Chapter 20 #2
Jake opens his mouth and then, looking relieved, closes it. He takes a breath. He nods.
“I read the article,” Sam says again. “And I talked to Marty, and I think—what I think is—is I don’t want to waste any more time.
I mean, what, am I going to wait another thirteen years, and then bump into you at some gas station, and gear up to spend the rest of my life with you only for some insane circumstance to throw us off course again?
I’m tired of almost, Jake. I’m tired of wanting you and not having you; I’m tired of waiting for anything else to come close.
I don’t want to be as old as Al Fiskar and staring at you from across the room at someone else’s wedding, realizing I wasted whole decades just wanting! I refuse.”
Jake’s mouth has fallen open. He stares at Sam with it hanging like that a few beats too long, before, sounding dazed, he says, “Who the—sorry, this isn’t important, but who the hell is Al Fiskar?”
“Our pickle guy,” Sam says. Slightly ruefully, he adds, “Apparently, he’s what the people in my life consider a fitting romantic option for me, which, I’ll admit, may have helped me find my forgiving spirit.”
“Did you read the whole article?” Jake demands, sounding almost angry now.
“The part about me basically taking a bribe? Letting my sister’s stupid fiancé trick me into tanking your review without ever setting foot inside?
I’m a disgrace to the profession, Sam! To the whole point of critics! You’re not supposed to forgive me!”
Sam shrugs. “So?”
“What do you mean, so?”
“So,” Sam says, taking a step closer to him, “what? I get that I’m not supposed to forgive you; what happens if I do anyway?
” More quietly, holding Jake’s gaze, he says, “It’s not like I don’t know how it goes.
I’m sorry, for what that’s worth. It sounds like it’s been…
hard.” He pauses, and adds, “Wait, what do you mean your sister’s fiancé—”
Jake’s face screws up in irritation, and he practically spits. “Brian. Full name Brian Matthewson; might ring a bell?”
“Wait,” Sam says. “Like the Matthewson Restaurant Group? The place that keeps trying to convince us to sell the building?”
“That’s the one.” Jake runs a hand through his hair; Sam’s not sure if the disgust on his face is for Brian or himself.
“Not that it’s any excuse, but he’s the one who told me Silverman’s was infested with rats and roaches.
He also brought me some truly nasty takeout that I think, now, must have been from somewhere else?
And he had four different people text me their food poisoning stories.
That was convincing, until I did some digging and realized they all worked for him.
” Scowling, Jake adds, “That makes me sound like I deserve credit for researching things—I really don’t.
I didn’t work it out until I saw the letter from his firm at your place that last morning. ”
“Shit,” Sam says, his heart clenching as he realizes just how awful these last few months must have been for Jake.
“I’m sorry, man. To use you that way—I mean, I wouldn’t be able to civil with someone after something like that.
I kind of want to find this guy and yell at him on your behalf.
It sucks that your sister’s marrying him; bound to make family holidays kind of awkward. ”
“Oh, she’s not.” Jake’s smile looks more like a grimace.
“I told her about it, and she got really mad and called him. And she said, ‘Brian, how could you do something so sneaky and underhanded?’ and he said, ‘Calm down, Lila, it was just the one time and only second base, I swear,’ so. Wedding’s off.
” Jake takes a breath, and then, before Sam can reply, adds, “Also, are you insane? You should want to yell at Brian on your own behalf! You should want to yell at me on your own behalf—”
“But I don’t.” Sam shrugs, and adds, with a wince, “Given all the givens, I wish I could undo the yelling I already did, or at least redistribute it where it belongs.”
“You’re serious,” Jake says after a beat. “You read the article, and you—you know what I did, and you’re—it’s just—okay? Just like that?”
“I mean,” Sam says, with a small smile, a little shrug, “maybe try to curb the urge to give me star ratings on anything for a while? Unless it’s five stars, obviously. In that case, I want it in writing.”
