Chapter 7
Now
Sam and I walk to the Tavern after finishing our ice creams, and when we arrive at the back door, we stand looking at each other awkwardly, unsure of how to part.
“It’s been so great to see you,” I tell him, tugging at the hem of my dress and hating how phony my voice sounds.
Sam must hear it, too, because he raises his eyebrows and jerks his head back just slightly.
“I was going to try to hit the liquor store before it closes,” I say.
“There’s a bottle of wine with my name on it.
It’s kind of a lot being back here.” I wince.
Why did I say that? How is it that I’ve seen Sam for all of an hour and the lock has come flying off my big mouth?
Sam runs his hand over his face and then through his hair. “Why don’t you come in for a drink? Twelve years is a lot of time to catch up on.” It doesn’t escape my notice that he’s already done the math.
I shift on my feet. There’s nothing more I want than to spend time with Sam, to just be near Sam, but I need some time to figure out what I’m going to say to him.
I want to talk about the last time we saw each other.
To tell him how sorry I am. To tell him why I did what I did.
To come clean. But I can’t go there tonight.
I’m not prepared. It would be like going into the fight of my life without any armor.
I look around the quiet side street.
“C’mon, Percy. Save your money.”
“Okay,” I agree. I step into the dark kitchen behind him, and when he flicks on the lights, my eyes slide down the slope of his back to the curve of his butt, which is a very big mistake because it is a stupidly great butt.
It is at this precise moment that he turns around, catching me mid-ass-ogle.
“Bar?” I ask, feigning ignorance. I brush past him and through the dining room doors, turning on the lights in the main room.
With my hand still on the switch, I take in the space.
I have to blink a few times to process what I see because it’s wild how little has changed.
Pine planks cover the walls and ceiling; the floors are some kind of tougher wood, maple maybe.
The effect is of being in a cozy cabin, despite the large size of the room.
Historic photos of Barry’s Bay hang on the walls along with antique logging axes and saws and paintings from local artists, including a few of the Tavern itself.
The stone fireplace sits where it always did, and the same family photo is placed on the mantel where it always was.
I make my way over to it while Sam takes a couple of glasses from the shelf behind the bar.
It’s a framed shot of the Floreks in front of the Tavern, which I know was taken the day the restaurant opened.
Sam’s parents are wearing massive smiles.
His dad, Chris, towers over Sue with one arm wrapped around her shoulder, holding her tight to his side.
A toddler Charlie clutches his free hand.
Sue is carrying an infant Sam; he looks about eight months old, his hair is so fair it’s almost white, and his arms and legs are deliciously dimpled.
I studied this photo countless times as a teen.
I touch Sue’s face now. She’s younger than I am in this photo.
“I always loved this shot,” I say, still examining the picture. I hear the gurgle of liquid being poured into glasses and turn to see Sam, adult Sam, watching me with a pained expression.
I walk to the bar and put my hands on the counter as I take a seat in front of him. He passes me a generous tumbler of whisky.
“You okay?” I ask.
“You were right earlier,” he says, his voice rough as gravel. “It’s a lot having you here. It kind of feels like I’ve been punched in the heart.” My breath hitches. He lifts his glass to his lips and tosses his head back, downing its contents.
I am suddenly one thousand degrees hotter and hyperaware of the dampness under my armpits and how my bangs are stuck to my forehead. There’s probably a cowlick up there. I try to push them off my face.
“Sam . . .” I begin, then stop, not sure what words come next.
I don’t want to do this now. Not yet.
I raise my glass to my mouth and take a large sip.
Sam’s gaze is relentless. His ability to maintain eye contact was something I got used to after I first met him.
And as we got older, that blue stare set fire to my blood, but now its pressure is overwhelming.
And I know, I know, that I shouldn’t find him attractive right now, but his dark expression and his hard jaw are unraveling me.
He is undeniably gorgeous, even when he’s a little intense. Maybe especially so.
I tip back the rest of the whisky and gasp at the burn. He’s waiting for me to say something, and I’ve never been able to evade him. I’m just not ready to open up our wounds now, not before I know whether we’ll survive them a second time.
I look down at my empty glass. “I’ve spent twelve years thinking about what I would say if I ever saw you again.
” I grimace at my own honesty. I pause, counting four breaths in and out.
“I’ve missed you so much.” My voice trembles, but I keep going.
“I want to make it better. I want to fix things. But I don’t know what to say to do that right now.
