Chapter Thirteen
I almost didn't come to school today. I can't believe I
actually said those things. I can't believe I actually called a
strange girl a slut to her face! But I'm not sure I wouldn't do it
again, even if I were sober. Every time the memory pushes it's way
through my mind—them flirting, the thought of where it might have
led had I not interrupted them with my drunken outburst—it makes my
stomach roll.
Despite my mortification,
my outburst isn't what haunted me all night. Nor was it Sam's fight
with Drunk Stranger Asshole. Honestly, the guy had it coming. He
was incredibly forward, and he grabbed my wrist—I almost
panicked.
A large part of me is
upset—and not at Sam, at myself—because he has, once again, put
himself at risk over me. And that is what I don't want. Sam in
trouble because of me.
But what I couldn't stop
thinking about was Sam believing I flinched because I was afraid
of him. Because I
thought he might hit me. That I see him as some kind of brutal
monster, because he's been violent before, and because he defended
me last night, again. But I'm not mad at him for being violent. The
truth is I can't help but be grateful that he'd helped me. Because
I had been
frightened. But not of Sam.
And so I came to school in
the end. I still haven't seen him, even though the last period of
the day just ended.
I slip my boots back on
after I change out of my sneakers. They're the only thing I still
change for phys-ed, since after the incident with Chelsea I started
wearing yoga pants or sweats on gym days. I pull my hair out of the
loose braid I'd tied it in for gym and head out of the girl's
room.
"Ror."
He's there when I turn
around, and somehow my heart races and my breath slows at the same
time.
"I owe you an apology,"
Sam's low timbre affects me as much as his words shock me.
"Several, in fact."
I hear his words,
love his words, and at
the same time I can't get past the ones flying around my own head.
I try to interrupt, desperate to get my point made first. It's too
important to wait, no matter how badly I want to hear what he has
to say.
"Sam, I—" But he
interrupts.
"For losing my cool, for my
drunken tantrum, but… for pushing you away. It was selfish,
and you deserve better—"
"That's
not how I see you." I
can interrupt too, and I can't let him keep talking until I tell
him this. Sam's brow furrows, confused, which is understandable
since I've just carried on our conversation from last night as if
there were no break. But there hasn't been a break for me, I
haven't stopped thinking about it. "You think I think you're like
them because you've fought?" My narrowed eyes widen with emotion.
"But every time, Sam, you were fighting for me," I remind him.
Sam blinks at me and I
know he's having trouble accepting my words, understanding the
significant distinction between violence alone and violence in
defense of another, but it doesn't make them any less
true.
"That's how I see you.
That's what you
do. You protect me… No one's ever been there
for me like you, Sam. Even my own father did the opposite. And…" I
trail off, thinking about Cam, and how unfair it is for me to
resent his abandoning me when he had no choice in the matter—when
he lost his life. But the truth is I do feel that way. All I wanted
was his comfort, but he risked everything, driving out in that
precarious storm to go after Robin his way. Even if he had
succeeded, he could have ended up in jail, and that would have been
my fault too. Either way, I end up alone.
Sam chooses differently.
Every time. He respects my wishes, honors my choices. When we
argued over Robin's Facebook photo, about Sam's intentions, he
promised he wouldn't go after Robin, even if he admitted he wanted
to. Sam only ever acted rashly when he thought me to be in
immediate danger. And how could I begrudge him that? Especially
when I'd be lying to say I hadn't always desperately wanted that
kind of support, the sense of security it invokes.
"That's
how I see you. As the man who saved my life in
that alley. Who I can count on. No one can take that away from
you," I promise.
No one can take that away
from me.
God, he said those exact words when he was being all smug over
giving me my first—and second, and third—orgasms. There's so much
Sam will always be to me that no one can take away from him. Not
even me
And that's when it hits
me.
What am I doing? What the
hell is wrong with me?
Sam isn't Robin. His love
doesn't come with conditions, like obedience and submission, or
even being in a relationship. I ended things with Sam to keep him
safe from any danger my past—or apparently my present—might cause.
But it hasn't done that. Sam was never going to stop looking out
for me just because we're not together. He would always protect me.
