Chapter Twenty Three
Everyone leaves in the party bus the
next morning except Sam and me. He tells me he arranged for a car
service to take us home tonight so we could spend the day. I don't
complain. The beach-front property is gorgeous, and though I knew
his uncle was successful, a house like this is almost shockingly
luxurious. It isn't warm enough to swim so we wrap a throw blanket
around our shoulders and walk along the beach, hand in
hand.
We don't say much. There
isn't a whole lot left to be said. For the first time in the
longest time, I feel completely present. I'm not stifled by my past
or terrified of my future. I'm just here, now, with Sam.
Sam orders us lunch and we
eat out on the pool deck, then we watch a movie on the sofa which
turns into a long nap. The whole place is incredibly relaxing. I
can't believe Thea's family will get to spend the entire summer
here, and I tell Sam so. He tells me we can come down any time we
want. That he needs to be in the city during the week to help his
uncle with his new hotel, but that he'd be happy to take me back
here any weekend—every weekend.
I stare out the window at
the infinite ocean, picturing us here in a couple of weeks when
it's summer in earnest. Something about the ocean has always been
calming to me. It makes me feel like I fit in the world, or rather,
that it doesn't matter whether I do or not. Because the world is an
enormous place, with billions of people, and it will go on whether
I fit or not. That whatever happens, good or bad, the ocean will
still be here, its tides rising and falling, its waves surging and
ebbing.
The ocean doesn't care
about my problems; its tidal currents will continue its ageless
movement whether Robin is free or imprisoned, or whether I choose
to give into my issues or choose strength—to keep going. Because
it is a choice.
It always has been. And no one can make it but me.
I look over at Sam, watch
him watch me like he does—like I'm the most captivating thing in
the universe. It took this beautiful boy to make me understand not
only that it was my choice, but that I had the strength to make it
after all.
His midnight blues shimmer
in the afternoon light, one side of his mouth curled up into a
half-smile, his dimple peeking out. I love the way he looks at me.
I love the way he looks period. Especially when he seems so
content. It mirrors my sentiment, the one he elicits, and though
I'm not sure I deserve it, not sure I deserve him, I'm past being able to give him
up.
I know we're not perfect,
because I'm not. But I finally feel like I'm heading in the right
direction.
I talked to Dr. Schall
about Cam on Wednesday. I told him how Sam said his accident wasn't
my fault. How he accused me of feeling like I should have been the
one who died that morning in his place. Dr. Schall didn't say
anything for a full minute, just sat there with a small, knowing
smile, confirming my suspicion—that Sam was right.
He was so pleased I'd
finally opened up about Cam that he didn't even push me to make up
the sessions I missed while I was in Miami. But I didn't tell him
everything. I didn't tell him about the kiss I shared with Cam that
last night. Didn't get into my confusion over what might have been,
and the guilt I feel for wondering. I don't want him to think it
means I wish I was with him instead of Sam. Because I don't. I
don't want to be with anyone else, for the rest of my life. But I
do wish Cam was alive. I'll never stop wishing that.
So we may never be
perfect, because I know I never will be. But Sam, maybe he can be
perfect enough for the both of us. Or at least, perfect for
me.
For dinner Sam takes me
out to The Shell Shack, a beachy cafe right on the water, full of
families cracking crab shells with hammers and laughing
exuberantly. He pulls me to the deck in the back, and we eat
outdoors overlooking the beach.
We have a long, lazy meal
and it's already late when we head home. I fall asleep on him in
the back of the town car and don't awaken until he's carrying me to
my front porch, his scent overwhelming my senses, and I press my
face to his skin, inhaling deeply. I brush my lips over the soft
day-old stubble just under his jaw. I love when he goes a day
without shaving. I love the feel of it against my skin.
"Mmm, baby. Don't get me
worked up right now, yeah?"
I climb out of his arms
with a yawn and fish through my purse for my house keys. The driver
places our overnight bags on my porch and Sam thanks him before he
drives off. He picks up my bag to carry it inside, but he doesn't
touch his own.
"You're not staying?" I
ask, sounding far too disappointed.
"Do you want me
to?"
I blink at him. Where
would he get the idea that I wouldn't?
He runs his fingers through
his hair. "I’ve barely slept home in weeks. I thought maybe you
could use a break," he says uncertainly.
I don't want a break from
him. Does he want one from me?
