30. Chapter 30
Chapter thirty
Adrian
“It’s like my little piece of home in my home,” I explain to the interviewer, trying to remember not to look straight at the camera too much.
I’ve done plenty of direct-to-camera interviews, but this is supposed to be casual B-roll footage showing them around my house.
Motioning toward the palm branch wallpaper, I joke, “A Venezuelan oasis in Kansas.”
We wrap up filming, and the camera crew leaves.
I’ve gotten to know them pretty well over the past two weeks as they’ve followed me around to every game, warm-up, and batting practice.
They especially loved getting footage of me with one of my Venezuelan teammates when our teams faced each other here in KC last week.
I suggested taking him to the Venezuelan food truck for some extra footage, and it was a huge hit all around.
Unfortunately, filming has also been a huge hit to the free time I have available for Sam.
Her own schedule is tightening up as more and more hair customers book her services.
That Mia girl’s post sent dozens of high school- and college-aged girls Sam’s way, so she’s been squeezing in extra appointments anywhere she can.
She’s already looking into renting her own chair full time, even though she feels like she’d be abandoning Lynsey.
I assured her that she’s doing the right thing, that she can’t limit herself based on fear that her friend will be mad at her.
I don’t think the assurance was quite as effective, though, since it was over a phone call and not in person.
We haven’t even been on a real date since the day I took her to the food truck—the day she wore my jersey for the first time.
Sam was able to attend two more home games, wearing my jersey both times, but quick hellos after the games aren’t exactly quality time together.
Although I’m excited to see the end result of this TV special, filming has taken up a lot more of my time than I expected. And Sam’s been the one to suffer as a result.
Scratch that—we’re both suffering. Because every moment I’m away from her feels like I’m missing a limb. I hate walking into a dark, empty house every night. I hate dreaming of Sam sitting there on the couch waiting for me instead of seeing it in real life.
Griffin asked me to pump the brakes for Sam’s sake.
But for the sake of my own sanity, I’ve reached the point that I have to give it a little more gas so we don’t stall out.
I’m almost wishing I’d never agreed to the TV deal, considering it’s hard to tell Sam how serious I am about her when we barely get to spend any time together.
As I get ready for bed, I open the link to Sam’s salon calendar that she sent me, hoping to find some common downtime this week. When I notice that all of tomorrow and the day after are blocked off in her calendar, I frown.
We have an early-afternoon game tomorrow and a rare day off the next. Why hasn’t Sam planned any time together if she’s not working?
I’m not dumb or insecure enough to be worried that Sam could be seeing another man. But I’m still puzzled about why she wouldn’t have mentioned the chance to spend some solid time together.
ME
Hey, cielo. With the afternoon game tomorrow, I could either see you for breakfast or a late dinner. Or do you want to do something on my off day Thursday?
It doesn’t take long for the message to show as read, but Sam doesn’t respond immediately. It takes a few minutes for her short answer to come through.
CIELO
I’m tied up tomorrow.
But I’ll let you know Thursday morning if I can do something that day.
Frowning at the phone, I decide to call.
“You okay?” I ask when Sam answers.
“Yeah!” she says. “Just busy tomorrow. You know everything has been so chaotic with clients and figuring out the salon space and everything. And watching Jason’s baseball games and hanging out with Alice. Lots going on.”
There’s something off in her overly enthusiastic tone, but I can’t pinpoint what it is. I’m supposed to be giving her space to live her life, to maintain other relationships, to not plan her schedule around me. All the warnings from Griffin scroll through my mind even as an alarm bell goes off.
“That makes sense,” I reassure her. “Have you made any final decisions about the salon space?”
“Ah, not yet,” Sam answers. “I’ll talk to Adele about it soon, though.”
“Okay,” I say, uncertain where to go from here. Why are you such a bumbling idiot with feelings, man? “Well, I miss you. I hope I can see you Thursday.”
Sam’s voice has more genuine warmth in it when she says, “I hope so too. Good night, Adrian.”
“Buenas noches, cielo,” I say. As soon as she hangs up, I call Griffin.
“What’s up, man?” he answers.
“Uh, I’m not sure exactly,” I say, leaning against the kitchen counter with my legs crossed at the ankles.
