Chapter Three #3
And in this moment, I feel that newfound selfless strength fading.
The ache in my chest is consuming, and I fear I might say or do
something extraordinarily stupid.
But in the end, it isn't
Marshall and his drunken antics that rescue me from myself. Of all
people, it is Chelsea.
She approaches Sam and me
as if we're all old friends, and she didn't just basically attack
me in the girls bathroom less than a month ago.
"Hi," she says casually.
Sam returns her greeting as if it's the most normal thing in the
world, but I just blink at her.
I can sense Sam's
encouragement, feel him silently urging me to be friendly. Or at
least cordial. But neutral is all I can muster.
I don't say anything
polite, but I don't say anything I'm thinking either. And those
things wouldn't be very cordial. So instead, I barely nod at her
before making an excuse to get the hell out of there. I say I'm
going to go find Dave to bum a cigarette, and I don't know if Sam's
reproachful glare is for my rudeness, or my smoking—neither of
which he especially approves of, clearly. But neither of which
he'll call me out on either, and so I make my hasty
retreat.
I find Dave and ask for a
smoke. He, of course, obliges, and says he'll come outside and have
one with me, which he's been doing pretty often lately. I tell him
he doesn't have to, like I always do, and he insists, every time. I
wonder if my being attacked in Miami has made him paranoid for me.
It's humiliating, but considering it's Dave, it's also kind of
sweet.
As I lead him outside,
anxious to get out of that stuffy room and into some fresh air, I
notice him peek over to where Sam chats with Chelsea, and vaguely I
think they've exchanged some cryptic glance, but Sam is already
looking away.
I'm riddled with nerves all
evening, for so many different reasons I'm not sure I could
possibly even identify them all. There are so few people I'm
comfortable around—and one of those people makes me just as nervous
as he puts me at ease. And the truth is, most of these people are
virtually strangers to me, whether I know them or not. Carl and
Tina both make efforts to include me in conversation, but it's
obvious they're preoccupied with their guys.
And why wouldn't they be?
They're happy.
Something I can't really understand, something I only barely had a
day-long glimpse of in Miami. And besides them, and perhaps Lily,
and Dave, I have no one to socialize with.
When I wind up in a group
conversation with Chelsea again not forty five minutes later, I
decide I've put in enough hours for the night. When Sam's friend
Luke accidentally shoulders me as he pushes past where I'm standing
to get to the fridge, I have to hold my breath, close my eyes, and
count backwards from ten before I'm confident I'm not actually
going to plummet into panic in front of everyone. When I open my
eyes again and half of them are staring at me like I'm crazy—and
rightfully so—I mutter an excuse about being tired and flee to the
back porch.
Now that spring has arrived
in earnest the backyard is full of party stragglers, just as it was
the first time I'd come to one of Andrew's parties. It had been
unseasonably warm for February that night, and since then the back
porch had usually been fairly empty, save for the random smoker. It
had become something of an escape for me when I'd felt
uncomfortable—so pretty damn often—until recently.
I'm about to march around
the house to my car when I remember I didn't even drive. Trying to
function on little more than a couple hours of sleep a night is
starting to really mess with my head.
Great. As if I didn't already have the advantage when it comes to
crazy.
It's pathetic, but I have
to give myself a silent pep talk before I can push myself back
inside the house to ask Carl to drive me. Drunken Marshall slurs
some borderline suggestive nonsense about my jeans as I pass, and
my muscles inexorably tense. I have to mentally remind myself that
I am safe here, in this crowded house, with a few friends and many
more acquaintances.
I push open the door to
the kitchen where I'd left Carl, and like the world is playing a
never-ending joke on me, I walk right into Sam.
Literally.
I jump back, apologizing.
I don't know why it feels like I've done something wrong, and by
the look on his face, neither does he. Dave is with him, keys in
hand.
"Thought you were
leaving," Sam murmurs.
"Um. Yeah, I—"
"I wanted to catch you
before you did."
Oh? I stare up at him, my stomach flipping with nerves over what
he might have to say, and somehow a million possibilities dart
through my mind instantaneously. Though I'm not sure if any of
those possibilities is something he'd say in front of
Dave.
"You were kind of a bitch
to Chelsea."
Okay, definitely not
that.
His tone isn't accusing,
more like matter of fact. And I suppose it is a matter of fact.
"So?" I ask. What is his
point? I'm suddenly extremely annoyed. This is what he chased me out here
to say?
Sam sighs defeatedly,
running his hand through his hair. He cut it recently. Not short.
Just enough to get it out of his eyes. But the last thing I need is
a less encumbered view of his eyes.
"She's sorry. You know?
I'm not excusing what she did. It was fucked up, but she knows
that, and that's why she apologized," he says. "I'm not saying you
need to be her best friend, but maybe just cut her a
break?"
Suddenly everything feels
irrevocably changed. Sam is taking up for Chelsea and I'm the one
who's the bitch, and she's his lifelong friend, and I am an
outsider. I swallow the heart-sized lump in my throat and the
perpetual ache in my chest intensifies even more. I bite my lip so
hard I think it might bleed.
"Sure," I breathe to
placate him, dropping my gaze to my chucks as I stifle a
yawn.
"Come on, Ror," Sam's
voice turns almost pleading and I'm reminded how little I can hide
from him. Everything has changed, but also nothing has. The hint of
desperation in his words undo me. Sam has forgiven Chelsea, and he
cares about me, and my grudge-that's-not-a-grudge is complicating
things for him. A wave of guilt washes over me. I've complicated
his life enough.
"Yeah, okay," I murmur
contritely. "I'll… try."
"Come Sunday," Sam offers,
and I blink at him in confusion. "To brunch, remember?"
Oh. Right. "I,
uh—"
"Don't think up an excuse.
Just come. Chel will be there and you can have a chance to get to
know each other a little, and you'll get to meet my cousin, Thea,
who you'll be going to school with next year. And you'll have
friends there, Carl, and Tuck… me," he says more softly.
I can tell that this means
something to him. Me putting in an effort with his family friend.
And after all he's done for me, considering I've brought him
nothing but headaches and heartache, I can do this for him. I have
to.
I agree to meet Sam at his
family home Sunday morning, and excuse myself to go ask Carl for
that ride. Dave, who's leaving himself for what I can only assume
is a booty call considering it's barely ten o'clock, offers me a
ride. I politely decline. As friendly as Dave and I have become, I
know that alone in a car, only the vaguest moment of doubt would
trigger me to panic. No, I'm quite sure there's only one man I
could handle being alone in a car with, and he did not offer me a
ride.