Chapter Twenty Three #2
ask. But I want to know. I want to know if he thinks we are forever
or if he's just living in the moment. Because the more I picture my
future, the more I can't picture it without him, and it's scary to
think he might not.
When Sam doesn't respond
right away my nerves grow tenfold. I lean up to look at him and his
furrowed brow and contemplative expression give me pause. It
worries me that he has to think about it.
"In seven years? When
we're twenty five?"
I don't know if he's
really considering his answer or if he's just buying time to come
up with something that won't upset me. Either possibility sends
small fissures fracturing through my heart. I don't respond, since
I'm pretty sure his question was rhetorical.
"Nah," he says finally,
and I stop breathing, terrified that if I try to take another
breath, I will only choke on it.
The worst part is he's
looking off in the distance, as if he's really considering his
answer—as if it's what he really believes.
"I mean, I hope not," he
adds, still not looking at me, and it's a good thing too—I can only
imagine my own expression right now.
But why would he
hope not? What a strange
thing to say to your girlfriend. That he hopes we break up by the
time we're twenty-five?
Sam sighs then. "By then I
hope you're my wife. Or at least fiancé."
It takes me a moment to
process. I have to remind myself of my choice of words. And then I
shove him in the shoulder.
"I hate you," I mutter
under my breath before curling back into his side.
"What?" He's all innocence
and confusion.
Asshole. My heart is still beating so fast it might
combust.
"Does that scare you?" he
asks cautiously.
I shove him again. "No,
you jerk. You scared me." I'm only vaguely aware that the thought of
marrying Sam has the opposite effect than the one of marrying Robin
did, even before things got really bad between us. In fact, it's a
monumental relief.
"What?" Sam still has no
idea what he just put me through.
"Never mind."
But he won't accept that.
I know it even before he rolls me onto my back and hovers over me
so I can't escape his gaze. He doesn't even have to ask again, his
eyes do it for him.
This is so embarrassing.
"When you said no I thought..."
I don't finish the
sentence but Sam's eyes go wide and he finishes it for me
anyway.
"That I meant we
wouldn't be together?" He says it like it's completely unfathomable, and it
dissolves the last of my anxiety about this whole exchange. "God,
Ror, you're the one who doesn't get it." He shakes his head in
admonishment, but doesn't say another word.
He kisses me instead, and
his kiss is a reminder. A promise. It is joy and hope, present and
future.
"Let me take you to
breakfast," he murmurs once he pulls away. "That is if you're still
not sick of me." His lip twists up into a smug smirk.
I want to think of some
witty response, but I've got nothing. "I can't think of anything
I'd rather do right now." My stomach grumbles on cue, confirming my
words, and Sam chuckles.
"Let's get you fed, baby
girl."
We get dressed quickly and
I pile my hair into a messy bun. We're about to head downstairs
when my doorbell rings. I look to Sam, but he doesn't have any
ideas of who it could be either. Carl or Tina surely would have
called or texted if they wanted to come by.
Sam follows me down the
steps, but he makes his way in front of me before I even reach the
door. He looks through the peephole and his entire body stiffens.
Suddenly he's radiating such protective intensity that it sets me
on edge.
"Sam?" I say
trepidatiously.
He takes a moment before he
even turns around to face me, like he needs it to compose himself,
but when he does, he's utterly conflicted. He licks his lips. "Ror,
it's… your dad."
I gasp. Out loud. Like an
overdramatic movie character.
It doesn't seem possible.
My father belongs in Linton. Not New York. It's as if another
character, from a different movie set in another time and place,
jumped out of a screen and found his way into the wrong story. It
just doesn't fit. He's been to Port Woodmere before, of course. He
used to visit my Grandma Mimi with us. But he was a different man
then. I was a different girl then.
Everything was different
then.
The bell rings again, but
I'm still frozen.
"I could tell him to
leave," Sam offers, but he's obviously waiting for me to give him
some direction.
Part of me wants Sam to
tell him to leave. Who am I kidding? Most of me does.
But it's the coward part.
The one I promised myself I wouldn't let rule my life
anymore.
"No. I want to see what he
wants," I tell him.
Sam nods, his gaze full of
support, of fierce protectiveness, giving me the strength I need to
open the door.
My father stands there
looking like himself in khakis and a golf shirt, but also not like
himself. He looks almost haggard. His hair, usually perfectly
combed in place, is a bit unkempt, and dark circles underline his
familiar dark eyes. I don't even think he shaved today. I don't
remember him ever going a single day without shaving.