Jake’s mouth compresses in a thin line; then a small sound escapes him; a second later, clearly against his will, he’s cackling, one hand pressed against his mouth to hold the sound in.
He reels forward—Sam meets him, catches him—Jake puts his head down against Sam’s shoulder and laughs so hard he might as well be crying.
Surprise, relief, joy; whatever it is, it takes Jake a few minutes to calm down.
Sam spends those minutes thinking, rather blissfully, of nothing beyond how good it feels to share space with Jake again after all these weeks apart.
Maybe it’s down to the ways they grew up together, or maybe Sam’s going to have to radically readjust his personal belief system towards a concept like soul mates, but even his body feels comfortable with Jake’s in a way it never has with anyone else’s.
That’s probably why, when Jake’s finally caught his breath, Sam realizes he’s wrapped Jake up in his arms without even noticing he was doing so.
Jake seems to be suffering from a similar lack of self-awareness, because he has twined himself tightly into Sam’s grip, both hands fisted in the back of Sam’s T-shirt.
Sam moves back the barest fraction of an inch and then they’re kissing, and then…
…well, if he’s honest, then Sam loses track of things for a bit.
They kiss for a long time, he knows that; he knows there’s a heat to it, a hunger, that’s somehow deeper and richer than it was the last time they did this.
That was only a few weeks ago, but Sam feels like he’s a different person now than he was then; a different person than he was at seventeen; a different person than he was at sixteen, the day Jake’s well of personal gravity drew Sam down from the light booth.
And Jake—God, Sam thinks he could kiss Jake every day for the rest of his life and find under his lips, every time, both a completely different person and exactly the same one.
It’s a good kiss, that’s the point, and things are right on the edge of becoming indecent when Sam becomes aware of the hollering.
He ignores it, at first. What could it possibly matter? It doesn’t sound like anyone’s in agony—Sam didn’t hear anything explode—they’re all excited about something, whoever they are. Good for them. Honestly, it’s probably just the staff—
—who all watched him run out here after reading the article—
“Oh, God,” Sam says, pulling away just enough to let the words out and slightly afraid to open his eyes.
He’s remembered, too late, that the spot where he and Jake are standing is just below the large window that sits against the far wall of the deli’s kitchen.
The window starts at a height of roughly Sam’s shoulders, which means: “Here’s a horrible question for you: Is, uh… ”
“Is the entire staff of Silverman’s,” Jake says faintly, “including a woman who I assume to be your aunt, staring at us through the kitchen window? Yes, Sam. Yes they are.”
“Didn’t really need to ask, I guess,” Sam mutters, laughing on it slightly.
“It’s not like I can’t tell that’s Eileen saying we should get a room.
” The word “room” reminds him, and, his eyes slamming open, he adds, “Hey, oh my God, don’t move out of your apartment; is it too late?
For you not to move? I mean, I guess probably it must be, right? Hell.”
“Uh,” Jake says, flushing. “I mean, no, because I didn’t want to break my lease and I couldn’t afford to get another place and Marty felt really bad, so.
I was just going to leave all my furniture here and sleep at my sister’s, honestly.
We were going to crash out together, but I bet she’d be relieved to change that plan.
And Marty’s been begging me not to go anyway, so.
I think he’ll be chill.” Glancing at the window full of onlookers, which Sam has not yet been able to bring himself to face, he adds, “I’d say we could just go back to mine, but I wouldn’t call the condition it’s in right now…
good. Currently, it’s more a series of trip hazards than an apartment. ”
“And accessing my apartment requires entering the deli, which I may never be able to do again.” Deciding he has to face the music, Sam gives Jake one last swift kiss before he breaks away and turns around to look toward the window.
Sam was expecting to be mortified, but instead he’s oddly touched by the row of smiling faces, family whether by blood or bond.
Ever since he was young, he’s thought of himself as a loner, the sort of soul doomed to singularity, but looking up at all these people so clearly happy for him, it’s hard to hold onto the lie.
