex.

Not for my own pleasure, of course, but for Kensley’s sanity.

Who the hell tells those things to the mother of their children? And, on what he should have assumed was live radio?

The phone continues to ring.

And ring.

Does the girl not have voicemail, even?

I glance to the callboard, seeing that the call is now at the fifty-second mark. I’m going to have to let this go and write up a quick report that the counseling numbers weren’t given due to hang-ups and inability to call back.

Just as I pull the phone away from my ear though, I hear the line pick up.

Voicemail?

Kensley?

“Hello?” The answer is breathless, but the voice definitely belongs to Kensley.

“Hey,” I start, and suddenly have nothing to say.

No, I have a lot to say, I just can’t figure out how to get it out.

“Who is this?”

Shaking my head mentally, I try again. “Sorry. This is Liam. From the radio.” Smooth.

There’s a pause before, “Oh.”

“You hung up before I could give you those numbers,” I say, going with the easy thing. I pull back the paper with said numbers. It sits on my table, untouched, every day; hell, I say the numbers so often, they’re practically etched in my head. But I need something to do.

So, I pick up a pen and start to doodle.

Scratch my pen back and forth over the corner.

Random circles.

…and maybe a series of seven numbers, too.

“Yeah, I won’t be needing them. There’s nothing to fix.” Her voice is that strong, take-no-bull one from before. “We’re good. But thank you.” My pen stops.

We’re good?

She was good?

With the shit he told her?

“Look,” I cut in, dropping my pen to the table top, “it’s none of my business, but what he said to you is not good. I mean, I get wanting to fix things for your kids but—”

“No, you’re right,” she interrupts, “it isn’t your business, but by we I meant my girls and I.”

The relief I feel spreads through my chest. “Oh. Okay. Yeah, that’s good.”

“Thank you, Liam.” It’s the first time she’s said my name and I can’t explain what it does to me. “It’s been…fun,” she finishes, the sarcasm more than evident in her voice, and it doesn’t take a genius to know she’s about to hang up on me.

“Wait. Kensley,” I rush out, then drop my hand to my lap, and hang my head low. Fuck. I’m going to do it. I’m three seconds away from saying something.

I still have time to stop.

I don’t have to say anything.

“Hmm?”

But God, her voice. It sends chills through me; there’s something about this girl.

“This is incredibly forward and, fuck, probably a lot crazy, but I, well, I don’t know where in the San Diego area you are, but I spend a lot of time down at Balboa Park. I run in the afternoons, and thought maybe you liked bringing your girls there, and maybe we could meet up. If you wanted to talk, I mean. I could meet you guys by Pepper Grove. My nephew likes that park.”

I sound like a crazy man.

Not quite stalker level, but definitely crazy.

Who does this?

Who lunges onto a woman who was just told grotesque things from the man who she lived with?

And who didn’t give a fuck what she looked like, or that maybe her now-ex had spewed truth?

All I know is her voice, and damn, but that’s enough for me.

“Yeah, that’s probably not—” she’s saying, incredulously. Yup. Can’t say I blame her.

So, I gave her an out, and cut her off, “Yeah, no. Sorry. Like I said, that was forward and out of line, I’m sorry. You’re sure you don’t need those numbers? I have them right here.” I try redeeming the call.

“I’m good,” she answers softly. Sweetly. Fuck me. “But thank you, Liam.”

“Right. Yeah. You’re welcome.” I’m losing this conversation and I have no other lifeline. “Good luck, Kens.” I end the call before she can, only to be greeted with a slow clap from across the table.

Johnson gets the middle finger from me right before I pull my headphones on, ready to end the morning.

Shit, I can’t believe I just…

Sighing, I focus on the task at hand.

And try pushing Kensley with the pretty voice from my mind.

 

When I got home after leaving the station, the very last thing I’d been in the mood for was my afternoon run.

Unfortunately, Guinness, my three-year-old boxer, was.

I managed to hold him off long enough for a shower and nap—shower, because I was boycotting that run—but by the time two rolled around, Guinness was running laps around my open-concept rental, and I could just picture him crashing into the wall and sending the television crashing down from its hanging perch.

…Which is how I found myself running through Balboa Park, as if I hadn’t invited a girl to that very place to talk, only two hours before.

Every time I cast my eyes to the left or right, I tell myself I’m not looking for some faceless woman with two young daughters.

Every time Guinness and I slow down because of a passing stroller or a family on bikes, including a kid wobbling to stay in a straight line, I convince myself I’m not trying to find recognition in them.

I have no fucking clue who this Kensley is, but I still find myself searching for her in every face.

Every family unit.

Now, I sit on a park bench as Guinness lolls on his side, tongue falling out of his mouth and resting on the warm concrete. The sun feels nice on this late winter day. March is a beautiful time in San Diego—brisk mornings and nights, but decent temps during the day.

Cold enough to head out for my run in a light long-sleeve shirt, but warm enough that I don’t bother with sweatpants, and stick with shorts.

I’m leaning back, my legs stretched out in front of me, when I hear my name.

I recognize the voice, as does Guinness.

In one quick, not so graceful motion, he’s up and at attention, stubbed tail wagging at ninety-miles an hour.

