29. Anytime, Sweetie
Chapter 29
Anytime, Sweetie
I t’s been a dream of mine to watch the Stallions play in person ever since I was a child. Sam went to games all the time when his Dad had season tickets, and my dad took my brothers at least once a year. My parents couldn’t afford tickets very often, and since my brothers were boys and actually played baseball, they got to go while I stayed home.
But for most of the games, Dad watched from home with all of us kids and a mountain of junk food on the coffee table. It was the one time Dad wasn’t irritated with us for one reason or another—unless we stood in front of the TV blocking his view. Watching those games with Dad are some of my favorite memories, and to that list, I planned to add this night. With Nick.
Until I turn my phone back on.
* * *
N ick drives me to the hospital and we rush inside. Mr. Bennett, still in his suit from work, argues with a nurse at the desk. Mrs. Bennett sits perfectly still, one hand mindlessly grasping her necklace. There’s an open magazine in her lap but she doesn’t appear to be reading anything, most likely too lost in her worry to notice the page.
I say her name as I approach and her head snaps up. It takes a second before her watery eyes focus on my face.
“Oh, Cori, I’m so glad you’re here.” She stands and latches onto me. “We’re both going crazy. They won’t tell us anything, and we’ve been here for an hour already.” We hold each other for a moment, desperate to reach a reality in which this is all just a huge overreaction.
Mr. and Mrs. Bennett have been a second set of parents to me since I met Sam. I went on vacations with them, I spent holidays at their house, I’m standing next to them in several of their family photos, just like Sam in mine.
“I’m so sorry. My phone was turned off, or I would have been here sooner. Do you know anything at all?”
“Nothing. Sam called us, he told us he was in a car accident and was coming to this hospital. He said he couldn’t get a hold of you. He didn’t sound great, but the phone cut off before he could give any details. We don’t know how bad his injuries are, or where he was when the accident happened.” Her blue eyes, the same ice-blue as Sam’s, spill over with tears and I rub her arm consolingly.
“You did talk to him though, so we know he’s alive, right?” Nick asks from behind me.
“Yes,” she answers. No one mentions the fear of Sam having injuries that may not have taken him immediately. “But the nurses don’t seem to know anything, as if he’s not in the system.”
Mr. Bennett, swearing under his breath at not getting anywhere with the lady at the desk, pats my shoulder in greeting while he tells his wife to try Sam’s phone again.
He doesn’t answer.
“He bought tickets for the game tonight, but I was so mad when he didn’t get home in time. So Nick took the extra ticket, and I’m so sorry. I never should have turned my phone off.”
“Don’t feel guilty. He’s been pulling a lot of late nights lately, and I know how frustrating that can be,” Mr. Bennett says, rubbing his wife’s back, like they’ve had arguments over this very subject.
I fall into a chair as my own guilt buckles my knees, blowing the breath from my lungs. If his dad says he’s pulled a lot of late nights, then maybe he actually is working.
Suddenly, Mrs. Bennett turns to me. “Oh, Cori, Happy Birthday. I’m so sorry I didn’t call earlier.”
Nick’s eyes, wide with shock, fly to mine. “It’s your birthday?” After I nod, he asks why I didn’t say anything.
Shrugging my shoulders, I turn back to Mrs. Bennett. “Thank you, and don’t worry about it.” We have much bigger things to worry about at the moment than my dumb birthday.
The tension weighs down on all of us as Mr. Bennett paces, checking in with the nurses every five minutes. Nick leans against the wall, and Mrs. Bennett takes the seat next to me. All of us stare at nothing.
The plain white walls are adorned with TVs and generic photographs of potted plants. It takes less than a minute to look at every single thing within sight and, before I realize, I’ve grabbed a magazine as well, simply to have something to hold.
The very same second that Sam’s car slammed into another, I was considering a future without him in my life. I was planning that future. I had it all worked out—I’d rip off the bandage, then run home to my parents’ house. Presumably, they’d let me inside, and I’d stay there until I figured out the rest. And if they didn’t, I’d sleep in my car. Maybe get a gym membership for the showers until I could find an apartment.
