Maame(103)

“The leftovers taste even better in the morning.” He hands me one of the bags and takes my other hand—it’s warm and swallows mine. “Come with me, Maddie.”

We step out into the warm evening and silently Sam walks me down a straight road. He still holds my hand, his fingers slotted in between mine. I don’t know a lot about him but I feel as if I could close my eyes, sink into his warmth, and still arrive wherever we’re going intact. We walk for ten minutes before we make a right and enter an ice-cream shop. He sits me at a table and goes to the counter, where there are rows and rows of ice-cream containers. It’s bright in here and the shop’s name, MOOPHORIA, is in neon lights behind the counter. When Sam returns, he places a cup of ice cream in front of me.

“Thank you.” I take a spoonful and the sugar makes my eye twitch. “This is very sweet.”

“They make it like that on purpose,” Sam says. “It’s good for shock.”

I look at him, knowing I wouldn’t blame him for cutting this date short. “Thank you, again. Sincerely.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Why is yours green?” I ask.

“It’s mint.”

“Eugh.”

“You don’t like mint chocolate ice cream?” he asks incredulously.

“Do you like eating chocolate after you’ve brushed your teeth?”

“Not the same thing.” He offers me his spoon. “Here, try some.”

I taste his and, “Okay, it’s not the same.”

“See?”

“But it’s not far off.”

He smiles but puts his spoon down. “Want to talk about what just happened?”

I clear my throat and shift in my seat. “I don’t know if I have anything else to add.”

“Then I’ll just answer your question.” Sam leans across the table. “You are.”

“What question?”

“When are you going to be fine again?” Sam clarifies. “And I’m saying, you are fine. This is your new fine, Maddie.”

I consider this. “That’s depressing.”

He laughs without joy. “I know it sounds it. But you’re not supposed to ‘get over’ someone dying,” he says, “especially someone you loved, and your feelings of guilt may not be justified, but they are natural. Thing is, you don’t ever go back, Maddie, to life before, and my advice is to accept that. To accept that you’re not the same person you were when your dad was alive and you can’t be again. Accept that your life is different now because of this monumental, irreversible change and that it’s okay to feel guilty one day and indescribable happiness another. This is life now,” he says. “This is how you live.”

He lifts his spoon and stirs his ice cream until it melts. It’s good for shock.

“Have you lost someone?”

He pushes his ice cream to the side and wipes his hands. “Little over a month ago, I lost a close friend of mine to suicide,” he says. And right there he turns into a different Sam, a more haunted Sam. “He’d been secretly battling depression and drug addiction and the day before he died, he called and asked to hang out. I think he might have said he needed to hang out.” Sam shakes his head. “It’s funny what you don’t hear when you should have been listening. I said I was too busy working on a project, the very same project that’s just secured me a contract. A contract and advance that feels very tainted. Maybe if I’d agreed to meet him … We always think we’ll see death coming and that we’ll have more time, until we’re reminded otherwise.”

So it wasn’t a fight he’d had. His friend had killed himself. I slide my ice cream toward him. “I’m so sorry, Sam.”

He looks up at me. “Thank you.”

“So you asked me out because … we have that in common? Because we know what the other is going through?”

“No,” he says. “Maddie, I asked you out because when I sat talking to you about my mother, I felt like we had a lot more to say to each other. I like when people speak honestly, in a way that suggests they can’t help it. I’m very attracted to you. Those are my reasons. Having someone close to us die is where that common link ends. The relationship you had with your dad is different to the one I had with Connor. I don’t mean to say in intensity or duration, but they just can’t be compared. Having lost someone doesn’t mean you understand what it’s like when someone else grieves.” He sighs. “We seem to be developing a thing where we only have serious talks when we meet—I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” I say. “I like it. The honesty. I don’t have to overthink.”

“I’m a fun guy, really.”

“Only non-fun guys say that.”

“Well,” and he smiles, “give me some time to prove it.”

And I think I will.

I wonder what Subconscious Maddie thinks of Sam; I’ve not heard from her in a while.

Dearest Maddie,

Thank you for getting in touch. I’m currently out of office and on annual leave for the foreseeable future because, quite frankly, I need a fucking break. If your query is urgent, please contact Your Gut. She should be able to help.

Best wishes,