Chapter 39
ELIJAH
I trudge up the steps to our dorm, my hockey duffel like a corpse on my shoulder, sweat still cooling on my back from morning workout. My mind's been elsewhere the whole time—on Sam, on the lavenders I ordered, on the message I hope they'll send.
But as I round the corner to our floor, my steps falter.
There they are—over a dozen potted lavender plants arranged in a sad cluster outside our door like rejected orphans. My heart drops through the floor before my brain can even process what I'm seeing.
The potted plants I'd so carefully selected last night—the ones I'd instructed to be delivered to Sam's dorm in a specific formation—are now mocking me from my own doorstep. My shoulders slump, the duffel suddenly weighing a hundred pounds more.
I stare at the lavender plants with their delicate purple blooms, feeling like each one is a tiny knife twisting in my chest.
Just last night, I'd gone to that fancy flower shop downtown after talking with the guys about Sam. The florist had raised her eyebrows when I ordered fifteen potted lavenders, but I'd been so sure it would work. I remembered how Zach told me his sister had a thing for lavenders, that they'd "melt her like ice cream."
The woman had written down my specific instructions—fifteen pots arranged to spell "S-A-M" with forget-me-nots mixed in among the lavender. It had felt like the perfect gesture, something romantic and thoughtful that would show her I was serious.
All morning during practice, I kept checking my phone between drills, wondering if the delivery had arrived yet, imagining her face when she saw them. I'd sent her a text, asking if she got the flowers. But hours later, still no reply.
Now I know why.
"What are all these?" Zach's voice comes from behind me, and I turn to see him and the rest of the guys coming closer, stopping short at the sight of the botanical display cluttering our doorway.
Luke crouches down, fanning his hand over the stalks of one plant and leaning in to inhale. "Who are these for?" he asks, a smirk forming as he looks up at his twin brother Liam and Cody. "Some chick send you flowers, boys?"
They both chuckle and shake their heads, but I feel Zach's eyes on me, heavy with knowledge and pity. He steps forward and places a gentle hand on my shoulder, the touch light but somehow crushing.
"I guess lavenders don't melt my sister anymore," he says quietly. "Sorry, man."
The guys all turn to look at me, their expressions morphing from curiosity to grimaces of secondhand embarrassment. I can feel heat rising up my neck, the humiliation of rejection on full public display.
"Oh, Sam sent it back?" Liam asks, wincing. "Guess it's a bust, huh?"
I can't even form words to respond, just stare at the plants I'd been so excited about twelve hours ago.
Cody steps forward, examining one of the pots. "Maybe send her roses next time?" he suggests, scratching his stubble. "Don't girls like that more than these herb-looking flowers? Sam probably thought you were sending her some kind of medicinal starter kit. 'Here, have some plants to make tea when you're constipated.'"
I shoot him a glare that could freeze hell.
"Too soon?" Cody holds his hands up in mock surrender, but the shit-eating grin doesn't leave his face.
With a deep sigh, I unlock our door and start collecting the plants, cradling them awkwardly in my arms. The guys pitch in, and soon we're all ferrying lavender pots into our living room. The scent fills the space immediately—earthy, floral, distinctive.
Sam's scent. The same scent that clung to her hair when we were in Duluth. The same scent that's embedded in my memory from every time she'd lean close to me, her silver eyes bright with a laugh I'd taken for granted.
"Where do you want these?" Zach asks, his voice gentler than usual.
"Anywhere," I mutter, setting my armload on the coffee table. "Doesn't matter."
The guys scatter the plants around—windowsills, end tables, countertops—transforming our typical college-guy space into some kind of botanical garden. Each purple bloom is another reminder of my failure, of Sam's absence, of everything I never appreciated until it was gone.
Luke brings in the last pot, sets it down, then stands in the center of the room, slowly turning as he surveys all the plants. "How many did you send her exactly?"
"Fifteen total," I reply, slumping onto the couch.
He goes quiet, his eyes moving from plant to plant. I watch him silently counting, lips moving slightly, and then a slow smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth.
"What?" I ask, irritation flaring.
"There's one missing," he singsongs, raising his eyebrows.
I sit up straighter. "What?"
"Count 'em yourself, Romeo. There's only fourteen in here."
I push myself off the couch and do a quick tally. He's right—fourteen pots, not fifteen.
Liam's eyes light up. "This isn't a bust after all, man. She kept one."
Something surges in my chest—a fluttering, wild feeling I can't quite contain. Hope. Pure, irrational hope.
"You think?" I ask, hating how desperate I sound but unable to stop myself.
"Dude, if she truly hated you, she'd have sent every last one back," Liam says. "But she kept one. That means something."
