Chapter 15
Jameson
Sam turns away from the door, her eyes meeting mine. She looks almost … shy.
I watch her walk over to me, her gaze moving from my face to the floor. It’s surreal to be here with her. To be in her room. In her space, the two of us alone.
She stops in front of the desk that’s shoved between the two beds. It’s old, with lots of drawers that I wish I could go through.
Her room is so empty it makes me wonder where she keeps all her things.
I expected her space to be chaotic, overflowing with the pieces of her life.
The bag she always carries around seems to hold an endless amount of stuff.
But the only way you can even tell the room is hers is the small stack of books that’s balanced on her side of the desk.
She has some posters up on the wall of bands I’ve never heard her talk about. Other than that, the room is lifeless, sterile even.
I move the frozen bag of peas from my face to my side. They aren’t very cold anymore, but I don’t want her to leave again, so I don’t say anything.
She looks over her shoulder when she hears me move, her hands hovering above the first-aid kit. After setting something down, she spins the desk chair around so it’s facing me, lowering herself into it.
Her face is level with mine as she twists to grab a wet washcloth off the desk. “I’m gonna start with your face. Is that all right?”
I nod.
She leans forward, and I spread my legs to accommodate hers. Her attention quickly drops down before she settles it back on my face. Gently, she presses the washcloth to my eyebrow and rubs at the dried blood. She watches me for a reaction, but I keep still. “Does that hurt?”
“No,” I lie.
She pulls the washcloth away, folds it over, then runs it down my cheeks and above my lip.
I close my eyes and drop my shoulders.
“You okay?”
“Yeah, it feels nice.” I sigh. “I’ve never had someone do this for me before. I always do it myself.”
Her hand slows, but she doesn’t say anything. She just keeps dragging the washcloth along my face. Eventually, she pulls away, and I hear a wrapper being ripped open.
I open my eyes as she says, “This is gonna hurt.”
She pours hydrogen peroxide on a gauze pad then presses it against my eyebrow. I hiss at the sting, and she winces from the sound.
“Sorry,” she whispers.
I lick my lip. “I’m fine.”
She peels open a butterfly bandage, and it reminds me of the time I first saw her.
“What actually happened that first day you came to the garage?”
“What?”
“With your face.”
She smooths the bandage over my eyebrow.
“You had a cut on your face.”
“Oh, that.”
“You said you fell, but”—I shake my head—“you didn’t.”
She busies herself, shuffling through the kit. “I got into a fight.”
I tense. “With who?”
She shrugs. “Some girl.” Turning back, she has a fresh washcloth in her hand.
“What’d you—”
“I’m going to—” she says at the same time.
I let out a short laugh. “Sorry, go ahead.”
She grazes her teeth over her bottom lip. “I’m going to do your chest now.” She begins to wipe away at the blood that’s caked onto my chest, her brows furrowed.
“Most of it isn’t mine,” I tell her.
I wait for her judgment, but it doesn’t come.
“So, why’d you and this girl get into a fight?”
“It was stupid.”
“Doesn’t matter. I’ve been in plenty of stupid fights.”
She hesitates.
“You don’t have to tell me.”
“It’s just …” She trails off. “It’s embarrassing.”
I gesture toward myself. “Can’t get any more vulnerable than this.”
She drops her eyes to her lowered hands and sighs.
“She called me a slut.” Before I can say anything, she continues quickly, “I didn’t even know who she was.
She and her friend came up to me, accusing me of trying to get with her boyfriend.
” She shakes her head. “I asked her who her boyfriend was and that only made her more mad. When she told me, I realized I have English with him, but we’ve never done anything.
” She raises the washcloth back to my chest.
“That’s not a stupid reason to get into a fight,” I tell her.
“I just get sick of it,” she mumbles.
“Sick of what?”
“The rumors.”
I suck in a breath when she skates the washcloth over my rib.
She yanks her hand back. “Shit, sorry.”
“It’s okay,” I groan, fighting back a cough. “What rumors?”
“I’m surprised you haven’t heard them.”
“It’s a really big school.”
