Chapter 9: The Architect
1475 Words
Two weeks later, the charade had settled into a painful, suffocating rhythm. Liam was officially the "neighbor who hangs around"—a harmless, slightly clumsy fixture in Sarah’s new life. He slept on the air mattress in Ben’s spare room, surrounded by the cardboard boxes of his past that he refused to unpack, breathing in dust and the scent of Ben’s laundry detergent.
Every Friday evening, he walked the fifty feet of concrete to Sarah’s house to play the role of the well-meaning friend who was desperately trying to set her up with Ben.
Tonight was Movie Night.
It was a tradition he and Sarah had held sacred for five years. It used to be Deep Dish Pizza (sausage and giardiniera), terrible B-grade horror movies that made them laugh until they cried, and cheap red wine drank out of mugs.
Now, the tradition had been rewritten by the Architect himself. It was thin-crust pizza (Ben’s preference), a safe, PG-13 romantic comedy (to avoid stressing Sarah’s recovering brain), and sparkling water with lime.
The living room was dim, illuminated only by the flickering blue light of the television. It cast long, dancing shadows against the walls, turning familiar furniture into strangers.
Liam sat in the high-backed armchair—the stiff one he used to avoid because it aggravated his lower back. Now, he sat in it like a director on a set, watching the scene unfold.
Sarah and Ben were on the sofa.
"Move over a bit, Ben," Liam directed, pointing with a slice of pepperoni pizza. The grease glistened in the TV light. "You're hogging the blanket. Sarah looks cold."
"I'm fine, Liam," Sarah said, her eyes fixed on the screen. "Really."
"No, look, you're shivering," Liam insisted, though she wasn't. He needed the physical contact to happen. He needed to bridge the gap. "Ben, put your arm around her. Body heat conservation. It’s basic thermodynamics. You don't want her catching a chill so soon after the hospital."
Ben shot Liam a look that clearly screamed I hate you for making me do this. It was a look of panic and guilt, illuminated by the flash of a movie explosion.
But Ben sighed, awkwardly lifted his arm, and draped it over the back of the sofa. His hand hovered near Sarah’s shoulder, stiff and uncertain, like a bird afraid to land.
"See?" Liam grinned, though his heart felt like it was being fed into a woodchipper. "Cozy. You two look good together. Like a postcard."
Sarah didn't flinch. She didn't stiffen or pull away. She simply leaned back, allowing her shoulder to rest against Ben’s chest.
It was a natural, fluid movement. A settling. As if she belonged there.
"Thanks, Ben," she said softly.
Liam watched them. He watched the way Sarah’s head tilted toward Ben’s shoulder. He watched the way she seemed to fit into the space beside him, filling the void that Liam had left.
It's working, the realization hit him, tasting like copper and ash. She’s comfortable with him. She trusts him. When I’m gone, this transition won't be a jump; it will be a slide.
On the screen, the characters were walking through a snowy park in New York, having a dramatic conversation about second chances and hidden truths.
"He should just tell her," Ben muttered, taking a sip of water, trying to fill the heavy silence in the room. "Secrets never end well."
"Sometimes secrets are necessary," Liam countered quickly, the words tumbling out before he could check them. "Sometimes you lie to protect the people you love. Sometimes the truth is just a weapon."
Sarah turned her head. She looked away from the screen to look at Liam. The blue light washed over her face, making her skin look like marble—beautiful, cold, and distant.
"Do you really believe that, Liam?" she asked. Her voice was light, curious, devoid of the intimacy they used to share. "That lying is better than the truth?"
"If the truth destroys them?" Liam said, gripping the armrests of his chair until the fabric groaned. "Yes. Absolutely."
Sarah stared at him for a beat. Her gaze was searching, intelligent. For a second, Liam panicked. She knows.
Then she shrugged, turning back to Ben.
"I don't know. I think I'd rather know. But I guess that's why I'm watching the movie and not writing it."