"If that's what you want,"
I murmur, desperately trying to feign nonchalance. I turn to head
into the house before my lip biting gives me away, but Sam grabs my
arm, looking like he's wrestling with something profound. It
unsettles me.
"It's not." Another hand
through his hair. "It's not what I want, Ror. What I want is to
spend every night with you. What I want is to beg you to move into
my place instead of your dorm. I just…shit, Ror. I'm scared. I don't want to
fuck this up. I don't want you to get sick of me."
I want to laugh, the
thought is ridiculous, but his sincerity overwhelms me.
"God, Sam, you still don't
get it, do you?"
His lack of response tells
me he really doesn't.
"I don't want a break from
you. I'm not gonna get sick of you. I don't want to sleep without
you. I'm not even sure I can
anymore." Not that I really got much sleep
without him before, either. "I don't want to fuck this up either.
But… I also don't want you to leave."
Sam looks at once relieved
and full of awe.
"Just… just please come
inside."
He does. He grabs his bag
and follows me up the stairs. The house is quiet, my mother asleep,
and for the first time we don't take turns washing up. We brush our
teeth side by side and it's remarkably domestic. But the strangest
part is how comfortable it all feels. I sense a shadow of my
future, and it whispers that I could really have
this—him—forever.
If I don't screw it all
up.
****
The sun blares through my open drapes making it impossible to
sleep any longer. I yawn and stretch my back. Sam tightens his arms
around my waist from behind me, telling me he's not ready for me to
get up yet. I feel him hard against my hip, telling me he
is ready for something
else. I wiggle against him in encouragement and he
groans.
He's definitely awake
now.
Sam's lips find that spot
on my neck just below my ear and I sigh, increasing my pressure as
I push back harder against him. He groans again before pulling back
away from me and giving me some slack in his arms. I don't want
it.
I turn around so I'm
facing him and slide my leg over his hip. His features screw up as
if he's in pain, but he presses himself against me anyway. "You're
killing me, baby," he rasps. "I promised your mom I'd be
respectful, remember?"
He must not have realized
how late we've slept. "It's nearly nine, Sam. My mother left for
work hours ago."
His eyes widen and he
glances at my clock as if he needs confirmation.
"Well in that
case…"
And just like that I'm on
my back and Sam is exactly where I want him.
He holds me afterwards and
whispers to me about his plans for moving into his new apartment.
Since he's going to start working with his uncle in two weeks, he's
going to move into the city before then. He wants me to come with
him. If not to move in officially, at least to spend most nights.
He wants me to come see the apartment this week. He wants me to
feel comfortable there. He'll even stay here some nights if it
makes it easier, he says. And then we can go to the Hamptons any
weekend I want.
He whispers all of this
softly into my ear, painting a picture of our summer that almost
seems far too wonderful to be real. He may as well be reciting
poetry for the effect he's having on me. I sigh in pleasure, but
don't say anything, I just let him keep talking.
Eventually he trails off,
but his fingers continue their trademark exploration of my skin,
lingering on their favorite spots—my shoulder, my collarbone, my
hip bones—and I break out in goose bumps.
I can't believe we're
really here, really getting ready to begin our future. Really free
of Robin.
Not forever
though.
"Seven years," I breathe
without even thinking.
I both hear and feel Sam's
sharp intake of air. I shouldn't have brought up Robin. I didn't
even mean to do it. But now he’s here, in this room, taking up more
space than he deserves.
"Yeah," Sam
whispers.
"It's a long time…
but…"
"Not long enough. I know,
baby." His tone makes me think that this is a thought he's had
before. "But a lot can happen in seven years. And it will be ten
unless he behaves, which I doubt he's even capable of." He keeps
his voice soft and soothing. But he's not just trying to placate
me, he really believes this. That everything will work out. And so
I try and let myself believe it too.
Sam's right. Anything can
happen within the next seven years. Except Robin getting out of
prison, and it's a comforting thought. Maybe by then he'll forget
about me.
"We'll be twenty five," I
murmur. It's hard to imagine myself that age. But easier now than
it would have been a few months ago. The picture that floats
through my mind is the one Sam painted of me. Of the tough lawyer
helping girls who have been through the kinds of things I have.
It's an inspiring thought.
"Yep," Sam
replies.
"Do you think I'll still
be your girlfriend seven years from now?" It's an insecure thing to