34. Sam
SAM
An awkwardness hangs in the air as I step into the bedroom.
Jake doesn’t look at me at first. I don't know if it's because his attention is on the television or if he deliberately doesn't acknowledge me as she closes the door behind us.
Guilt rests heavily on my chest, telling me it's the latter. And I deserve it. When Adam called the first time to tell me Jake was in the hospital, I didn't answer the phone. I was down in my basement studio finishing the carvings, watching Chelsea's face come to life in my hands.
By the time I came out of it and returned the call, Adam was pissed and rightfully so. He told me everything that happened, and I rushed over here to see Jake.
He could have died.
Scaffolding collapse is no joke, and everything could have gone so wrong so quickly.
And it's all my fault. I wouldn't blame him if he never spoke to me again, but finally turns to regard me with a weak, loopy smile on his lips.
“Ha,” he says. “Look who finally deigns to visit.”
The guilt gains sharp talons, raking it across my conscience. I walk closer to him, pulling up a chair. “How are you feeling?”
“Well, I’m not dead if that’s what you’re asking.”
I wince. “You could have died, though.”
“Pah.” He waves a hand in the air. “Chelsea and Adam worry too much. One of the beams just got me in the head, and I blacked out a little, but otherwise I’m good.
” He doesn't look good. His ankle is wrapped up in bandages and looks swollen to about twice its size.
His head is also bandaged, and his eyes look bloodshot.
Purple bruises appear above the neckline of his shirt.
“I’m sorry,” I finally force the words out of my mouth, even though they feel too mild, too cheap for what I did. "I should have been there."
"You should have," he says. "But I'm used to you slacking off all the time."
I wasn't slacking off. I had been carving and lost track of time. As usual. I squeeze my baseball cap in my hands. "If I had been there–"
"You would have been buried along with me.
" He gives me a wry look. "I hope you're not harboring any delusions of heroism here, imagining that you would have possibly managed to save both of us before it collapsed.
We're not superheroes here." He snorts. "As a matter of fact, if you'd been in there with me, I wouldn't have been able to find a good spot to hide and would have instead been crushed by the debris and your big fat ass.”
I know what he's trying to do. He's making light of the situation, so I don't feel guilty that I wasn't there to help or at least keep an eye out for him.
Adam was on a warpath when he told me what happened, and he chewed me out rightfully for it, but Jake, of course, is more of a live-and-let-live kind of guy.
He's never been the type to know when to hold a grudge, not with his mother, who treated him horribly growing up, not with James blaming him for something that wasn't his fault, and not with me.
I don't deserve him as a friend. Every day, that becomes more obvious.
I've done nothing but take advantage of his kindness, and even when I try to push him away for his own good, he doesn't get angry and tell me to fuck off as a normal person would.
Instead, he gives me my space and remains the kind, understanding bastard that he is.
"I don't even know what to say to you right now," I admit. "Just that I'm so fucking sorry."
“Stop saying that. It’s not like you caused the accident?” he says. "Unless you hired a hitman to somehow upend the beams and–”
“Not just for that,’ I say instantly. “For everything else. For avoiding you and treating you like shit for the past few weeks."
He’s quiet for a few beats, narrowing his eyes as he says, "So you have been avoiding me. I knew it, you fucker.”
I nod, and he crosses his arms over his chest. “What's that been about? Did I do something? Sleep with the love of your life.”
I know he only means it as a half-joke. He and James might not exactly have been the closest friends, but he did genuinely feel bad for what he had done to him, as well as the fact that it had pretty much tanked their friendship.
He was traumatized for days after, apologizing, and James didn’t want to hear it.
Still, Jake carried that guilt for some time, until I told him that it wasn't his fault and that James was being an asshole just looking for someone to blame.
Besides, I would never react the same. If I were in James' shoes, I don't think I’d ever minded him sleeping with Chelsea. I mean, we’ve already been doing it, and there’s no jealousy on my end.
On the contrary, it feels like this is working out better than I thought it would.
I was so worried that when we dated, I would not be able to give her what she deserves.
Sometimes, like today, I get stuck in my head for hours and have to hole myself up and work through it.
Sometimes I still don't get social cues and need them explained to me.
If it were just the two of us, I would be constantly scared that I would fuck up and accidentally break her heart.
But with the other two here, that’s less likely. They’ve known me for years. At this point, we’re like brothers. If I ever fuck up and hurt her unintentionally, they would kick my ass, hold me accountable, and tell me so I can make it better.
I don’t know if I'm the only one who saw how easy it could all be the last time we were together, how much we just fit. I saw it. I saw how this relationship works so well with all of us together.
I don't think the others have much jealousy either. Adam doesn't. Jake is complicated because of his past, but I’m sure it’s something he can work out.
We can all be very happy together, participating outside of what most of society views as a legitimate relationship. I just need them to see it first.
“Tell me what I did,” Jake says.
“You didn’t do anything,” I admit, and I take a deep breath. “A few weeks ago, I got a call about Mrs. Freedman."
Jake’s eyes widen. "You're foster mom?"
“Yes. She’s dead.” Mrs. Freedman was the woman who ran my last foster home, and she's the closest thing to a mother figure that I ever had.