She bites her lip, folding the washcloth in her lap.
“Sam,” I push, and she looks back up at me. “What rumors?”
“Guys …” She drops the washcloth onto the desk so she has an excuse to look away from me again. “Guys sometimes say they’ve been with me when they haven’t.”
I grind my teeth. “What?”
“It’s not—”
“Who?”
“Hmm?”
“Who started the rumors?”
“Oh, I don’t …” She turns back to me. “It’s okay.”
“That’s not okay, Sam.”
“When I hear something, I deal with it,” she says defensively. “Like that girl.” Leaning back in her chair, she adds, “I can handle myself.”
“But you shouldn’t have to.”
Her eyes go to the bruise on my side. “We both deal with things we shouldn’t have to.”
“If you hear a rumor like that again, you tell me, okay?”
She watches me for a moment before she finally whispers, “Okay.”
“I mean it,” I tell her.
She dips her chin, and I watch as she moves to neaten the supplies on the desk, putting everything in its place, then reaches for the frozen bag of peas. “I’ll go get you another bag.”
“You don’t have to—”
“I’m not asking,” she cuts me off. “You need to keep icing”—she waves her hand—“everywhere.”
She starts to stand, and I grab her wrist. “Thank you, seriously.”
She looks at me, like really looks at me, and it makes me feel like maybe … I don’t know … like maybe she sees me as something better. Someone better than I really am.
“Of course,” she breathes. “Be right back.”
She’s only gone a couple minutes before she’s silently easing through the door. It’s obvious from the way she moves that she’s used to quietly slipping through the house.
She hands me another bag of peas, and I press it against my side.
She slowly rakes her eyes down my chest. “Isn’t that cold?”
I tilt my head. “Thought that was the point.”
She laughs. “Don’t be a smartass.”
“And why do you have so many bags of peas?”
She pulls her lip between her teeth, trying to stifle another laugh. “They were on sale.”
I pull the bag away from my side because it really is cold.
She nods toward the shirt Johnny brought for me. “Do you wanna put that on?”
I eye it wearily before setting down the peas and grabbing the shirt. She stands over me as I attempt to pull it over my head, but I grimace when I raise my arm.
She takes a step toward me. “I can help you …” She pauses. “I mean, if you want me to.”
“Yeah,” I choke out through the pain.
Slowly, she helps me thread my arms through the sleeves, her hands gently brushing against my skin. I’ve never had someone treat me like this before, be this soft with me, this careful.
I try to move, but she tells me to keep still and slides the shirt over me.
She picks up the peas and hands them to me. “When’d you get that tattoo?”
“What?”
“The skull.”
“Oh, yeah, that.” I shift in place, my mind all scattered from how close she is, from the way her hands felt on me and how I wish I could have them on me again. “Not too long ago.”
“Does it mean anything?”
“No, just thought it looked cool.”
“Do you want more?” she asks, lowering herself back into her chair.
I nod. “I’ll probably end up with a bunch.” I press the peas back to my side. “What about you?”
“I don’t know,” she says. “I think I’d get one if it meant something.” She’s quiet for a minute before she asks, “Why’d you go to that fight?”
“What do you mean?”
“Like, did you want to do it? Do you like fighting?”
“It’s complicated.”
“I told you my stuff,” she says.
I blow out a breath. “I like to fight, but …”
“But what?”
“I don’t like who I am when I do. I don’t like that I like it.”
She nods like she understands.
I wonder if she really does.
“And it’s a lot of pressure.” I move the peas up to my face. “I always have to win. With my old man, there’s not really any room for error.”
“Yeah,” she says, her voice dropping, “I saw.”
“I …” I run a hand through my hair out of habit and flinch from the pain that shoots up my side. “I wish you didn’t see that.”
“I wish it didn’t happen,” she tells me. “But I’m not sorry that I saw it, that I was there.”
She stands from her chair, opens the window that’s over the desk, then rummages through a drawer. I lean forward, waiting to see what she’s looking for.