“Maybe it’s cheating to ask you, but I tried asking Sam directly and couldn’t get a straight answer from her.
I was trying to plan some time to see her tomorrow, but even though she’s not working, she said she was busy. In a really weird way.”
“Oh, man,” Griffin sighs. “Tomorrow’s the twelfth, isn’t it? I’ve been so distracted with Danae and Jason starting school that I didn’t even pay attention to the date.”
“What’s important about the twelfth?” I ask, my stomach clenching.
Griffin’s quiet for a minute, which only tightens the anxiety in my gut.
I hear the sound of his footsteps and a door closing, which does nothing to ease the anxious thoughts.
His voice is low when he says, “Tomorrow is the anniversary of the day that she—” He cuts himself off.
“Well, that’s hers to talk about. It’s the day Sam and Ian entered foster care.
They spent one night at the Department for Children and Families’ office and came to our house the next day. ”
Understanding falls like a load of bricks, and I slide down the side of the cabinet to sit on the floor. “Aw, man. I didn’t know.”
“It’s not your fault you didn’t know. I tried to tell her that she should—” Griffin cuts himself off again with a sigh, and I can imagine him rubbing a hand over his beard.
“This is the one . . . well, she always . . .” I know Griffin is trying to clue me in without telling me things Sam should decide for herself whether to share, but the dancing around things is killing me.
“Could you shoot me straight, please?” I beg.
“It’s not a good day for her. Ever. She’s grown, she’s worked through things in therapy, she’s secure in our family.
But your body remembers things like that, even when you’ve mentally tried to move forward,” Griffin explains.
“August twelfth is not a good day for Sam. It’s always hit harder for her than it does for Ian.
I don’t know why. Usually she goes home to my parents’ house for a few days, but I think she’s been trying to prove she can handle things on her own.
I guess she’s trying to stick it out here by herself. I’ll be sure to check on her.”
Possessiveness flares, and I say, “I have time tomorrow. I’ll go see her before the game.”
“Okay,” Griffin says, understanding in his tone. “I’ll text her tomorrow night to check in before bed.”
Lightly pounding a fist on the floor next to me, I swallow down the emotions fighting in my chest. “Griff? Thanks for telling me, man.”
“You’re welcome,” he replies. “And Adrian? I’m glad Sam has you in her life. I mean, I know you’ve been there for her for a long time now. But I’m glad she has you there for her in a new way. You’re good for her, man.”
When we hang up, I hang my head. I don’t even know exactly what Sam went through seventeen years ago, but I wish I could protect her from the memories. I don’t know how to do that, though, and it makes me want to scream.
Rubbing a hand across my goatee, an idea formulates in my mind.
I don’t know how to protect Sam from the memories. But maybe I can distract her from them.
Knocking again on the door, I whisper-yell, “Sam! It’s me!”
I’m trying not to call attention to myself standing outside her apartment door. I have on a plain hat, a long-sleeved Dri-FIT shirt, and black athletic shorts, trying to look as unnoticeable as possible.
But I can’t exactly pound on her door and go unnoticed.
Dialing her number, I press my ear to the door to listen for the ring tone, happy when I hear it inside. I’ve already texted her twice that I’m here, but maybe a phone call will get her attention.
The ring tone in my ear abruptly goes to voicemail, and seconds later, the door opens a crack.
The second I see Sam, I start to question my plan.
Her hair is pulled into a messy ponytail at the nape of her neck, the short length causing pieces to stick out everywhere. She’s dressed in sweatpants and a hoodie twice as big as she is, despite the fact that August in Kansas is still summer weather.
But her eyes are what take me out. So haunted they’re practically hollow. There’s no scientific way it’s possible, but I’d swear the blue-green of her eyes has faded to a muted sage.
“Adrian? What are you doing here?” Sam asks. I almost don’t hear her, but I’m not sure if that’s because her voice is so quiet or because the internal alarms in my mind are so loud.
“I came to take you on a breakfast date. A picnic in the park,” I say, although the suggestion now sounds ridiculous after seeing Sam’s physical state. A car door slams below us, jarring Sam.
She shrinks impossibly smaller.
“Come in,” she says, taking a step backward. “I don’t want you to get ambushed.”
I step inside, taking in the closed blinds, the lack of light.
This might have been a really dumb idea.