I know it in my heart. Because last night in the bar I didn't
flinch because I was afraid of what he might do. I flinched because I am
so in tune with Sam, trust him and his reactions so implicitly,
that his anger made me think there was something else to fear. Because
why would he be angry if all was well?
Sam is my anchor. And I
threw him away.
Only, Sam still didn't
abandon me. He kept his promises about protecting me and keeping me
safe, even though I tried to take that right away from him. But I
couldn't.
"Shit, Ror. You're making me feel
even worse than I already did. I was looking for you to apologize."
He rakes his hand through his hair "I'm supposed to be your friend
and I fucking abandoned you just because it didn't work out with,
you know, us."
The way he's acting
terrifies me. He's hurt me plenty in the past couple of weeks, but
he always had that hopeful longing in his eyes when he looked at
me, when he talked to me. But now, it's dulled somehow. Like
there's something new clouding it… Acceptance.
"Do you… do you think it's
too late?" My voice almost doesn't come out at all. It's nothing
more than a tremulous whisper, but I know he hears.
His entire demeanor
changes immediately. It morphs before my eyes. Like he's instantly
on edge.
But I see it
disappear—vanish like it never really wanted to be there in the
first place—the acceptance. And it gives me courage.
"Rory."
My name comes out an
admonishment. And also a warning. But there's also something else,
barely there, but there nonetheless—hope.
And it gives me even more
courage.
"I miss you," I
confess.
"I know, Ror." Sam watches
me carefully. "I haven't been a very good friend to you lately, and
I'm sorry for that. And I've missed you, too," he admits. "It won't
happen again, Ror. I'll be here for you. Things will go back to how
they were. It'll be okay," he assures me.
"How will it?" I
ask.
His brow furrows, making
my heart twist in my chest.
"How could anything be okay
when just hearing you sweet talk some girl sends me into a jealous
fit?" I ask him earnestly. "How is it okay that I've been missin'
you so bad it hurts? Sam, I… I—"
But he stops my words with
his sudden steps, and I'm backed against the wall.
"Don't." Sam's voice is a
low, gravelly rumble, and for a moment I'm absolutely terrified
that he's rejecting me and I nearly regret my words. I look down at
my boots, trying to re-gather my waning courage.
"But—"
"Don't," he repeats more firmly, his
hands coming up to press against the wall on either side of me,
caging me in.
His proximity completely
enraptures me, his scent intoxicating my senses, and the intensity
in his gaze prevents me from forming any more words.
"No more of this
wishy-washy bullshit, Ror," he says softly, and I frown. "Don't go
there again, okay? Not unless you're sure."
"But I—"
"I mean it." Sam shakes his
head. "I can't go through that again." He exhales sharply, and I
subtly breathe in his breath. "You want to be something more than
friends again? You need to be sure. I… I can't go through that
again," he repeats.
And he's right. Of course
he's right. Neither of us can handle such heartache again. Because
as painful as this all is, I can only imagine how exponentially
worse it would feel to have hope again—real hope—and have it yanked
away when it all falls apart all over again.
I nod in response, and
look back down. Because the thing is, every time I meet his eyes,
I am sure.
Sam's fingers brush under
my chin, and lift it to look at him again.
"I am not rejecting you,"
he clarifies, but it sure feels like he is.
I nod uncertainly, but our
eyes are locked, and right now, I can't imagine anything other than
wanting to be with him for fucking ever.
"You serious about this?"
he asks, and I can sense him wavering. That he's really considering
giving us another shot, and my pulse races with a heady mixture of
excitement and hope.
I never break our gaze.
"Yes," I breathe.
Sam deflates, all the
determination of a moment before vanishing like it was never real
in the first place. "I've told you, Ror. There's no half way with
us. It can't just be a spur of the moment decision because I've
been acting like a dick or because you were jealous last night. You
need to be sure."
I feel the heat of my
blush color my cheeks and spread downward at the memory of my
embarrassing display, but there's a warmth in Sam's expression, in
his tone, that tells me he wasn't angered by it. That perhaps he's
even a bit pleased.
"And if I am?" I ask,
increasingly sure that this isn't a hypothetical—that I was wrong
to end it in the first place. That if the choice is up to me, I'm
getting him back, one way or another.