I lose track of time guiltily wondering if I accidentally manifested this accident. But my thoughts are interrupted when Nick asks, “Can I get anyone anything? Coffee? Water?”
Mr. and Mrs. Bennett decline, but Grandma used to say coffee helped with any ailment. If exhaustion or headaches pained you, the reasoning is obvious. But if you were cold, sad, or lonely, the warmth and weight of the cup provided comfort. It’s not the warmth, but the illusion of feeling close to her in this bleak moment and the desperation of needing something to do with my hands that has me rising from my seat in search of coffee.
But just as Nick and I turn down a hallway, we hear the double doors open and Mrs. Bennett cries out, “Samuel!”
I run back into the waiting room and Mrs. Bennett rushes to Sam, checking him over. Cuts mar his face, his neck, his hands, and some blood stains his light blue shirt. But there are no stitches or bandages that I can see. He has no cast, not even paperwork in his hand.
He turns his head, his eyes meeting mine before hardening and filling with betrayal as they move to Nick’s presence beside me.
“I’m fine, Mom. Just banged up a bit.” He hugs her gently, wincing a bit, before hugging his dad.
“What happened?” Mr. Bennett asks.
“I was trying to get home in time to go to the game with Cori, and someone ran a red light.”
Then he walks out the door without another glance in my direction. I rush after him into the lit parking lot, calling his name, but he shouts, “Cori, I need some space away from you right now.”
I stop, unsure what he means by space. “You… you want me to stay somewhere else tonight?”
He continues walking, winding between parked cars.
“Sam, please. I was so scared-”
He whips around and scoffs. “I’m surprised at that. Considering you didn’t care enough to answer your phone.” He takes another step backward and wrenches open the back seat of his dad’s Mercedes.
“I’ll go home with Mom and Dad. You go with Nick. That’s what you’d prefer, isn’t it?”
* * *
A nyone can miss a phone call because they’re asleep, don’t have a signal, their phone is dead, or they just don’t hear it ring, but I specifically turned mine off. That’s the difference between my infraction and all the times I couldn’t reach Sam. And I can’t do anything to make it up to him except give him space until he’s ready to forgive me.
After Nick drives us home, I lay down on the couch, too tired and sad to change my clothes or find a blanket. I shiver from the blast of the AC vent blowing directly on me as I fall into a restless sleep. Eventually, the air stops, and I finally sleep deep enough to dream, but the dream is a nightmare, the same one I’ve had since I was a kid. I’m in the driver’s side of a car trying to slow it down as it plows into fences, mailboxes, other cars, even houses and people. The brakes don’t work, the steering wheel is too sensitive, and I’m hysterical.
Based on the harsh sun glaring through the window when I finally wake, it’s about ten a.m. There’s no sign of Sam, but a blanket covers me and Nick sits in an armchair scrolling on his laptop.
Noticing my open eyes, he says, “Good morning. I know I don’t have to ask if you want coffee.” He chuckles and rises from the chair.
“I can get it.” I follow him into the kitchen.
“I haven’t gotten you a gift or anything yet, so let me get your coffee at least.”
“You don’t have to get me anything. Plus, you came with me to the game, and even paid for the food.”
He smirks at me. “I already ordered it. I’ve had a gift idea for a while, I just figured I’d have some notice before your birthday came around.”
Shaking my head, I grin and thank him for his consideration. It’s hard to feel down around Nick, or like you don’t matter because he’s always so thoughtful. Even when you don’t deserve it.
He hands me my favorite clear, curvy mug.
“Do you want to talk about last night?” he asks.
“Nope.” I blow on the steam.
“Okay, but aren’t you suspicious? I know we didn’t get all the information, but if the accident happened on his way home, before the game started, wouldn’t he have been out by the time the game ended, especially if all he had were cuts? And why couldn’t the nurses find his name in the system?”
“I don’t know, but once Sam gets home, I’m sure he’ll explain.” Except I don’t really want him to. I just want this to blow over. No matter how you look at it, I’m the bad guy here.
“Or, he’ll lie. Or, twist the questions around instead of providing answers, so you feel you’re to blame. Like he did last night.”
