Chapter 9 #3
He gives a little laugh. “What?”
“All the books and studying and mentorship shit. And I’ve seen you out running. You’re a fucking terror.”
He shrugs again.
“So,” I say.
“So what?”
“What’s it all about?”
“What do you mean?”
“What do you think I mean?”
He seems like he’s considering the question. He returns the slice of pizza to the box and wipes his hand with a napkin. He’s intent on this, his attention on cleaning each finger, when he speaks, and his voice is low. “I did some stupid stuff when I started here.”
“Yeah, I remember.”
His body gets a little tighter. His voice too. “I don’t like that guy. Who I was, I mean. I spent a lot of my life doing stupid stuff so other people would like me. I don’t want to be that way anymore.”
Sometimes you can see someone. You can really see them, I mean, and it’s like looking through a door they left open or forgot to shut. You see them in a way they’ve probably never even seen themselves. And what I almost say—almost—is, And now you want to be John-Henry.
But instead, I say, “So, you’re RoboCop. Okay. I guess you could have picked something worse. Is that why you’ve got such a hard-on to become a detective?”
He shrugs.
“This is question-and-answer time, Sammy.”
“Why don’t you eat?”
It takes me a minute to recognize, in the question, the deal he’s offering. And it takes me a few more seconds to decide not to call it right here, right now, and get out of the truck. Because I need him, I tell myself. I still need him. For a few more weeks.
“I forget.”
“BS.”
“Uh oh. That’s pretty close to a bad word.”
“Bullshit,” Sam says, and he looks out at me from under dark lashes.
“Whoa there.”
But he keeps looking at me.
“I do forget,” I say, and I do this little laugh that’s mostly jangled nerves because all of a sudden—well, because.
“It’s like—it’s like you said. I didn’t like this person I was.
I used to be. So, I’m trying to be someone else.
And it’s, like, easier, if I focus on one thing and not let myself get distracted.
It’s not like I never eat. But I get busy, and there’s always shit to do. ” I grin. “I make up for it in beer.”
Sam goes back to looking out the window. The crumpled napkins are still in his hand, and he doesn’t seem to know how tightly he’s holding them. When he speaks, his voice is soft again. “I guess I think if I’m a detective, that’s proof, you know? That I’m not that guy anymore.”
And I don’t know if he knows he’s left that door wide open again, or if it’s because of what I said, or if it’s some therapy shit I’m trying to say to myself, but what I want to tell him is nobody can make you feel like you’re worth something. You can only do that for yourself.
I don’t, though.
Neither of us says anything for a while. Something has changed. Proof—if I needed any—that I’m definitely not dating material anymore; give me five minutes alone with a guy, and I can effectively murder any—any what? Any vibes, I guess. Any chill. Or whatever this was.
“I didn’t stay tonight because I wanted to ask you what I could do better,” Sam says. The words are a little stiff, and it makes me think of how his voice tightened earlier, that hint of defensiveness. “Not only that, anyway. Something seemed off.”
“Huh?”
“With you. Something seemed off. At that DV.”
“What was off?”
He makes a frustrated noise and looks at me. “I’m trying to ask if you’re okay.”
For several seconds, I honestly don’t know what to say. I mean, it’s not like nobody has ever asked me that before. But it’s been a year. And a year is a long time. And people want to think you’re getting better.
“I’m fine,” I say.
He doesn’t say anything.
“DV’s are fucked up,” I say.
He’s still looking at me. His eyes are so dark they’re almost lost in the interior of the truck.
I look forward and flip the visor down, and the light from the vanity mirror is like a cheap trick. I check my teeth for tomato sauce. He’s still looking at me. I flip the visor up again, and my eyes take a while to adjust to the darkness.
“Why the fuck do people do that to themselves?” I ask, and I’m surprised to hear how ragged my voice sounds. “I mean, life is fucking hard. It’s hard enough you don’t need to go making it harder for yourself.”
“People get trapped,” Sam says. “They think—”
I shake my head, and he stops. I want to stop too, but instead, I start talking again. “It’s not that. It’s—it’s everything. It’s everybody. You watch people get their lives tangled together, and all they do is fuck each other up. We’d all be better off if we left each other the fuck alone.”
And then I’m tired. Bone-deep, dog tired, like I’ve been digging trenches all day or some other equally macho bullshit. I let my head fall back. I need to get out of the truck.