The guys are all nodding now, and I feel a ridiculous grin spreading across my face. It's just a single potted plant, for Christ's sake, but suddenly it feels like everything. That warm, giddy sensation in my chest—I've only felt it once before, with Sam in Duluth when she looked at me like I was the only person who existed in her world.
And instead of the fear that feeling used to trigger in me—the instinct to run, to push her away—I find myself leaning into it, welcoming the vulnerability like an old friend I've missed. I'm stupidly happy about a missing plant, and I don't even care how pathetic that might be.
Because that missing lavender means one thing: Sam might have told me to stay out of her life, but some small part of her isn't ready to let go just yet. And right now, that's enough to keep me going.
After my first class that day, I swing by the library to return a book I borrowed last month for my Sports Economics and Revenue Management research assignment.
And by "borrowed," I mean forgot existed until this morning.
Returning library books hasn't exactly been high on my priority list lately. Hockey, practice, classes, chasing after a certain stubborn girl—it's been a busy few weeks.
But apparently the university library has very strong opinions about overdue books. Namely: thirty-dollar fines and temporary borrowing bans.
And I refuse to get my name added to whatever tragic blacklist they keep for serial late-returners. Something humiliating like The Hall of Academic Shame or The Shelf Neglecters Registry.
Thankfully, I remembered today. Technically I'm only three days late. Which feels survivable. I drop the book on the counter and flash my most charming smile at the librarian assistant, MaryAnne, hoping to sweet-talk my way out of it. It doesn't work.
Five minutes later, I'm thirty dollars poorer, my name not added to the library's imaginary criminal registry, and MaryAnne sends me off with a warning about "academic responsibility." Sucks. But whatever.
I hoist my bag higher on my shoulder and as I push through the library doors, something—someone—catches my eye. Sam.
My heart does this weird stuttering thing in my chest, like it's forgotten how to beat properly. It's been doing that a lot lately.
My feet move before my brain can even process what's happening.
One second I'm walking. The next I'm striding straight toward her like my body has made an executive decision without consulting me.
It's weird, this pull I have toward her now. Like some invisible thread yanking me in her direction every time she's within range.
She's standing with one of her friends—her name escapes me at the moment—and she looks up just as I reach them.
"Sam," I say, "Hey."
Her head jerks up, those silver eyes widening with surprise. For a split second, there's something soft in her expression—something almost like the old Sam—but it vanishes so quickly I wonder if I imagined it. Her face transforms into a mask of indifference that feels like ice water down my spine.
"Elijah," she says, her voice flat. Her fingers tighten around the strap of her bag.
Elijah.
I fight back a wince. I hate when she calls me that. It sounds distant, like she's putting space between us—nothing like the warm, familiar Eli she used to say so easily.
Her friend glances between us, clearly sensing the tension. "Um, I'll just... go find us a table," she says, squeezing Sam's arm before slipping away into the library's main study area.
Sam turns to follow her, but I step into her path, my hand instinctively reaching for her wrist. My fingers brush against her skin, and even that brief contact sends electricity up my arm. I pull back quickly when she glares at my hand on her wrist.
"Sam, wait," I say, my voice a little too loud for the library. A few heads turn our way, and I lower my volume. "Did you... did you get the flowers I sent this morning?"
A flicker of something—annoyance? pain?—crosses her face before she schools her features back into that infuriating blankness.
"Oh, you mean the lavender garden you had delivered to my door at seven in the morning?" Her voice is razor-sharp. "Yeah, I got them. And returned them. To your place. So I think you have your answer."
I can't help the grin that spreads across my face, despite her icy tone. "Actually, I do have my answer. You kept one."
She blinks, thrown off balance for just a second. "What?"
"Fifteen bouquets," I say, holding up my fingers to count. "I sent fifteen, but only fourteen came back. That means you kept one, sweetheart." The endearment slips out naturally, and I see her jaw tighten.
"Is that what you think?" She lets out a laugh that sounds nothing like her usual one—this is harsh, brittle. "That's adorable, Elijah. Really."
"Deny it all you want, but the math doesn't lie, sweetheart. And if you kept one, that means something."
Her eyes narrow, and she leans in slightly. The scent of her—lavender and something uniquely Sam—makes my head spin. For a crazy second, I think she might kiss me, but instead, she says, "If you're so interested in the missing bouquet, you can find it in the trash bin outside my dorm building." Her voice is soft but cutting. "If you hurry, you might get there before the garbage truck. It's collection day, after all."
Each word lands like a punch to the gut.
"Stay away from me, Elijah," she says, "I mean it."
