Every Summer After(53)

“Does she know that?” I ask. “She introduced herself as your girlfriend last night,” I remind him.

“Yeah, she was then,” he says. “But she’s not now. We broke up. I ended things. After we dropped you off.”

“Oh.” It’s all I can manage to get out of the noise that’s whirling around my head.

Is this because of me? It can’t be because of me.

As much as I would like to insinuate myself into Sam’s life like the past twelve years haven’t happened, like I didn’t completely betray him, I know I don’t deserve that. I stare into the bowl of popcorn. He’s waiting for me to say more, but I can’t grasp any of the words floating around in my head and smoosh them into a sentence.

“She’s going to be there tomorrow,” he says. The funeral, he means. “I didn’t want you to get the wrong idea. I just wanted to be honest with you.”

I hold my face still so he can’t tell that he’s delivered a direct blow, slamming into my weakest spot with precision. He keeps talking. “I also wanted to make sure you knew I wasn’t being totally inappropriate earlier.” I venture a peek up at him. “Maybe just a little out of line.” His mouth moves into a one-sided smirk, but his eyes are wide, waiting for reassurance. And at the very least I owe him that, so I reach for a joke.

“I get it. You’re obsessed with me.” Except it doesn’t sound funny when it leaves my mouth, doesn’t drip with the sarcasm I’d intended.

He blinks at me. If the TV wasn’t casting a blue light over his face, I feel certain I’d see a flush moving across it.

I open my mouth to apologize, but he picks up the remote.

“Shall we?” he asks.

Throughout the movie, I keep sneaking glimpses of Sam instead of watching. About an hour in, he starts yawning. A lot. I move the popcorn bowl onto the coffee table and pull out the throw pillow from behind me.

“Hey.” I nudge Sam’s foot with mine. “Why don’t you stretch out and shut your eyes for a bit?” He looks over at me with heavy lids. “Take this.” I pass him the pillow.

“All right,” he says. “Just for a bit.” He tucks his arm under the pillow and lies on his side, his legs extending well onto my side of the couch and his feet bumping up against mine.

“This okay?” he whispers.

“Of course,” I say and pull the afghan over our legs and up to his waist. I snuggle down into the couch.

“Good night, Sam,” I whisper.

“Just a few minutes,” he murmurs.

And then he falls asleep.



* * *





SAM AND I are a tangle of limbs when I wake up. We’re still on either end of the couch, but my leg is across his leg, and his hand is wrapped around one of my ankles. My neck aches, but I don’t want to move. I want to stay here all day, with Sam sleeping soundly, a hint of a smile across his lips. But the funeral starts at eleven this morning, and light is streaming in from the small basement windows. It’s time to wake up.

I unfurl myself from Sam and gently shake his shoulders. He groans at the disruption, and I whisper his name. He blinks up at me in confusion and then a crooked grin slowly spreads across his mouth.

“Hey,” he croaks.

“Hey.” I grin back. “You slept.”

“I slept,” he says, rubbing his face.

“I didn’t want to wake you, but I figured I should so you weren’t rushing around before the funeral.”

Sam’s grin fades, and he sits up and leans forward, his elbows on his knees and his head resting in his hands.

“Is there anything I can do to help? I can go to the Tavern to set up or . . . I don’t know . . .” Sam straightens, and then rests his head on the back of the couch. I sit facing him, my legs crossed beneath me.

“It’s all taken care of. Julien will be at the Tavern this morning finishing up. He told us to stay away till after the service.” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “But thank you. I should probably just get you back to the motel.”

Sam brews a pot of coffee and pours us each a traveler’s mug. I try to make small talk, but he gives one-word answers, so after we climb into the truck, I decide I should just keep my mouth shut. We don’t speak during the short drive to the motel, but I can see the tension in Sam’s jaw. It’s almost eight when we pull into the parking lot, and aside from a few cars, it’s deserted. I unbuckle my seat belt but don’t move. I know something is wrong.

“You okay?” I ask.

“Believe it or not,” he says, looking out the front window, “I was kind of hoping today would somehow never come.” I reach out and put my hand over his, rubbing my thumb back and forth. Slowly, he turns his hand over, and I watch as he curls his fingers through mine.

We sit there, saying nothing, and when I look up at Sam, he’s staring out the windshield, tears streaming down his face. I move over on the seat and lean against him, placing our clasped hands onto my lap and wrapping my free hand around them both. His body is shaking with silent sobs. I place a kiss on his shoulder and squeeze his hand tighter.

My instinct is to tell him it’s going to be okay, to soothe him, but I let the grief wash over him instead. Waiting it out with him. Once his body is still and his breaths are steady, I pull my head back and brush away some of his lingering tears.