“Gran says you don’t got nothing if you don’t got love,” Sam says.
I’m not even trying to be a bitch; I’m too tired. The question is just a question because for some reason, I’m dragging this conversation out to its death. “Gran says that, huh?”
“I tell her it sounds like she didn’t go to school when she says it like that, but she likes it.”
“It sounds all right,” I say, because apparently I am going to drag this thing out to its fucking grimmest finale. My voice even sounds pretend-normal. “I think sometimes stuff like that is supposed to sound folksy.”
Sam moves in his seat. He’s in my peripheral vision, arms resting on the steering wheel, leaning forward like he’s trying to see something out of sight.
“I look at my dad, and I think leaving people alone gets pretty lonely after a while.” Then he says, “Gran would say I don’t have any room to talk since it’s been about a million years since I went on a date, so maybe I’m the one who’s lonely.
” And then, like he’s talking to himself, or making a note, or something, he adds, “That’s called projection. ”
I don’t know why, but it cracks me up. I start laughing, and Sam glances over his shoulder at me, confused at first, and then a smile tugging at one corner of his mouth, and a question still written on his lips.
He’s got a cute mouth. Defined lips, but not full.
He’s so serious all the time, it would be fun to make a game out of it, seeing what it took to make him smile.
And that is definitely out-of-bounds thinking, so I make myself sit up. “Sorry,” I say. “Not laughing at you. I don’t know. I wasn’t expecting that.”
He might be blushing.
“Why are you single?” The question is out of my mouth before I even realize what I’m saying.
To my surprise, Sam laughs. “I’m single because I can’t get a date.”
“Bullshit,” I say, copying his tone as closely as I can. He laughs again, but he shakes his head. “You can’t get a date. Bull fucking shit. You’re young. You’re hot. You’re police. You’re single. It’s a college town, bro. It’s fucking Hometown Buffet.”
He does this little thing that’s not quite a shrug and settles back into his seat again.
“Let me guess,” I say. “You don’t even try.”
“I try.”
I snort. “Fuck that.”
He doesn’t get angry; he cracks a grin. “You sound like Gran.”
“Your gran is a fucking genius, then. You want to get laid, Sammy? Get on one of those apps and take a picture of yourself with your shirt off. Oh, fuck.” I snap my fingers. “You need one of those pictures of you holding a fish.”
He does that little squirm again. But the weird thing is, I can tell he likes it, and there’s this part of my brain that’s alive and awake and bright again, and another part that’s saying, boy-fucking-howdy, trouble, trouble, trouble.
Then he straightens up, and that look is back—the one that might be a challenge. Or, my brain adds, might be something else.
“What about you?”
“What about me?”
“Why are you single?”
And that’s my cue. I reach for the door, and as I let myself out, I say, “Because, Sammy, I am oh-so-fucking smart.”
He watches me go. And when I’m halfway to my car, I look back. It’s too dark to tell, but I think he’s still watching.
That night, in bed, I can’t sleep. Again.
It’s the old stuff, tonight. My brain replaying every fight with Darnell, all the ugly things we said to each other.
The empty nights. Later, when things got worse, the catting around.
What I don’t think about, what my brain is circling, is the red fingerprints on Lexi’s neck, and the way she looked straight ahead, and the stink of that microwaved red sauce.
There wasn’t a radio at Lexi’s, but I can hear one playing in my head.
AC/DC. He always played it loud when he really let loose.
Now, as an adult, I don’t know why he bothered.
It’s an escape when I start thinking about Sam.
Like slipping through a crack in my brain into someplace lighter and brighter.
The fact that he’d stayed. And with that bullshit excuse.
That he’d worried. The T-shirt tight across his shoulders.
That hint of stubble on his jaw. The unruly smile he can’t quite keep tamped down.
There’s not a lot about Sam that’s unruly; he works too hard, tries to keep it all under control, so there’s something about watching that smile unfurl despite his best efforts.
He’s also straight, I remind myself. And crushing on straight boys is not a cute look.
I finally decide what I’m feeling is, of all things, protective. He’s a nice guy. Sweet. Too sweet for his own good, probably. And I don’t even realize I’m falling asleep until this last burst of clarity as I’m about to drop under, and I’m thinking, What if he gets hurt?