She snuggled deeper into Ben’s side.
The Hum in Liam’s head spiked—a high-pitched whine that drilled into his auditory nerve. The tumor didn't like the stress. It was punishing him.
He felt a sudden, violent need to move. The image of them together—the silhouette of their heads touching—was burning into his retinas.
"Can I get anyone a refill?" Liam asked, standing up too quickly. The room tilted. He caught his balance on the armrest. "Water? Soda?"
"I'm good," Ben said.
"Water, please," Sarah said without looking away from the movie.
Liam walked to the kitchen. He stood by the sink, gripping the cold granite edge, trying to breathe. The house smelled of the pizza and Sarah’s vanilla candle—a scent that used to be home and was now just a memory.
He filled a glass with water.
His hands were bad today. The tremors were no longer occasional visitors; they were squatters. Earlier, he had struggled to button his shirt for ten minutes. Now, holding the heavy glass, the water rippled violently, sloshing over the rim.
He gripped the glass with both hands, white-knuckling it to steady the shake.
Pull it together, he commanded his own nervous system. Just for one more hour. Be the neighbor.
He walked back into the living room.
"Here you go," Liam said, reaching out to hand the glass to Sarah.
She reached up for it, her eyes still half on the screen.
Just as their fingers were about to brush, Liam’s hand jerked. A violent, electric spasm shot down his right arm, disconnecting his brain from his fingers. The signal simply cut.
The glass slipped.
It hit the coffee table with a wet thud, bouncing off the wood and onto the rug. Water splashed everywhere—soaking the expensive Persian carpet, spraying the pizza box, and landing in cold droplets on Sarah’s jeans.
"Whoops!" Liam jumped back, clutching his trembling hand to his chest, hiding it inside his jacket pocket before she could see the claw it had become. "God, I'm clumsy today. Sorry! Slippery glass."
He froze, waiting.
He waited for the look of concern. He waited for Sarah to ask, Why is your hand shaking like that?
A wife would notice. A wife would know that Liam Blackwood had the steady hands of an architect—hands that could draw a straight line without a ruler. A wife would know that dropping things was terrifyingly out of character.
Sarah jumped a little at the splash, then laughed.
It was a polite, easy laugh. The kind of laugh you give a clumsy guest who spilled wine at a party.
"Oh no!" she said, grabbing a napkin to dab at her jeans. "It's okay, Liam. Don't worry about it. It's just water. Ben spills stuff all the time, don't you, Ben?"
She didn't look at his hand. She didn't look at his pale, panicked face. She treated it exactly like what he said it was—a clumsy accident by a clumsy neighbor.
"I'll get a towel," Sarah said, standing up effortlessly. "Ben, pause the movie?"
She walked past Liam into the kitchen, humming the theme song from the film.
Liam stood there, water dripping from the edge of the table, staring at her back.
He felt a profound, crushing sense of relief that was immediately followed by a wave of loneliness so dark it almost brought him to his knees.
She didn't see him. She looked right at a symptom of his terminal cancer—the tremor that terrified him every night—and saw a butterfingers.
The erasure was complete. He was no longer Liam the fiancé. He was just Liam the clumsy friend.
"I'm so sorry," Liam muttered to Ben, sitting back down in the armchair and hiding his shaking hand between his knees, squeezing it to make it stop.
"It's fine, man," Ben whispered, leaning forward so Sarah wouldn't hear. "She doesn't suspect a thing."
"I know," Liam whispered back.
Sarah returned with the towel, smiling as if she hadn't a care in the world.
"Crisis averted!" she chirped, wiping the table. She sat back down, interlacing her fingers with Ben’s. "Okay, press play. I want to see if they get back together."
Liam watched the screen, but he didn't see the movie. He only saw the back of Sarah’s head, resting on another man’s shoulder, and realized that he had succeeded.
He had saved her. And it was killing him.
- Writer