She pulls out a small tin and a lighter. Hoisting herself onto the desk, she settles in and takes out a half-smoked joint. I don’t ask her where she got it from, but part of me wonders if she stole it from one of the few times she’s sat with me while I rolled them.
She lights it, takes a hit, then offers it to me.
Normally, I would pass, never wanting to give up control, but with the amount of pain I’m in right now, I take it from her.
“How long have you been fighting?”
“Actual fights like that”—I pass her back the joint—“about a year.”
“Have you ever lost?”
“Once,” I answer, my hand instinctively dropping to my side.
She traces the movement, her eyes darkening. “Bet that didn’t go over well.”
I shake my head. “Once was more than enough, that’s for fucking sure. Never let myself lose after that.”
“What did he …?” She pauses. “Never mind, sorry …”
“It’s all right,” I tell her as she brings the joint up to her lips, as if to silence herself. “It’s … uh …”
She watches me. “It’s what?”
“Nice that you care.”
“Why wouldn’t I?” she asks, tilting her head to the side.
I shrug. “It’s easier to look the other way. Most people do.”
“Yeah, well, that’s shitty.”
“Doesn’t make it any less true, though.”
She shifts on the desk. “It scared the shit out of me when you went down,” she admits. “I couldn’t see you with everyone in front of me. I didn’t think you were gonna get up.”
“Me, neither,” I answer, remembering the feeling of being pinned to the ground, my body beaten, my father screaming at me.
“Johnny bet on you,” she says, her words pulling me from my thoughts.
“He did?”
“If I had money, I would have bet on you, too.”
“Next time,” I tell her, but she frowns.
“I didn’t …” She twists a ring on her hand, something I’ve noticed her do before. “It was hard for me to watch you get hurt like that.”
My stomach tightens. “It was?”
She nods.
“When I saw you there, I was upset,” I say, and she ducks her head. “But only because I didn’t want you to be in a place like that and … and also because I was happy you were there, and I felt like I shouldn’t be.”
Slowly, she raises her head, her eyes brighter than they’ve been all night.
“You’ve seen what my life is like. Being around me isn’t a good place to be. It’s …” I wrap a hand around my middle. “It’s selfish for me to want you there.”
“But I like being there,” she says quietly. “I like being with you.”
“You do?”
“Yeah.” She blushes. “A lot.”
I blink as she stubs out the joint.
“I like being with you, too,” I murmur.
She brings her knees up to her chest. “Really?”
I nod then repeat her words. “A lot.”
She smiles, and it’s the best thing I’ve ever seen.
Catching me watching her, she asks, “What?”
“Your smile,” I tell her. “I like it when you smile.”
She runs her fingers over her lips before she slides off the desk and steps over to a chest of drawers. “Are you tired?”
Exhausted.
“A little,” I answer.
“I’m going to change. I’ll um …” She bends down to grab her sleep clothes. “I’ll be right back.”
“I can step out.”
“No, it’s okay.” The drawer squeaks as she closes it. “Do you need anything?”
“I’m all right.”
“Water?”
“That’s okay.”
She nods before leaving, the door softly closing behind her.
It’s not long until she’s back, wearing a T-shirt that swallows her whole. I drop my eyes to the floor so I won’t stare as I hear her walk over to her bed.
I look up when the springs creak, finding her sitting across from me, her body mirroring mine.
“I’ll let you get some sleep,” I mutter, turning to stack the pillows behind me, but before I can get far, Sam comes up beside me.
“Let me,” she says.
I drop my hand and look up at her.
She arranges the pillows, and I attempt to move my body back.
“Whoa, easy,” she warns. She holds out her arm for me to grab onto, helping me lower myself down. Once I’m settled, she asks, “That feel all right?”
I nod.
The bottom of the bed dips as she sits by my feet. She reaches for my boots, and her eyes move up to mine, asking permission. I dip my chin, and she begins to untie them.
She places both boots on the floor beside the bed, sets an alarm, and then turns off the light. The room falls into darkness, and I hear her climb into bed.
Enough time passes that I think she’s fallen asleep, but then her small voice breaks through the quiet. “Jameson, are you still awake?”
I turn my head toward her. “Yes.”