Sam’s made mistakes; he’s had to figure things out on his own—he’s been alone, time and again, of that there’s no doubt.
But that doesn’t have to mean alone is how he’s supposed to be.
Like anyone else, all he really needed was the right people.
“I’m taking the afternoon off!” Sam calls up to his crew, to another round of cheers. “But call me if you need anything, and if someone can come down and grab the dog—”
“Yeah, yeah, kid, I’ll keep an eye on the place and the mutt,” Deb says, rolling her eyes. “Have some fun for once in your life.”
“Go already, you idiots!” Eileen snaps, and Sam beams up at her, at all of them, before he takes Jake’s hand and starts leading him towards the mouth of the alley.
“Wait!” Joanie sticks her head out of the back door, and flaps a hand at Sam when, wearily, he opens his mouth.
“I know, I know, I’m not supposed to use this door, but first of all—Pastrami!
Get in here!” She waits while Pastrami streaks inside, waving off Sam’s grateful nod with a hand.
Then, lowering her voice, although not enough not to be perfectly audible, she says, “Jake. You know Marty pretty well, right? So—while you’re here and everything—is he a nice guy, do you think? I just want to get a sense of him.”
Out of Joanie’s range of vision, Sam shakes his head violently; he sees Jake’s glance flick, amused, to the window above, where Deb is doing the same.
“He’s a perfect bastard, since you ask,” Jake says with remarkable conviction, “and you should absolutely avoid dating him at all costs.”
“Thank you very much,” Joanie says, beaming like she’ll never stop, “that’s all, have fun,” and she vanishes back into the deli.
Sam, shaking his head, resumes walking. “They’ll keep watching until we go away,” he explains, not that Jake seems to be putting up any resistance to being led. “Can you leave your car here for a minute?”
“For another hour at least,” Jake says, sounding a little breathless. “But Jesus, I mean, I thought they’d all hate me! I thought you would hate me! Forever! I thought—”
Sam shrugs, still walking. He hasn’t let go of Jake’s hand. “People make mistakes, you know? They get that. God knows they’ve made plenty; God knows I have. Anyway, come on. I want to show you something.”
They walk in easy silence, holding hands, up the two blocks of East Ninth Street that stand between the deli and looking Lake Erie in the eye.
The road doesn’t take them all the way to the shores; it dead-ends at the top of an incline, at the bottom of which sits industrial warehouses, machinery, and the shallowest of the Great Lakes.
Sam’s pleased, as they approach it, to find luck is on his side. Below them, as he hoped it would, the longest, ugliest rooftop of the longest, ugliest warehouse appears, in spite of being gray, almost white.
“They’re seagulls,” Sam explains, his voice low, when they’ve stopped. “They all gather here during the day, and then, if you catch them at the right moment, or something makes a loud enough—”
He’s interrupted by a resonant boom below them, a sound like a forklift hitting a pole. It’s enough. The entire rooftop of birds takes flight at once, painting the whole sky briefly in dazzling, dizzying white.
“They do that,” Sam says, satisfied, as Jake gapes up at them.
“Holy shit,” Jake breathes. “It’s… beautiful.”
Sam agrees, although he’s not looking at the birds.
He’s looking at Jake, all the versions of Jake he’s known and loved, the one he lost, the one he found again.
He has no idea what’s going to happen from here, but for once in his life, he’s glad not to know.
Deb was right. It’s about time he had some fun.
As if hearing this thought, Jake’s eyes slide to his, wide and still slightly disbelieving. Laughing on it a little, he says, “So, uh. Since we’re not going to go through with the traditional thirteen years of radio silence… what happens now?”
Sam smiles, and then he laughs, and then he shrugs. “Honestly, I don’t have the faintest idea. I was hoping maybe we could figure it out together?”
Jake’s answering smile is better than any natural wonder. “Deal.”