Chapter 37 Sam
Chapter thirty-seven
Sam
The reality of Monday morning hit us like a physical blow, and by Wednesday afternoon, we are both bruised.
My phone screen is glaringly bright against the dark wood of the table when Tom finally slides into the booth across from me.
I glance up, register his presence with a tight knot in my chest, and immediately look back down at the email from Richard.
The subject line reads Harbor Follow-Up — Action Items. The body is a bulleted list of deliverables with Friday deadlines.
I scroll, skim, and flag three items that absolutely should have been delegated to Leo.
"Hey." Tom's voice is warm, but it’s thin. Distracted.
"Hey." I don't look up yet. Two more bullets. One more paragraph.
His phone vibrates violently against the table between us. Once, then twice in quick succession. The sound grates against my nerves. I hear the rapid, frantic tap of his thumb on the glass screen.
I finish the email, mark it unread so I remember to respond later, and set my phone face up. Tom is typing furiously, his jaw locked tight with concentration.
"Sorry." He glances up, offers a quick, apologetic smile, and drops his eyes right back to his screen. "Client's freaking out about print deadlines."
"It's fine."
It's not fine. It’s actually incredibly far from fine, but I don't know how to say that without sounding needy or unreasonable. I am a project manager; I understand deadlines. So instead of speaking, I reach for my coffee. It's lukewarm and bitter. I take a sip anyway.
Tom finishes typing, sets his phone down with a heavy thud, and exhales deeply. He finally looks at me. His eyes hold mine for a beat longer than they have all week.
"Long week," he says, rubbing the back of his neck.
"Yeah."
The silence stretches between us. It is absolutely nothing like the comfortable, electric quiet from the gala weekend.
I can feel the entire week sitting in the space between us—the one rushed ten-minute coffee we managed to grab on Monday, the night I went to bed without hearing his voice because he was still on set.
I shift in my seat, cross my arms, then uncross them because that feels too defensive. I pick up my coffee again just to have something to do with my hands.
"The post-Harbor debrief was a disaster," I say finally. "Richard wants major revisions, and Leo managed to lose half the data we needed."
Tom nods. His phone vibrates again. He glances at the notification banner but doesn't pick it up.
"That's rough," he says.
I wait for him to ask a follow-up question. He doesn't. His eyes flick back to his phone screen, still lit on the table.
Saturday night, we were on a terrace. His hands were in my hair, my back pressed against the railing, the whole world narrowed down to his mouth on mine and the sound of the ocean below. Now we're sitting three feet apart and he's watching his phone like it might explode if he looks away too long.
"You're distracted," I say, and I hear the edge in my voice before I can smooth it out.
Tom's head snaps up. "What?"
"You're distracted. You've checked your phone four times since you sat down."
"I'm dealing with a client emergency," Tom says.
"I know. I get it." I am highly aware that I was doing the exact same thing to him three minutes ago, but the hypocrisy doesn't make me any less frustrated. "I'm just—" I stop, bite down on the frustration rising in my throat. "Never mind."
"Sam."
"It's fine."
"It's not fine." He picks up his phone, flips it face down, and slides it to the far edge of the table. "I'm here. I'm listening."
I look at him. He isn't pulling away or putting up walls like he used to; his eyes are just bloodshot and tired. He is genuinely drowning in work. I appreciate the gesture, but the irritation doesn't dissolve completely.
"I was telling you about the debrief," I say carefully. "And you weren't really listening."
"You're right. I'm sorry."
I nod. Accept the apology because it's sincere.
Tom leans forward, elbows on the table, hands folded. He's giving me his full attention now, but it feels effortful. Like he has to consciously choose not to let his focus drift.
"What happened at the debrief?" he asks.
I tell him. The whole mess. Richard tore apart the pedestrian section, the data was missing, and I spent three hours rebuilding work Leo should have handled. Tom listens without interrupting. He nods in the right places, asks one clarifying question about timeline.
When I finish, he says, "That's a lot."
"Yeah."
Another silence. Heavier this time.
I pick at the edge of my napkin, tearing off a small corner and rolling it between my thumb and forefinger. Tom watches my hands, then looks up at my face.
"We've barely seen each other this week," he says quietly.
"I know."
"One coffee. Ten minutes. You had to run to a site visit."
"I know," I say again.
The napkin corner is a tight little ball now. I set it on the table, smooth the napkin flat again.
"I guess I just didn't think it would feel like this," I say, and the words come out before I can stop them.
Tom goes very still. He doesn't ask me to clarify. He just waits.
I exhale slowly, trying to organize my thoughts into something coherent.
"A few days ago we were—" I stop, glance around The Donut like someone might be listening. Lower my voice. "A few days ago we were on that terrace. And now we're here, and it's Wednesday, and I feel like I haven't really talked to you in four days."
"You have talked to me."
"Texts don't count."
"Why not?"
"Because they're—" I gesture vaguely. "Maintenance. Quick check-ins. 'How's your day,' 'Miss you,' logistical updates. That's not the same as actually being together."
Tom's jaw shifts. He looks down at his hands, then back up at me.