I know that better than anyone, but I don’t want to deal with it. My head falls forward. “Nick.”
“Cori.” He steps in front of me and tilts my head up, his thumb grazing my jaw. “Please don’t give up. Please don’t accept his lame ass excuse. Demand answers until you get them.”
I pull away from his touch, away from the eyes I could easily spend forever staring into, and go to Sam’s room. I have to get ready for work, ready to smile at a bunch of strangers as if I’m not empty inside.
* * *
W hen I get back to the apartment after my eight-hour shift, Sam still isn’t home. I call Hailey to pass the time while I wait for him, but she doesn’t answer. I try not to let it hurt—it’s late and she might be asleep. I try Sage next, but she doesn’t answer either. As a last resort, I call my mother.
“Well, this is a nice surprise,” she says upon answering.
“How are you? How’s dad?”
“What’s wrong? You sound close to tears.”
“I am.” I start pacing my usual track around the apartment anytime I have to make a phone call.
“Sweetheart, tell me what happened.”
I tell her everything. Not some of the more intimate moments, or the plan to break it off with Sam, but everything else.
“He won’t return my texts, and he hasn’t come home yet.” I sniffle.
She starts softly, “Well, sweetie, instead of being there for him when he needed you, you were at a baseball game with his roommate. I mean,”—she snickers—“did you expect him to understand that?”
“Not exactly. Based on all the other nights that he got caught up with work, I assumed last night was no different.”
“But it’s his career. It’s not like he’s off drinking or gambling or something.”
“I know, but-”
“Listen, I know it can be lonely. But you can’t expect him to just drop his work for you.” Her tone is gentle, yet nauseating. “This is one reason why we keep telling you to go back to school or find something to keep your mind occupied while Sam is off making all that money that pays for your home. And your car, last I heard. You need a separate identity from just being Sam’s girlfriend.”
I stop pacing. I don’t know what to do with all the rage inside from the conflicting advice and brushed-off feelings I just confided in her. I should have known better than to call Mom. Just a few days ago, I started to feel better than I had in a long time. Like I wasn’t flailing about in mud, struggling to breathe.
“Do you feel better, sweetie?” Mom asks as my head slides back under.
But the only thing I can say is, “Yes. Thanks, Mom.”
“Anytime, Sweetie.”
* * *
A fter the phone call, I scrub the stove, clean out the refrigerator and pantry, and wipe down the windows—mindless tasks. I don’t remember if I eat or not before I go to bed alone.
The next day, I work a double before busying myself with more chores. Right as I’m about to sink into bed, giving up hope that Sam will come home tonight, he finally walks through the bedroom door. He wears black athletic pants and a plain white t-shirt, the dark bruises standing out on his left arm.
“How did you get home? I texted you to let me know if I could come get you.”
“Dad took me to get my car.”
His answer has me blinking. “Your car? You can still drive it?”
“I wasn’t in my car during the accident. I was in a coworker’s. We were driving back from a meeting with a client at a restaurant, and he was going to drop me off.”
I think about what Nick said, about demanding the answers and not letting him push off the blame, but I don’t want to know the answers. I just want to hold him. So I rush to him, gently laying my head against his chest, and allow myself to cry. My body shakes from violent sobs as I let it all out—the guilt from being with Nick when Sam needed me and the bite of exhaustion from restless sleep.
“I’m so sorry.”
“Hey, it’s okay,” he whispers into my hair. “I was just frustrated, you know. I do so much for you and it feels like I’ve had to beg for your attention. But I think we could both be better at communicating our plans to each other.”
His arms wrap around my waist, squeezing a little too hard, but I don’t protest. Nor do I protest when he starts planting sloppy, desperate kisses on my mouth and neck, or when he lays down on the bed. I do pull back to check that he’s been cleared for sexual activity, but when he nods and pulls my body down on top of his, I give him what he needs.
He needs distraction, release, love. Every move of my hips is an apology, every kiss on his neck, his jaw, his lips, a promise to be better.
But when my eyes lock with Nick’s, my own orgasm starts building, and I chase it with abandon.