Unfortunately for her, by the time I met her, I didn't know what to do with a mother figure, and didn't need or want one. I met her when I was fifteen, after I had been moved around the system so many times that I told myself I didn’t care anymore.
I told myself the rejections didn't hurt, losing people was a part of life, and if I had to close my heart off to them because no one could ever care about me.
So I turned down all her attempts to get closer to me, because I knew it would only hurt when I had to leave again.
I was almost sixteen at that point, almost aging out of the system.
The second I turned eighteen, I knew I would get kicked out of her home and have to fend for myself, and so I decided to just make it easier on both of us so we could both make a clean break when the time came.
Yet she kept trying, kept asking me personal questions about how I felt, kept wanting to get to know me.
Until she eventually stopped.
She was still kind to me, no doubt, but she stopped the casual conversation, focusing her affectionate energy on the rest of the foster kids in her care.
A week before I met Chelsea, I heard Mrs. Freedman had passed away, and that must have triggered one of the worst spiraling sessions I've ever had.
I painted and carved and molded to get rid of the burning anger within me, one that had no outlet.
I felt like I was losing my mind a little because I didn't even know why I was spiraling.
It wasn't like we were close. It wasn't like I ever made an effort to reach out to her in the years since I'd been gone.
But she did reach out to me a few times. Sent me Christmas cards now and then. Told me that she saw me on the news, the one time Adam had forced us all to do a local interview.
And when she'd died, she remembered enough to ask them to send me an invitation to her will reading, where she apparently left me a bicycle she bought for me, which I'd ridden to school every day and didn't take with me when I left for college.
She never sold it. She kept it for me the entire time, even though I never gave her any indication I was coming back.
I was a piece of shit to her, and the only one who knew about it was Jake.
Maybe that was the reason why it was easier to take my anger out on him and push him away.
Adam and I met in college, so it was easier for me to hang out with him because he didn't know about my past beyond that.
But Jake knew. He knew how ugly it all got.
Telling him she was dead would be like stripping naked and showing all my faults.
I needed to distract myself. Maybe that was what made me more susceptible to my obsession with Chelsea. It had started as an obsession, and I fully acknowledge it, but now it has turned into something more.
But before I can admit my feelings to Chelsea, I have to acknowledge how I hurt my best friend.
“I’m so sorry, man," Jake says. "Why didn’t you want to tell me?”
“I didn't want you to know. I thought that maybe it would bring back bad memories of your time in foster care. And also, I always remember you telling me in high school to treat her better, and I never listened. I thought admitting she had died would..."
"What? Make me think less of you?" He snorts. "You forget that I know you, buddy. I know why you acted the way you did with her. I know that you were scared that you would eventually come to care about her."
"I wasn't scared."
"Yes, you were. It took forever for you to open up to me, and I'm a stubborn motherfucker. Your avoidance is a direct consequence of your early childhood abandonment."
"Now you're using therapy speak, too. You sound like Adam."
He laughs but sobers quickly. “Still. You should have told me."
"Maybe." I sigh. "I also...I don’t think I’ve been a good friend to you lately. It wasn't easy being around you while I was spiraling because, well, you know me too well."
"Hmmm. I thought you just liked Adam more now."
I shake my head. "Adam’s cool. Bossy though."
"Very bossy. It's like he thinks he's our dad."
"And he cooks too much."
"Always trying to take care of us...fucking irritating."
We stare at each other mid-laugh, and just like that, things are mended. I know I'll probably still have to make it up to him. I'll have to come out of my shell and not withdraw. I want to be the best possible guy for Chelsea, and the best father for our child.
"Want to go to therapy together?" I ask at the end of the speech.
He sighs, and I think he's going to say no, but he shrugs. "Sure. Why not?
After that, I stay home, and we watch a game.
Chelsea decides to stay over that night, and I head to her home to pick up some clothes for her. However, the second I park, I spot them from afar.
It's Chelsea's friend and the guy who was here the other time. Her ex.
The slimy bastard is arguing with her about something and immediately it stokes my wrath.
I get out of the car and go up to meet them as he gestures wildly, catching the tail end of his sentence, “–look just tell me where she is or I swear to God, I’ll–”
“You’ll what?”
He jerks around and takes a few steps back at my statement. It’s said in a quiet voice, much lower than his crazed screeching, but it manages to land with impact. His eyes widen in fear as he clears his throat.
“Sorry, I was just looking for Chelsea."
I don’t respond at first, staring him down. Then I take a step towards him, and another, relishing the fear that grows in his eyes.
“Don’t.”
“What?” he stammers.
“Don’t look for her. Got it?”
His jaw clenches, but he’s a coward and jerks his head in a nod.
“I’ll see you around, Jenna,” he says in a much quieter tone.
“Not likely asshole,” she responds as he tentatively shifts past me and hurries down the stairs.
“Are you okay?” I ask while watching him leave.
“Yeah. Nothing I can’t handle. Just him being his usual unhinged self trying to cause trouble for Chelsea again.” She shakes her head. “She’s with you?”
“Yes. She’s at our place.”
“Good. Tell her to be careful.”