Samantha #2
Adrian’s bicep tenses beneath my hand, and I move to lightly scratch his back. If there’s one thing I confidently know about Adrian Ortiz, it’s that he’s a physical-touch guy.
“I guess it was probably when my mom died when I was a kid,” Adrian says, voice tight.
I recognize the light bulb going off in Amber’s eyes, but she maintains a compassionate posture. Her voice is quiet when she asks, “Is that something you’d like to share more about now, or not?”
Pressing a kiss to Adrian’s shoulder, I continue rubbing his back with one hand and place my other on his forearm, spreading my fingers across his tattoo.
He swallows hard before he says, “I don’t really want to. But it seems like that means I probably need to?”
Amber’s smile is sympathetic. “I’m not going to force you to talk about it right now on the spot. But, yes, it is something you probably should talk about with someone at some point.”
Adrian drops his head, running his hands through his hair. His eyes are so conflicted when he looks at me, it tears my heart in half.
“You don’t have to talk about it now,” I murmur. “It’s okay. We have all the time in the world, right? You promised you were sticking with me. I’m sticking with you. It’s okay.”
Resolve lights in his eyes, and he says, “You did the work. As a kid, you started doing the work. I’m a thirty-year-old man, so I can do it too.” He turns back to Amber and says, “When I was eight, my mom passed away. She was hit by a car while she was walking home from work.”
I gasp, covering my mouth with one hand. “Adrian, I’m so sorry! I understand why you don’t want to talk about it!”
“But I can. For you, I will,” he tells me, then continues.
“It turned our world upside down. My parents were so in love it could make you sick. My mom was a total romantic, and my dad played right into it. You know, dancing in the living room, kissing in the kitchen, constant flirting. When she died, I don’t think my dad knew what to do with himself.
I guess he didn’t know how to talk about her without it hurting.
So we didn’t. Aside from lighting a candle by her picture in the living room on her birthdays and the anniversaries of the day she died, we pretty much never acknowledged her. We still don’t.”
Glancing to me, Adrian says, “That’s when I started getting really into baseball.
It was my escape. It kept me busy and gave me something fun to do.
My dad poured all his focus into getting me on the path to come to the US to play in the MLB.
He enrolled me in an English class when I was ten.
Worked extra shifts to get me into every developmental camp or conditioning clinic he could find.
It basically became his mission to give me a way out of our life in Venezuela.
It became my mission to live life to the fullest and chase the best experiences I could find. ”
Amber synthesizes his thoughts back to him. “So the first time you experienced something profoundly painful, you weren’t allowed to stay sad. Your father modeled to you that pursuing a happier, more exciting experience was the solution to feeling sad.”
“My dad is amazing,” Adrian defends, leaning forward. “He’s done everything for me. He made me who I am, got me where I am. He didn’t do anything wrong.”
“Absolutely,” Amber agrees. “In no way am I saying that your father did anything wrong in how he raised you. He went through an extremely traumatic experience himself. I’m simply pointing out where you likely picked up your tendency to distract yourself and others from painful feelings with humor and fun.
That’s what you were attempting to do for Samantha yesterday morning, wasn’t it? ”
“Yeah,” Adrian says. He turns to me. “I realize now that it was a stupid idea. But I swear I was trying to help you.”
“I know you were,” I assure him, reaching up to run my fingers through the curls at the nape of his neck. “It wasn’t a stupid idea. I know you were trying to help.”
“Samantha,” Amber says, and I recognize her tone. She’s pulling out the second pin. “You mentioned in passing that you’re trying to get better at saying what you need. Can you tell me more about that?”
Sputtering a breath through my lips, I say, “Yesterday, my mom pointed out that I’ve never been very good at identifying or communicating my needs to other people.”
“Smart woman,” Amber says with a wry smile.
I narrow my eyes in a harmless glare. “She said that I should have communicated to Adrian what I needed yesterday.”
He pivots to face me and asks, “Which was what?”
Biting my cheek, I consider how to tell him without hurting his feelings, without making him think I wasn’t grateful for his effort.
He beats me to the punch. “You didn’t enjoy the picnic, did you?”
With a grim smile, I shake my head. “No.”
“But I thought it was helping for a while. Before, you know . . .” He trails off briefly, then adds, “It seemed like you were smiling a little bit.”
I admit, “I was faking it. I didn’t want you to think I didn’t appreciate you. Because you were so sweet and so concerned about me.”
“Did you want me to leave you alone?” Adrian asks.
“No!” I exclaim, then pull back the enthusiasm. “I . . .” The words stick in my throat, refusing to budge.
Adrian angles fully toward me, taking both of my hands in his. As though Amber wasn’t even in the room with us, he leans his forehead against mine and murmurs, “Please tell me, cielo. What did you need from me?”