Please just give me a little more time.”
I keep my attention on my empty glass. I have both hands wrapped around it so he can’t see them shake. Then I hear the soft pop of the bottle’s cork. I glance up, my eyes wide with fear. But his are soft now, a little sad even.
“Have another drink, Percy,” he says gently, filling the glass. “We don’t have to talk about it now.”
I nod and take a deep breath, grateful.
“Na zdrowie,” he says, touching his glass to mine and raising it to his lips, waiting for me to do the same. Together, we gulp down our drinks.
His phone buzzes in his pocket. It’s not the first time it’s gone off this evening. He checks the screen and shoves it back in his shorts.
“Do you need to get that?” I ask, thinking of Chantal and feeling a pang of guilt. “I don’t mind.”
“No, they can wait. I’ll switch it off.” He lifts the bottle of whisky. “Another?”
“Why the hell not?” I attempt a smile.
He pours more and then comes around the bar to sit on the stool beside me. “We should probably take this one slowly,” he says, tilting his glass. I ruffle my bangs with my fingers, partly from nerves and partly in the hope of making them somewhat presentable.
“You once swore you’d never get bangs again,” Sam says, looking at me sideways. I turn in my seat to face him.
“These,” I pronounce, “are my breakup bangs!” And, wow, am I drunk already?
“Your what?” he asks, swinging to face me with a lopsided grin, brushing my legs with his in the process. I look down where his thighs bracket mine, then quickly back to his face.
“You know—breakup bangs,” I say, trying to enunciate as clearly as possible. He looks mystified. “Women get new hairstyles when we get dumped. Or when we dump someone. Or sometimes just when we need a fresh start. Bangs are like the New Year’s Eve of hair.”
“I see,” Sam says slowly, and it’s clear what he means is I really don’t see and also That’s crazy.
But a smile plays across his mouth. I try not to focus on the little crease in the middle of his bottom lip.
Booze and Sam are a dangerous combination, I realize, because my cheeks are toasty and all I can think is how much I want to suck on that crease.
“So were you the dumper or the dumpee?” he asks.
“I got dumped. Just recently.” I try to focus on his eyes.
“Ah, shit. Sorry, Percy.” He moves his head down to my level so he’s right in my eye line. Oh god, did he notice I was staring at his mouth? I force myself to meet his eyes. He’s wearing an odd stern expression. My face is burning. I can feel beads of perspiration forming above my upper lip.
“No, it’s okay,” I say, trying to subtly dab at the sweat. “It wasn’t that serious. We weren’t together very long. I mean, it was seven months. Which is long for me—the longest for me, actually. But, like, not long for most grown-up people.”
Oh, good, I’m rambling now. And maybe slurring?
“Anyway, it’s fine. He wasn’t the guy for me.”
“Ah,” he says, and when I look back to him, he seems more relaxed. “Not a horror fan?”
“You remember that, huh?” Delight tingles in my toes.
“Of course,” he says with open, disarming honesty. I smile—a huge, dopey, whisky-fueled smile. “Who could forget being subjected to years of shitty scary movies?” This is classic Sam, teasing but always gentle and never unkind.
“Excuse me?! You loved my movies!” I give him a playful punch on the arm, and, Jesus, his bicep is like concrete. I shake my fist, looking at him in disbelief. He wears a small grin as if he knows exactly what I’m thinking. I take a sip of whisky to cut the tension that’s closing in.
“Anyway, no. Sebastian definitely did not like horror movies,” I say, and then I rethink this.
“Actually, I don’t know. I never asked. And we never watched one together, so who knows?
Maybe he loved them.” I leave out the part about how I haven’t told anyone I’ve dated about this odd passion of mine.
That I don’t even watch scary movies anymore.
To Sam, my love of classic horror films was probably a basic biographical Percy fact.
But to me, it was far too intimate a detail to reveal to any of the men I saw.
And, more to the point, after that first summer at the lake, I’ve associated those films with Sam. Watching them now would be too painful.
“You’re joking?” Sam asks, clearly confused.
I shake my head.
“Well, you’re right,” he murmurs. “He’s definitely not the guy for you.”
“What about you?” I ask. “Still reading anatomy textbooks for kicks?”
His eyes grow wider, and I think his cheeks have gone darker under the stubble. I hadn’t meant to bring up that particular memory. Of his hands and mouth on me in his bedroom.