Chapter 9 Sam #2
Ash takes his arm back. There’s a moment where I want to grab his hand and apologize—for what, I don’t know. Lying, I guess? But it’s not the time. Or the place. And I’m a coward anyway.
I pick up the menu. “What are you getting?” I ask. A little too loud.
After we have our fill of empanadas and ice cream we make a final stop—and here I have to promise Ash it is, in fact, a final stop—in yet another gift shop. Tchotchkes and T-shirts galore. For the hell of it, I buy my own shirt to match Ash’s.
“Hey,” I say, spinning the postcard stand near the register. “Idea. Why don’t we send your friend a postcard?”
He reacts as if I’ve told him his mom died. He drops the keychain he’s idly fondling and his sun-flushed face goes the color of chalk. “What?”
“Check it out.” I select a postcard depicting the giant sombrero we’d scaled not two hours ago. “Could just write them a quick note and send it before we leave. We can drop them off in the mailbox outside. What d’ya think?”
“No!” The word bursts from him, loud enough that a few people, including the cashier, turn to look with with some interest. In a lower voice, he says it again: “No.”
I feel the need to give the cashier a quick, reassuring smile—though I don’t think she gives a shit—before I turn my attention back to Ash.
“Uh, why not? They’d probably think it’s funny.
Or lame. Or—I don’t know, but it’s a nice gesture, right?
” I’m babbling and starting to feel stupider by the second, the way Ash is staring at me.
Like I am stupid. Or a complete asshole.
“I said no, Sam.” His voice rising again, enough that the cashier shoots him another glance, this time of mild disdain. He puts one hand on his chest and he looks like he’s about to hyperventilate, he’s so upset, and for the life of me I cannot figure out why or what forbidden switch I’ve flipped.
And I’m staring at him like he’s completely nuts, because this behavior is sort of new. Ash usually seems to err on the side of reserved, if not a little odd. Yelling in the middle of a store is kind of unlike him. In the forty-eight hours I’ve known him, anyway.
Fuck this, I’m irritated now. I was being nice. This whole day I’ve been nothing but nice. So what if I don’t want to fucking say I’m gay, or whatever it is I am. Now he’s going to throw a shit fit? It’s unfair is what it is.
“Okay,” I say. “Whatever.”
Now I want to rip the stupid postcard up, but I haven’t even paid for it, so I opt to replace it back on the little spinny metal stand thing with the others before I storm out of the store, fed up. The moment’s ruined. Ash has, once again, ruined it.
It was just supposed to be a cute funny thing.
He trots up after me in the parking lot, calling my name. “Sam, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to snap at you.”
“It’s fine,” I say flatly without looking at him. “We should get going, anyway. You’ve made it super clear you’re sick of this place.”
I catch a glimpse of his expression—eyebrows drawn together, vacillating between hurt and composure—as I step off the curb and walk toward my car.
Everything around us has been leeched of its cheer somehow, all the colorful signs and sombreros and Pedro himself and whatever the absolute fuck else now just seems wilted and sad. I want out of here.
“No,” Ash is saying. “I had fun. Really.”
“Did you?” I fumble in my pocket for a cigarette. I’ve got a new lighter at least, compliments of good ol’ Pedro. “You bitched the entire fucking time.”
“I didn’t mean…”
He hedges, hesitates, trails off. He looks sort of forlorn and small, standing before me as I lean against the car. He reaches out and touches my arm.“What?” I try not to snap. “You want a smoke?”
“No. I’m just…sorry for upsetting you.”
I shrug him off, flicking ash onto the pavement. “I’m not upset, I’m fucking confused. Like, whoever this friend is. You’re so cagey about him, her, it—whatever. I don’t even know if he exists. You’re cagey about literally everything, though, so that’s no surprise.”
Ash blinks at me in surprise, lips parting. “I—”
I exhale smoke. “And you know what? When we were playing the dumb game with the questions—I meant to actually ask shit about you. Real questions, not just horny shit. But you kinda fuckin’ started it.”
“I did?” he flares, indignant. “What are you talking about?”
“With the girlfriend thing—”
“That has nothing to do with sex.”
“You asked me if I was gay!” I hiss angrily.
“I asked if you—” He presses his fingers to his temples, huffing. “Sam, you asked me if I prefer to take it in the ass or not. I didn’t say anything like that at all.”
“Well, do you?” I say, rather nastily.
“Oh, fuck off.”
“You fuck off.”
“Okay, fine. I will.”
Ash spins on his heel and just stalks off. I watch and wait for him to come back, or say something, or do something, but no. He’s striding across the parking lot with purpose, hands clutching his backpack straps, and that’s when I realize he’s taking me literally. He’s actually fucking off.
Now I’m the one chasing him, trotting like a lost toddler looking for his mommy after a very public tantrum. “Ash, where the fuck are you going?”
“Getting a new ride,” he says stiffly over his shoulder.
“Come on, dude, stop. I didn’t mean it like that.”
“No.”
“Ash—” I catch up, grabbing hold of his arm, and he whirls around to face me. “Please don’t. I’d worry about you.” And I actually mean it—I would worry about him. The thought of him seizing in a stranger’s car is fucking awful. That he could be taken advantage of when he’s so…vulnerable.
“It’s not your problem,” he snaps. “You can just go home and forget about me, okay? I won’t be your burden anymore.”
“You aren’t at all. I swear.” I try to swallow my frustration. “Jesus, when the fuck are you gonna figure out that I actually like you?”
It draws him up short, at least for the moment. He studies my expression, the hot wind whipping his hair across his face. He opens his mouth to say something, closes it. Opens it again. “Fine,” is all that comes out.
He brushes past me, shoulder banging mine, and yanks the passenger-side door of the Mustang open. It rocks the entire car when he slams it shut.
And, well, what else can I do but follow?