Before I can respond, she brushes past me, her shoulder barely grazing mine, but even that slight contact makes my skin burn. I stand frozen, watching her walk away, her back straight, her steps purposeful.
The hope that had bloomed in my chest when I realized one bouquet was missing now crumbles like ash. I'd been so sure it meant something—that despite everything, some part of her still cared enough to keep a small piece of what I'd given her.
But maybe Zach was wrong. Maybe lavenders don't melt Sam like ice cream anymore. Maybe nothing I do will ever melt the wall of ice she's built between us.
And I wonder if this is karma—if I'm doomed to chase Sam exactly the way she chased me, destined to have my heart handed back to me in pieces just as I'd done to her so many times before.
I exhale slowly and scrub a hand down my face. I straighten up and shake all the negativity off me. Get a grip, Deveraux.
So she threw the flowers away. Big deal. Rome wasn't built in a day, and apparently neither is getting Sam back.
If this is my karma, then fine. I'll take it. I square my shoulders, trying to channel at least a fraction of the stubborn determination she used to have when she chased me.
*****
I've lost count of how many beers I've had. The bartender at La Playa gives me side-eye as I signal for another. I shouldn't be here. It's the night before a game, and I never drink before game day—one of my ironclad rules. But rules seem meaningless when your heart is split open and bleeding out across the sticky bar top.
It's been three days since I've seen Sam's face, three days of silence, three days of wondering how something I never thought I wanted could suddenly feel like the only thing I need to breathe.
This week has been an exercise in futility. I've shown up outside her classes, lurked near her private studio, even camped outside her dorm like some deranged stalker.
All for what? Glimpses. Fragments.
The flash of her sandy blonde hair as she rounds a corner, the echo of her laugh from down a hallway, always just out of reach. Our schedules conflict—my hockey practices, her art classes—but even when they don't, she's developed an uncanny ability to look straight through me, as if I'm made of nothing but air and regret.
Any gift I attempt to give her returns to me like a boomerang—flowers, coffees left untouched, a sketchbook I bought delivered back to my door, notes unread. It's a special kind of torture, being ignored by someone who used to look at you like you hung the moon.
The irony isn't lost on me—this is exactly what I did to her. For years. This cold shoulder, this systematic dismantling of hope. And I did it without a single care for her feelings, with the casual cruelty of someone who never understood what he was destroying.
How the hell did Sam last ten years of this?
I'm crawling out of my skin after a few days. Ten years of unrequited longing—Christ, it would have killed me. I think about all the times she smiled through my rejections, all the times she picked herself up and tried again. The enormity of her persistence hits me anew, and I feel so small in comparison, so undeserving.
I miss her in ways I never thought possible. Miss how she smells like lavender and possibility.
Miss the way her voice wraps around my name, making it sound like something precious. If I had known there would come a day when those things would be withheld from me, would I have paid more attention?
Would I have cataloged every detail, stored them away like treasures?
The bar blurs around me as the alcohol takes hold, the lights stretching into luminous streams. One moment I'm sitting alone at La Playa, the music too loud, the neon lights too bright, staring down at the condensation sliding along the glass bottle in my hand.
The next moment I'm outside Sam's private studio, pounding on the door. I honestly have no idea how I got here.
But that doesn't matter. What matters is that she's inside.
I know it. The light is on.
I start knocking. "Sam!" I call, "Sam, open up!"
I knock again, harder this time. And again. And again. The rhythm becomes hypnotic, matching the pounding in my head, in my chest. I will stand here all night if I have to. I will knock until my hand bleeds.
"For God's sake, Elijah!"
The door swings open, and there she is—hair piled messily on top of her head, silver eyes blazing with irritation, paint smudged across her cheek like war paint. My heart kickstarts, a defibrillator shock straight to my system. I feel myself grinning stupidly, the alcohol making my face loose and warm.
"Saaam, sweetheart." I breathe, her name like a prayer.
"What are you doing here?" she asks, crossing her arms over her chest.
"I came to see you," I say, swaying slightly. "I wanted to talk to you."
"If that's the case, you wasted a trip," she says coolly. "Because we don't have anything left to talk about. You should go home."
"Yeah... no. I don't think so."
"Elijah—"
"No," I interrupt, shaking my head. "I've spent this week chasing you across campus like some kind of idiot ghost. I show up outside your class, your studio, your dorm... and every time you walk past me like I'm made of nothing but air."
My voice betrays me, breaking on the last word.
"Maybe take the hint. Because I've got nothing left to say to you, Elijah."
"No, see, that's where you're wrong." I plant my hand against the doorframe to steady myself. "We have everything to talk about. You can't just—you can't just end things like this."
"End what exactly? There was nothing to end."