"We're both building careers, Sam. It's not always going to be easy to carve out time."
"I know that."
"Do you?"
The question has a slight edge. Not quite defensive, but close.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
Tom hesitates. Picks his words carefully. "I mean, I think maybe you had this idea that once we admitted we wanted this, everything would just fall into place. And it doesn't work like that."
The truth stings.
I look away, focusing on the espresso machine behind the counter. Margit is pulling a shot for someone, her movements practiced and efficient.
"I know it doesn't just happen," I say quietly. "I'm not naive."
"I didn't say you were."
"But you think I expected it to be easier."
Tom reaches across the table, his hand settling over mine. His thumb brushes across my knuckles once, slow and deliberate.
"I think we both did," he says.
I look down at his hand covering mine. I feel the pressure of his palm against the back of my hand, the warmth spreading through my fingers.
"So what do we do?" I ask.
"I don't know."
The honesty is almost worse than a non-answer. I was hoping he'd have a plan, some way to navigate this that I hadn't thought of yet. But he's as uncertain as I am.
I pull my hand back, not harshly, just needing the space. I wrap both arms around myself, then immediately drop them because I can feel how closed-off the posture looks.
"We can't just hope we find time," I say. "That's not a strategy. That's just letting it happen to us."
"Okay. So what's your strategy?"
There's no malice in the question, but I hear the faint challenge underneath. He's waiting to see if I'm going to try to manage this the way I manage everything else.
"I don't know," I admit. "Maybe we need to block out time. Make it non-negotiable."
Tom's mouth twitches, not quite a smile. "You want to schedule us."
"Don't say it like that."
"Like what?"
"Like I'm being controlling."
"I didn't say controlling. I said schedule."
"You made it sound ridiculous."
Tom sits back against the booth, runs a hand through his hair. "I'm not making fun of you, Sam. I'm just—" He stops, exhales. "I don't want to be a calendar appointment."
I feel my shoulders stiffen, my jaw lock.
"That's not what I meant."
"I know."
"Then why did you say it like that?"
"Because—" Tom stops, recalibrates. "Because I don't want this to turn into another deliverable. Another thing we have to execute perfectly or it doesn't count."
"That's not fair."
"Isn't it?"
I stare at him. He holds my gaze, steady and unflinching.
"If we don't make time for this, it won't work," I say, voice tight. "If we just wait for free time to magically appear, we'll never see each other. You know that."
Tom nods slowly. "I know. You're right."
The concession surprises me. I was braced for more resistance.
"Okay," he says. "So we make time. One night a week. Non-negotiable. No work, no clients, no emergencies."
I process the offer. Turn it over in my mind, looking for the catch.
"One night a week doesn't feel like enough," I say quietly.
Tom doesn't respond right away. The silence stretches long enough that I start to fill it in my head with all the reasons he's hesitating. He's regretting this. He's realizing it's too much work. He's looking for an exit.
But when I look up, he's not looking away. He's watching me, his expression unreadable.
"I don't have a better answer," he says finally.
I exhale through my nose, feel my jaw unclench slightly. Not relief, exactly. Just the small, fragile acknowledgment that neither of us knows how to do this perfectly.
"On the days we can't have a night," Tom says slowly, "we steal moments. Morning coffee. Lunch breaks when we can swing it. Whatever we can get. Yeah, it's not glamorous."
I nod. Don't trust my voice yet.
Tom shifts forward, elbows back on the table. "What day do you want?"
"What?"
"For our non-negotiable night. What day works for you?"
The question catches me off guard. I expected more negotiation, more circling. Not immediate action.
"You want to pick right now?"
"You said we need a plan. So let's make one."
I blink at him. Tom, who never plans more than a day ahead, who keeps his schedule loose and his commitments looser, is asking me to pick a specific recurring day.
"Saturday," I say.
"Saturday works." Tom holds my gaze, his expression sobering slightly. "But we're going to miss some Saturdays."
"What?"
"We're going to miss some," he repeats. "Something's going to come up. A client emergency, a site crisis, something. And we're going to have to reschedule. And that's going to be okay."
"Is it?" I ask.
"It has to be."
I don't know if that's true. But I don't have a better answer either.
Tom picks up his phone from the far edge of the table. He taps the screen, scrolls, pauses. His brow furrows slightly.
"What are you doing?" I ask.
"Hold on."
He opens the app store. I watch him type something into the search bar, scroll through results, tap one. A loading bar appears on the screen.
"Are you downloading a calendar app?"
"Yeah."
"You don't have a calendar app."
"I do now."
The app finishes installing. Tom opens it, navigates through the setup screens with mild frustration. He types slowly, deliberately: Sat. 7pm. Sam.
Then he sets the phone down on the table between us, screen facing me. For a man who lives by improvisation, it feels enormous.
"There," he says. "I'm not winging this."
Tom watches me. I reach across the table, lacing my fingers through his.
His hand tightens around mine. Not desperate. Just present.
We sit like that, hands linked, phones dark and silent, while the espresso machine hisses and the door chime rings and the world keeps moving around us.
I don't know if this will be enough.
But it's what we've got.