Love in the Time of Serial Killers(80)

I gestured toward his sound equipment, the pavilion, the playground. Suddenly it occurred to me that there could still be kids and parents here, that they could be watching this whole tableau play out, although thankfully they wouldn’t be able to hear anything. Sam had done so much just to ensure that my brother’s proposal was something memorable and special, and now here I was, ruining everything. It made me hate myself, but it only strengthened my resolve that ultimately this was the right thing to do, that I could only do more damage the longer we stretched this out.

“So when did you plan on having it,” he said. It wasn’t a question.

“I warned you,” I said, my voice low. “I told you at the start of this that I didn’t know if I could manage anything serious.”

“You did,” he agreed. “I guess I should’ve listened. I shouldn’t have paid attention to all the small ways you told me that you care about me, too—the way you kissed me on the Fourth of July, or encouraged me to finish building that guitar, or let me hold you after you thought Lenore was gone. Just be honest with me, Phoebe. How do you feel about me?”

“Of course I care about you,” I said, the words coming out sounding stilted and false, even though I did mean them. “But I can’t be in love with you.”

He looked away, his throat working as he swallowed. When he dragged his eyes back to mine, they had a slight sheen. “Can’t, or won’t?”

What was the difference? To love someone was to need them, to open yourself up to pain and rejection and loss. Of course I’d dreamed of finding the person I could fully trust, and of course these last few weeks I’d harbored the occasional hope that that person might be Sam. But when it came down to it, there was way too much risk involved. I’d been on my own for so long, and I knew exactly how to make that work for my life. Even my advisor had said it—I’d let myself go off course this summer. It was time to get back on.

“I just can’t,” I said. “I don’t have it in me. I’m sorry.”

Sam gave a little laugh, a humorless sound. “Well, that was honest,” he said. “I have to admit, I didn’t see this coming.”

“I know,” I said. I was trying really hard not to cry myself, because it wouldn’t be pretty. The only thing I could do was stare at the empty Capri Sun box still on one of the picnic tables until my eyes blurred, trying not to think about how everything had been just that morning, full of hope and excitement about Conner’s proposal. And Conner was going to want to debrief everything later, and he was going to be so happy, and meanwhile I’d want to die inside . . . “I swear to you, I didn’t plan any of this. I know you probably regret it all, especially spending your Saturday doing this, now that . . .”

I couldn’t finish that sentence. There was no way to properly convey how bad I felt that wouldn’t make it worse.

“I don’t regret any of it,” Sam said. “Not the last few weeks, not today, not even saying someday to that kid if that’s what set this off. I don’t regret giving you my heart, Phoebe. I just wish you’d taken more care with it.”

And then I was definitely crying, but it didn’t matter. Sam was already walking away.





TWENTY-THREE





THE DAYS FOLLOWING my breakup with Sam were rough. Dr. Nilsson wanted the revised chapter within the week, but the idea of jumping back into the thing I loved—analyzing true crime—suddenly held no appeal. I’d slump over my desk for hours, rereading the same sentence. Then I’d get tired and try to write in bed, but even propping myself up with pillows against the headboard brought back memories of Sam, and I couldn’t do it. Next I tried a change of scenery, getting out of the house to write in a local coffee shop, but all I did was stare at neighboring tables with unfocused eyes until eventually one college-aged girl asked rudely, “Can I help you?”

“No,” I said. “Sorry.”

She and her friends were still laughing when I packed up my stuff and left.

One morning, there was a box on my doorstep, and since I hadn’t ordered anything I felt my heart lift, hoping maybe it was another misdelivery for Sam. I could use it as an excuse to go over there, and then maybe I could . . .

Well, I never had the chance to carry that fantasy through. The box wasn’t to Sam but from him—unlabeled and sealed only with the flaps tucked under each other. Inside was my copy of Savage Appetites that I’d left over at his house, together with my purple bra, now clean and neatly folded. There was no note.

I’d done the right thing. My timing had been shit, but there had been no real future between me and Sam, no matter how many times I might’ve allowed myself to dream otherwise. It would’ve only gotten harder if we’d allowed it to stretch out all the way until the end of the summer, when I’d been about to leave.

But sometimes when I was lying in bed at night, I thought about him dancing. His face, flushed from the heat and exercise and joy. Then I thought about his face after I’d told him I couldn’t love him. He’d looked crushed, and I’d done that.

I wasn’t sleeping much.

One night, while I was still lying there, tossing and turning, Lenore jumped up on my stomach. Her eyes glittered at me in the darkness, as if she were assessing just how low I’d gotten. Finally, she kneaded my shirt for a few minutes, turning in a circle and then plopping down to stay there. She didn’t want to be petted—if I even tried she’d jump right back down. Instead, she was almost like a paperweight, holding me in place. It was incredibly annoying. It was also oddly soothing, and became one of the only ways to stop my masochistic inner loop.