"Don't do that." I shake my head. "Don't minimize what happened between us."
"Let me make this very clear so we don't keep repeating the same conversation." she says, her eyes hard. "I'm not playing games, Elijah. So you need to stop showing up everywhere I go. Stop sending me things because I will never accept them. I'm serious when I said I'm done with you. I don't have feelings for you anymore. How many different ways do I need to say it before it sinks in?"
A disbelieving laugh escaping my chest.
"You expect me to believe that?" I shake my head, running a hand through my hair. "That you just woke up one day and decided you don't feel anything for me anymore? You loved me since you were ten, Sam. Ten." I point a finger between us. "And now you're standing here telling me you just... what? Switched it off?"
I throw my arms up, frustration burning in my chest. Turning away briefly, I rest one hand on my hip while the other hovers near my mouth, fingers pinched together as if I could physically hold back the words threatening to spill out.
After a deep breath, I turn to face her again.
"You erased ten years worth of feelings in a matter of one week? Just like that? Sweetheart, come on. You don't get to love someone that hard, that long, and then wake up and decide you don't love me anymore."
I shake my head again.
"That's not how this works. That's not how people work." My eyes lock onto hers. "And it's definitely not how you work."
She shrugs. "Well apparently I do."
"I can't buy it," I continue. "I can't. Because if all of that—everything you ever felt for me—was that easy to switch off... then what the hell did any of it even mean?"
"I don't need to justify anything to you, Elijah. You struggling with it doesn't make it my problem." Her voice is steel. "Why can't you just accept that maybe I realized that always looking at your back isn't doing it for me anymore? Maybe I already poured all the love I had to give and it runs its course, and now what I feel for you is just... nothing. Empty."
"You love me, Sam," I insist, stepping closer. "You've always told me when you love someone it means forever. You said you always believed we were destined to be together."
Sam lets out a soft laugh.
"Oh, good God." She grimaces, shuddering dramatically. "Did I really say that? That's so embarrassing."
She shakes her head. "I was a na?ve girl who thought loving someone hard enough meant they'd love you back eventually. Turns out that's not how reality works. That girl is gone, Elijah. I'm not the same person who used to look at you with hearts in her eyes."
"No." I shake my head vehemently, the motion making the hallway spin. "No, I don't believe it."
"Well, you should."
I stare at her, paralyzed as the glacial emptiness in her eyes carves through my chest, pulverizing what's left of my heart into dust.
"Damn it, Sam!" I slam my palm against the doorframe. "We slept together. I don't understand how you're acting so unaffected, like it wasn't a big deal for you when that was your first time. Do you really expect me to just forget about that too?"
"Uh, yeah. Because that was our deal." She retorts.
"Well, too bad I can't! I can't just get it out of my head. I can't get you out of my head." I drag my hands through my hair, tugging at the roots. "You're in me, sweetheart. You're under my skin, in my blood, branded onto every part of me."
Sam stares at me for a moment.
"When you left, it feels like someone sucked all the oxygen out of the room and forgot to give it back. I'm walking around suffocating, my lungs burning and now it feels like there's this hollow space in my chest where you used to be." I press my palm against my chest. "I can't sleep, can't focus, can't—"
"That's interesting," she says softly. "Because I distinctly remember you telling me my feelings suffocated you." she tilts her head in a mock saccharine smile. "And now you're suffocated with my absence too? Seriously, Elijah, you're the most contradicting person I've ever met. Why don't you just go home and leave me alone?"
"I'm sorry." My voice cracks.
"I shouldn't have said that. I just... didn't know how to deal with what I was feeling at that time. All I knew was that I had to push you away because it was getting real, and real terrified me. I always lash out when something starts to feel important, when it might actually matter if I lose it."
My fingers tremble at my sides, itching to reach for her.
"I'm sorry I didn't take better care of your heart," I continue quietly, the words tasting like ash in my mouth. "For acting like they were some kind of inconvenience. I'm sorry for breaking your heart over and over. You gave me ten years of your life... and I spent most of that time pretending it didn't mean anything."
My voice drops to a whisper that barely disturbs the stale hallway air between us.
"I hate that I'm only understanding what that felt like now."
I step closer, close enough to catch her scent.
"Tell me what to do. Tell me how to fix this. Tell me what I have to do to earn your trust again. Please."
My throat tightens like someone's wrapped their fingers around it, squeezing until each word becomes a struggle.
"Because I swear to you... this time I won't break your heart—I'd break mine first."
I watch her face, waiting for something to give. For a moment, her eyes soften—just barely—and then it's gone.
"Are you done?" she asks, her expression now stoic.
