Chapter Twenty-Three #2
Sam opens his mouth, but whatever he expected to say doesn't come immediately. His gaze drifts toward the window. A bus passes through the intersection outside, briefly cutting the light across the table before the room brightens again.
When he looks back at me, he looks more nervous than I have ever seen him.
"Letting you know me scares me."
The words come quietly.
I don't move.
He drags one hand over his beard.
"The fucked-up part is that wanting you to know me scares me too."
There is no polished explanation after it. No convenient story about what somebody else did to him.
Just Sam sitting across from me looking like he would very much like to take the sentence back and refusing to.
I set my coffee down.
"What scares you about it?"
His fingers go still against his jaw.
For several seconds, he says nothing.
I can see him working at it. His eyes move over my face before dropping to the table. He shifts in his chair and braces one hand against his thigh.
"When you were upstairs with me, I could..."
He stops, frustration tightening his mouth.
"Fuck."
My old instinct arrives immediately.
I could ask whether he thinks I'll leave. I could give him the words he's circling and watch his face until one fits. I could make this easier for both of us.
I keep my hands around my cup.
Sam leans back and looks toward the ceiling for a second. "I can see it when I'm alone."
"What?"
"All of it. What I did. Why I kept doing it. What I was protecting."
"What were you protecting?"
His mouth opens.
Nothing comes.
The silence stretches.
Sam looks down at the table, flexes his fingers once and tries again. "I had an answer when I was driving here."
"Then take your time."
"That isn't the problem."
"What is?"
His eyes meet mine.
"I can think it when there's nobody sitting across from me who can do anything with it."
There. That one gets under my ribs. I stay quiet.
Sam swallows, but whatever comes next stays lodged somewhere behind his teeth.
Eventually he shakes his head.
"I'm sorry."
"Don't apologize for not making it pretty."
"It isn't about pretty."
"Then what is it about?"
He looks at me for a long moment.
"I'm trying to hand it to you, and every part of me wants to keep hold of it."
My eyes sting. That is an answer too. Maybe not the whole one. But it's his. I sit back in my chair and breathe.
"I believe you're sorry."
His head lifts.
"I mean that." My thumb moves slowly along the edge of my cup. "I've spent years writing statements for people who want credit for apologizing without ever admitting what they did. You didn't do that today."
Sam doesn't interrupt.
"You told me exactly where you hurt me. You didn't blame Elise. You didn't blame Bex. You didn't blame me for asking. You didn't tell me you were confused."
"I wasn't confused."
"No. You weren't."
The admission settles between us.
"And you gave me something true about you," I say. "Several things."
His eyes stay on mine.
"But?"
"There is one."
He nods once.
"I can see you moving toward me, Sam. Yesterday you crossed the room. Today you're sitting here telling me things I wanted from you for months."
My throat tightens enough that I have to stop for a second.
"But every time we get to the place where you would have to tell me what I actually meant to you, you still stop."
His jaw tightens.
"I want to say it."
"I believe you."
He looks away.
The woman with the highlighters has started packing up. One by one, she caps them and drops them into a pencil case. I watch her for a moment because it gives me somewhere to put my eyes.
When I look back, Sam has both forearms braced against the table.
"What do you need from me?"
It's probably the best question he could ask.
"Nothing right now."
His fingers tighten together.
"That isn't punishment. I'm going back Sunday. I have work waiting for me. Summer leaves for Charleston. I need to go back to the life I'm building there."
Sam nods slowly.
I slide my arms into my coat.
He stands when I do but stays behind his chair, giving me room to pull my hair free from the collar and settle the strap of my bag on my shoulder.
"Autumn."
I look at him.
His hands flatten against the back of the chair.
"I miss you."
The ache comes fast.
"I miss you too."
His fingers tighten against the wood.
For months I wanted him to admit even that much. Now the words are here and they don't solve anything.
Maybe they aren't supposed to.
"I'm glad you came," he says.
"So am I."
And I am.
If this conversation had happened right after, maybe everything would be different. But it didn't happen. It happened today, after months of hurt and both of us changing in ways neither of us gets to skip over because Sam finally found some of the right words.
I pick up my bag.
Sam moves around the chair and stops several feet away.
He doesn't reach for me.
"I'll see you when you're back," he says.
I don't promise when that will be.
"Good luck with Pilsen."
His expression softens. "I will."
I leave before either of us finds another reason to stay.
Outside, the cold catches the wetness under my eyes before I realize I'm crying. I walk right past the car waiting at the curb and have to turn around when the driver taps the horn.
I slide into the back seat, give him the hotel address and pull the door closed.
Chicago moves past the window while I wipe my face with the heel of my hand.
I thought seeing Sam again might give me something cleaner than this. Anger would have been convenient. So would forgiveness. Instead I'm sitting in the back of a car relieved, heartbroken and still so fucking in love with him that none of those things manages to cancel out the others.
He gave me more today than he ever has.
He told me the truth about the man who showed up at Vibes. About himself before Elise. About why my help made him angry. About how badly some part of him still wants to keep hold of anything that could be used to hurt him.
And he still stopped.
For months I've wondered whether we would have ended differently if I'd asked better. Stayed calmer. Given him one question instead of three. Waited another ten minutes.
Today I gave him time. I stayed quiet. I didn't finish a single sentence for him.
He heard me. He tried. And some of what I needed still stayed on his side of the table. That hurts, but it is not the same thing as me asking wrong.
My phone sits beside me on the seat. I leave it there and watch the city through the window.
Sunday, I go back to London.