Sam's eyes close briefly.
As if he wasn't expecting my reply, as if he isn't quite sure how
to respond, but when they reopen they are intent, sure.
"I can't go through that
again," he says again, and my heart stops beating for a moment.
"Think it over, Ror, okay? Take the weekend. Really think about
what you want. We can talk about it on Monday, okay?"
I don't reply, I only
stare at his hypnotizing midnight blues.
"If you change your mind
again… it could really break us. Even our friendship, for good, you
know? If you decide you want to give this another shot, then you
need to be completely sure first, is that fair?"
I nod. "Yeah."
"Think about it. We'll talk
about it on Monday. No pressure either way. I mean it. Just be
honest with me about how you feel—be honest with
yourself."
"Okay." What he's asking
is fair.
"I really am sorry about
how I've been acting," Sam says contritely.
I nod. "Me, too," I reply.
"Last night—"
"Don't apologize for last
night." It's a good thing he interrupts because I have no idea what
my explanation was going to be. Even an apology wouldn't have been
genuine, because if my drunken rant stopped Sam from hooking up
with that girl, well then I certainly can't regret it. But Sam
doesn't elaborate. Instead, he changes the subject.
"You coming to the city
tomorrow night?" he asks.
"Yep," I answer about our
group's plans to go to some extraordinarily expensive restaurant
and some supposedly hot new club in Manhattan to celebrate our last
weekend in high school.
Sam nods his approval and
smiles his incredible smile. "So I'll see you there, then. I'll be
driving, so I'm not drinking," he adds.
I smile then, "I'm not
driving, but I don't think I'll be drinking anyway. Not for a
while, after the fool I made of myself last night," I
admit.
Sam shakes his head, but
his smile widens even more, "Don't be ridiculous," he says
matter-of-factly, sounding more like the Sam I used to know, before
I ruined everything between us.
"See you, Pine," he
murmurs, before cupping my jaw and brushing his thumb over my
cheek. A shiver runs through me from the point of
contact.
And then he's backing up
and turning away, and my eyes drop back to my boots, completely
dazed as he walks away.
So I don't see him change
his mind and turn back, reaching me again in barely a couple long
strides. My face is held and tilted to an expedient angle,
impatient fingers thrusting firmly into my hair as Sam's lips crash
against mine.
My senses are on overload,
all of my them assaulted with their favorite damned thing all at
the same time—Sam. His beauty, his scent, his incredible taste, the
feel of his lips, of his light stubble rubbing softly against my
skin, the sound of his encouraging soft huffs—they light me on fire
at once. My fingers dig into the skin of his bicep, anchoring
myself to him—anchoring myself to my anchor.
He steps forward again
even though we're already against the wall, and presses further
against me. His arm comes around my waist, pillowing my back from
the cinder block wall, and holding us flush together. His tongue
reclaims my mouth in a possessive kiss and I revel in the
feeling.
It has been so long since
I got to be close to him like this, since I got to feel this. Weeks
that have felt like an eternity. And I'd feared I'd never get to
experience it again. My hands slide up into his hair until I grip
the thick locks at his nape, clutching him desperately to
me.
I am lost to
him.
I never want to be
found.
I whimper in both pleasure
and desperation for more. And for a second it feels as if maybe he
will give me more, even here and now.
And then his mouth rips
from mine. He presses his forehead to mine for a split second,
gasps a deep breath, and then he disappears. Gone. Just like
that.
I am still lost, and by
the time I've managed to open my eyes, he's already turning to walk
away. I watch, dazed, as he saunters off, full of some new
determination, and I wonder about it.
I sigh. The bell to end
the last period of the day will ring any second now and the hallway
will be swarming with students making their way out of the
building. I need to pull myself the hell together.
But before I can pry myself
from the wall, I look to my right and see Chelsea watching me,
obviously captivated. I know immediately that she saw what just
went down between Sam and me, and a wave of anxiety rolls through
me. But then she smiles, and though it's an obviously forced,
insincere smile, I know how hard it must be for her to even fake
it. We both know she didn't get over her "crush" in the past couple
of weeks. I guess I should appreciate the effort, and I smile
hesitantly and faintly, back at her.