"Now that you said your piece, guess it's my turn." She sighs. "I'm sorry."
My head jerks back, surprised by the shift.
"I'm sorry for the way I used to chase you. For acting like my feelings were the only ones that mattered." Her voice stays calm, almost painfully so. "I pushed my feelings to you when you didn't want it. I cornered you with emotions you never asked for. And when you told me to stop... I didn't."
Her eyes drop briefly before returning to mine.
"That was unfair to you," she says. "Selfish, actually. I was so focused on what I wanted that I didn't stop to think about what it must've felt like on your side. So, I'm sorry."
She tightens her arms across her chest, like she's sealing the past away.
"But that version of me is gone. I've moved on."
Her words carve hollows beneath my lungs.
"And if you keep chasing me," she adds quietly, "the only thing waiting for you at the end of that road is the same thing I lived with for ten years." She exhales slowly. "Loving someone who can't love you back. So before it's too late—"
"But it already is too late, Sam. Because I... I love..you." The word bursts from me like a gunshot.
We both freeze, equally shocked by my confession.
The word hangs in the air between us like a suspended heartbeat. It's the first time I've named this feeling—the raw, gnawing ache that's made a home in my chest, spreading through my ribcage like wildfire with every breath I take.
Sam's eyes widen just enough that I catch the slight tremble in her dark lashes.
For a moment, her hardened expression softens.
I notice her lower lip quiver before she bites down on it. I step even closer, my thumb reaching up to brush against her lips, gently coaxing her to release the tender flesh.
"You love...me?"
"Yes, sweetheart," I murmur, my eyes searching hers. "I'm in love with you. There's no other explanation for why I can't go five minutes without thinking about you, why my heart feels like it's trying to claw its way out of my chest when I see you, why the thought of you not being in my life feels like I'm dying."
I lean forward, pressing my forehead against hers. She sucks in a sharp breath, her exhale warm against my face. "I'm sorry that I didn't realize it sooner."
"You're drunk, Elijah," she whispers, her voice wavering. "You don't know what you're talking about."
A soft smirk tugs at the corner of my mouth, pulling at the skin where her fingers once traced. I gaze into her beautiful eyes, bloodshot now and glassy with tears she refuses to let fall. "Trust me, I'm stone cold sober. Have been since I saw your face."
My eyes lock with hers as my thumb brushes her cheek, feeling the delicate warmth beneath skin soft as rose petals. Her pulse flutters visibly at her throat.
"You can deflect all you want, sweetheart." The word drips from my lips like honey, slow and sweet. "But don' t pretend my feelings aren't real just because they showed up later than yours. This is the first time I've ever told a girl I love her—the first time I've ever let myself be this vulnerable."
My voice drops to a husky whisper that vibrates in the narrow space between us. "So when I say I love you..." I pause, letting the weight of those words settle. My eyes hold hers so fiercely everything else fades.
"It means I'm not going anywhere. Not after finally understanding what you've meant to me all this time."
I take a slow breath.
"So, I'm going to keep showing up. I'm going to keep fighting for you. Because whether you keep pretending you don't feel anything for me anymore or not... there's one truth neither of us can outrun."
"And what's that?" she challenges, lifting her chin defiantly.
"That you've always been mine, sweetheart."
The tension crackles between us. We're so close I can see every fleck of gray in her irises, count each eyelash. My lips hover just half an inch from hers, and God, I want to close that distance. Every nerve ending in my body ignites, every muscle coils with restraint.
But I hold back, savoring the sweet agony of anticipation, watching the way her pupils expand like ink dropped in water as her gaze flickers down to my mouth, her own lips parting ever so slightly.
After what feels like an eternity, I step back, still fixated on her trembling lips.
"I should go," I say reluctantly. "It's getting late, and I have a game tomorrow." I smile softly.
"I'd love to see you there, you know. In your cute personal Elijah cheerleader outfit. Cheering for me like always."
"I'm busy," she says automatically.
"I'll still hope you come." I take another step backward, hands sliding into my pockets. "And sweetheart?" I add, tilting my head slightly. "Just so we're clear... I'm not giving up on you."
A crooked grin pulls at my mouth.
"I'm going to keep wooing you, and I'm not stopping until you finally say yes."
She scoffs. "You're wasting your time."
I shake my head lightly.
"Nah. When it comes to love, there's no such thing as wasted time. I learned that from a pretty great teacher."
Her brows pull together.
"And who would that be?"
"You," I say and for just a moment, I swear I see the corner of her mouth twitch upward before she steels herself again.
It's not much—but it's enough. Enough to keep me going. Enough to make me believe that somewhere beneath all that ice, the fire she once had for me hasn't burned out after all.