“Guinnee!” is the next sound to come, this time from the high-pitched voice of my four-year-old nephew.

Smiling, because I can’t help but smile when my sister and nephew come to hang out, I sit up and tug on Guinness’s leash, the nonverbal cue having him pop down to sit, but not without an exaggerated stink eye in my direction.

“Stay,” I command as I stand, just in time for my sister and her kid to reach us. I reach an arm out and Mae steps into my side, hugging me as I drop my arm around her shoulder. “How’s it going, kid?”

“Still older than you,” she teases, the same comeback she’s had since the day I grew taller than her. “We’re good. Josh was excited to hear you guys would be here.”

Guinness whines at my feet, still sitting patiently. “Alright.” Immediately upon his release word, he stands and—as gently as a dog of his size can—steps into my nephew. Josh laughs and wraps his arms around the dog’s neck.

“Can we play?” Josh asks, both to his mother and me.

I nod but look to my sister, who smiles and nods too. “Just over here. You know he can’t come off his leash, baby.”

As Mae sits, I tie Guinness’s leash to the back of the bench, allowing him to play semi-freely with Josh just behind us.

“So, how are things?” I ask after sitting down. Mae and I have always been close. Three years separate us, but she’s always been my closest friend.

Even when I was an annoyed ten-year-old, being told on more than one occasion, “Oh, you must be Mae’s brother. You look so much like her!”

Exactly what a guy wanted to be told—

You look like your older sister.

Eventually it didn’t bother me—you know, when the testosterone kicked in, and I gained fifteen inches on her.

“It’s good.” Mae nods, a thoughtful look on her face. “I got to talk to JR last night, so that was nice.”

JR is Mae’s husband. Joshua Jameson, the second. Or, Junior. My nephew is a third, himself, but with JR going by that, Josh has always been…Josh.

“When’s he due home?” I like the guy; he’s good for my sister. He’s a helicopter pilot for the Marine Corps and is currently out of country on a brief tour. Last Mae told me, he was supposed to be home last week, but that obviously hadn’t happened.

 “Hopefully in a couple of weeks.” Mae’s voice falls a little, and I know it’s because she misses JR. Those two were inseparable from the moment they met, which was over ten years ago. High school sweethearts.

I have to say, I’m slightly envious of the two of them.

Getting your forever at sixteen.

No need to play the field.

Even though I host a cheating segment on the radio and hear my fair share of stories that deal with military, even though those very stories sometimes have me considering JR being away…

I know the man is head over heels for my sister.

“Weeks now? Dang.”

My sister nods a few times, her thoughts obviously a million miles away. “Yep.” She sighs. “Gotta love the military. Lot of hurry up and wait, followed by change of plans. He thinks it may be a couple months, even.”

I nudge her shoulder and offer her a crooked grin. “At least you’re home. You could be out in North Carolina still, with no family nearby.”

She cracks a smile. “Yeah. Instead I get to see your face every day.”

I feign shock. “I thought you loved me.”

“I do, bub. I do,” she says around a laugh. “Anyway. Enough about me. What’s new with you?”

“In the, oh…thirty hours since I’ve talked to you last?”

“Hey, you’re a popular guy. Things can change quickly.”

I chuckle lightly and look out to the play set where kids of all ages are running around. “Unfortunately, nothing’s changed since we talked. Same ol’, same ol’. You know.”

Mae nods a few times before blurting, “It’s because you hole yourself up in your house with Guinness. You gotta get out.”

Grinning, I look back at her. “You make me sound like I’m some hermit.”

“Well, you are!” Her smile is bright, so I don’t challenge her. “You have friends! Why don’t you hang out with them?”

“Because they’re all married.” And they are. Every last one of them.

The last wedding was back in November; I’ve been the lone guy out for four months now.

Nothing like being the third…fifth—really, let’s be honest here, the seventh—wheel.

“Surely their wives have friends.”

I shrug and look back to the playground, my eyes once again searching for a woman, a woman I don’t know.

“I know you like your job, but there’s more to life than work,” Mae goes on.

“I’m at the station for six hours a day,” I scoff. “Sometimes a little longer if there are meetings and whatever, but rarely am I there longer than eight hours. Monday through Friday, even.”

“Night gigs.”

“Okay, that’s part of the job; I’m expected to make those appearances.” Occasionally I have to hang out at the local clubs or help with some drive or another.

“But that’s all you do, Liam. You don’t go to those places unless you’re there for work.”

I force a new grin on my face. “What’s with you? Why are you going after me?” I try teasing.

“I just want to see you happy.”

“I am happy.” Mostly.

“Mostly,” she says, echoing my thoughts.

Sighing, I run a hand through my hair before dropping my fist to my lap. “You guys want to do pizza tonight?”

Mae shakes her head, that sad smile on her face. “You’re something else, Liam Ryan Hardt. You could be—”

“And I want to hang out with my sister and nephew. Nothing wrong with that.”

Suddenly, Josh pops up from behind, his face between Mae’s and mine. “I want pizza!”

Saved by the child.

I wink at Mae, thankful for the change in topic. “Pizza it is.”