Samantha
SAMANTHA
T he rain hasn’t let up since it started this afternoon, so we’re stuck inside. To lighten the mood, Chandler decided to teach me how to play blackjack with some cards he found in a junk drawer. He poured himself a glass of the whiskey we drank the other night and a glass of wine for me. After a few glasses each, we’re both a little tipsy.
Despite this, my heart still feels weighed down by what he told me, and I have to stop myself from asking questions because I don’t want to upset him. I can’t imagine what it must have been like for him growing up, but somehow, it helps me understand him more. To know why he is the way he is. He’s just as insecure as the next guy. The only difference is he’s better at hiding it.
We leave for Florida tomorrow morning, and I feel anxious about it. I could tell he was serious when he said he wanted to try this out with me. This monogamous thing, that apparently, is unfamiliar to him. I should be worried. I should be nervous that he’ll change his mind. Part of me is, but a bigger part of me wants this and wants him, which is a little frightening because it means I have to trust him. And I do.
“Sam?” Chandler sings my name from across the table, and I look at the cards in my hand.
“Hit me," I say, and he slaps a card on the table. I look up from my cards and at him, across the table. His teeth on his bottom lip while he smiles, his face is a little pink from the alcohol, and his eyes seem to sparkle a pretty blue, like a clear lagoon or ocean waves that pull me in deeper and deeper. I force myself to look away and pick up the card.
“Dammit," I murmur.
“We need to work on your poker face," he says.
“I’ve never been very good at lying," I admit.
“I figured," he says, still smiling at me from across the table.
I set my cards down face up to show that I have two 10s and two 5s. He sets his cards down to show he’s won the game for the 20th time.
“How did you learn to play?”
“My grandfather taught me when I was little.”
“Odd," I say, taking a sip of my wine. “For some reason, that doesn’t surprise me.”
“Why would it?”
“He has a room full of potpourri.”
“He’s a jack of all trades.”
“Sounds like it," I say, picking up the cards and stacking them neatly before setting them on the table. I look at him, my elbow on the table, and rest my cheek on my hand.
“So," he says, shooting back the last of his drink and setting it on the table. He leans back in the chair, that familiar smirk on his face. “What do we do now?”
“Hmm," I place my forefinger on my chin and pretend to think. “I don’t know. What do two people do when they’re stuck inside on a rainy day? ”
“Well, we’ve already played cards.”
“We have.”
“We’ve already eaten.”
“True.”
“And we’re a bit tipsy.”
I shake my head. “Speak for yourself.”
“You are tipsy.”
“Not even a little bit.”
“Yes, you are,’ he says again, nodding. “I can tell.”
“How?”
“Your cheeks get rosy when you have more than two drinks. I noticed it at the first work party we had. ”
My heart flutters. He noticed that? I’ve known this about myself since college, and at one point, I tried to put on enough concealer to hide it. Turns out it doesn’t work that well. But the fact that he took notice of it, of me, within the first few weeks of my working with him makes me blush. I wonder how long he's been paying attention to me and what else he's come to notice about me. All I say is, "Oh.”
“So, Sam," he says, a playful smile still on his face. “What haven’t we done?”
“I can’t think of anything," I say, giving him a teasing smile.
“I’m sure I could think of a few things.”
“Like?”
He stands from his chair and walks to where I’m sitting, and my heart beats quickly. I can feel my cheeks heat up just thinking about what I want him to do to me. His hand touches my cheek gently and then comes to my chin to tilt my hand up at him.
“Let me show you.” Then he leans down and kisses me, and it’s rough and eager. And every part of me burns with want.