He startles when he sees
me, even though he's the one who came to my doorstep. He must know
my mother would be at work at ten o'clock on a Monday morning. He
must be here to see me.
But why?
Sam is at my side, his
muscles tense and ready to act.
My father's eyes jump from
me to Sam and take in his stance. I expect a sneer, or at least
something resembling the unadulterated hostility he cast Sam's way
the other two times they met, but there's only a vague sense of
disapproval.
"Aurora," he
greets.
Rory, I almost automatically correct him. But I stop myself. I
can be Aurora. It is my name after all. But not the Sleeping Beauty
version. No, I can be the Aurora Sam told me about—the goddess of
the dawn, the one who renews herself.
"What are you doing here?"
My voice comes out firm. Far stronger than I actually
feel.
He pats his hair as if
he's only just realized it's all out of place. "I was hopin' to
talk to you."
I stare at him.
Okay, then talk.
"Maybe we could have a few
minutes?" he's asking me but he's looking at Sam. Strangely enough,
the disapproval is gone. He looks at him almost
beseechingly.
I can tell Sam wants to
refuse. But he looks to me instead, waiting for me to decide what I
want him to do. I nod, telling him it's okay. My father may have
betrayed me, but he wouldn't hurt me. Not physically.
Sam's not happy. He
doesn't want to leave me alone, but he will.
"I'll be right inside,
okay?" he says purposefully.
I nod. I know he
will.
Then he turns back to my
father. "You keep your goddamned hands to yourself," he says in
warning.
I'm suddenly hit with a
strange sense of deja vu. Of Robin on Cam's front porch the morning
after I heard he'd been cheating on me. It's eerie and unsettling
and I do my best to shake it off.
Sam presses a chaste kiss
to my temple, something about it equally possessive and
challenging, before he goes back inside the house.
My father watches him
leave and then stares at the door. "He sleep here?" he
asks.
I resent the question. He
had no problem letting me sleep at Robin's when we were dating. In
fact, he was the one who insisted on it. But even so, that was
then. This man has no right to disapprove of anything I
do.
"Yes."
"Your mom's fine with
that? That boy sleepin' over?"
Him judging my mother's
parenting is just crossing the damn line. "She is. And I'm eighteen
now, remember? I make my own choices. And that boy would kill for me. Unlike
the one you were fine with me sleepin' with. You know, the one who
would've killed me if not for that
boy," I practically growl.
My father glares at me,
but it's not hostile. In fact, I can't get a good read on it at
all.
"You wanted to talk," I
prompt. "So, talk." If he says one negative thing about Sam or my
mom, this conversation is over.
He startles at my gall. He
doesn't know this stronger version of me. I'd say he should get
used to it, but I doubt he'll be around long enough to get used to
anything about me.
I don't know what I expect
of him. I know he probably thinks he came to my rescue by agreeing
to testify against Robin, but I don't feel like he did me any
favors. All he did was tell the truth, and that was after a year of
calling me a liar. Does that warrant gratitude? Perhaps some. But
certainly not forgiveness.
"I'm sure by now you know
that I'm the reason he knew you'd be in Miami," my father
begins.
I nod.
"I wasn't even thinkin',
Rory. We were all havin' dinner, and I just mentioned it in
passing. I never thought for a second Robbie would follow you down
there, and that if he did he would try to hurt you."
I listen to him call Robin
by the affectionate nickname. I listen to him defend himself by
telling me about his cozy dinner with the family that destroyed my
life and his cluelessness over Robin's behavior. But he has no
right to it. None.
"He didn't
try to hurt me.
He did hurt me,"
I correct him.
He shakes his head vaguely.
"I never thought—"
"Well that's just it,
isn't it?" I cut him off.
My father's brow
furrows.
"You never thought for a second. But you
should have. You should have believed me the first time I told you
what he'd been doing. You shouldn't have even been there!" I take
deep breaths, trying to calm myself. The last thing I want is to
become hysterical—to be the crazy girl he saw me as for the past
year. And I also don't want Sam coming back out to intervene, and
if he thinks I might work myself into a panic, that's exactly what
he'll do.
"You shouldn't have been
having dinner with... with my rapist." I say the word I once
avoided at all costs. The word that made it seem too real. But I
know now that it was real, that no softer word could ever soften the reality of
it. "With the people who helped him get away with it, who harassed