“Hey, congratulations,” Finn said from the couch, giving me a salute.
“Yeah,” Jordie chimed in. “Sam told us about your story. Wouldn’t shut up about it, actually.”
I raised my eyebrows, feeling lighter than popcorn.
“I told you I thought it was good,” Sam said. He tilted his head toward the large gift in my lap. “Is that for me?”
“No,” I replied, innocently. “It’s for Jordie and Finn.”
“She’s good,” said Jordie, pointing his index finger at me before going back to the game.
“It’s stupid,” I added quietly, my eyes on Sam’s friends. He followed my gaze.
“I got something for you, too,” he said, and I saw Jordie elbow Finn.
“You did?”
“It’s upstairs,” he said. “Guys, we’ll be back in a sec,” he announced, and we padded up to the main floor. Sam pointed to the stairs leading to the second floor. “In my room.”
I had been inside Sam’s bedroom only a couple of times. It was a cozy space with navy-blue walls and thick carpeting. Sam kept it tidy—the bed was made with a blue plaid duvet, and there were no piles of clothes on the floor or stray papers on his desk. Next to the bed was a bookshelf filled with comics, secondhand biology textbooks, and full sets of J. R. R. Tolkien and Harry Potter. A large black-and-white poster showing a sketch of an anatomical heart, with labels pointing to the various parts, hung on the wall.
There was a new framed photo on his desk. I put the gift down and picked it up. It was a picture of Sam and me from my first summer at the lake. We were sitting at the end of his dock, towels wrapped around our shoulders, hair wet, both squinting into the sun, a barely detectable grin on Sam’s face and a toothy one on mine.
“This is a good shot,” I said.
“Glad you think so,” he replied, opening up his top drawer and handing me a small present covered in brown paper and tied with a red ribbon.
I opened it carefully, tucking the ribbon in the pocket of my sweatpants. Inside was a pewter frame holding the same photo. “So you can take the lake home with you,” he said.
“Thank you.” I hugged it to my chest and then groaned. “I really don’t want to give you yours. This is so thoughtful. Mine is . . . silly.”
“I like silly,” Sam said with a shrug and picked his present up from the desk. I bit my lip while he tore off the paper and examined the cartoon naked man on the Operation board game lid. His hair fell over his forehead, making it hard to read his expression, and when he looked at me it was with one of his unreadable stares.
“Because you want to be a doctor?” I explained.
“Yeah, I get that. Genius over here, remember?” He smiled. “Definitely the best gift I got this year.”
I exhaled in relief. “Swear on it?” He pinched my bracelet between his thumb and forefinger.
“I swear.” But then his face scrunched up. “I don’t want this to sound bad, but I think that maybe sometimes you worry too much about what other people think.” He rubbed the back of his neck and bent his head so that his face was level with mine.
I mumbled something incoherent. I knew he was right, but I didn’t like that he saw me that way.
“What I’m trying to say is that it doesn’t matter what other people think about you, because if they don’t like you, they’re clearly morons.” He was so close I could make out the darker flecks of blue in his eyes.
“But you’re not other people,” I whispered. His eyes flicked down to my mouth, and I leaned a tiny bit closer. “I do care what you think.”
“Sometimes I think no one gets me the way you do,” he said, the pink of his cheeks deepening to scarlet. “Do you ever get that feeling?” My mouth felt dry and I ran my tongue over my top lip. His gaze followed its path, and I could hear him swallow thickly.
“Yeah,” I said, putting a shaking hand on his wrist, sure that he would close the gap between us.
But then he blinked like he had remembered something important and straightened to his full height and said, “I don’t ever want to mess that up.”
7
Now
Sam and I walk to the Tavern after finishing our ice creams, and when we arrive at the back door, we stand looking at each other awkwardly, unsure of how to part.
“It’s been so great to see you,” I tell him, tugging at the hem of my dress and hating how phony my voice sounds. Sam must hear it, too, because he raises his eyebrows and jerks his head back just slightly. “I was going to try to hit the liquor store before it closes,” I say. “There’s a bottle of wine with my name on it. It’s kind of a lot being back here.” I wince.
Why did I say that? How is it that I’ve seen Sam for all of an hour and the lock has come flying off my big mouth?
Sam runs his hand over his face and then through his hair. “Why don’t you come in for a drink? Twelve years is a lot of time to catch up on.” It doesn’t escape my notice that he’s already done the math.
I shift on my feet. There’s nothing more I want than to spend time with Sam, to just be near Sam, but I need some time to figure out what I’m going to say to him. I want to talk about the last time we saw each other. To tell him how sorry I am. To tell him why I did what I did. To come clean. But I can’t go there tonight. I’m not prepared. It would be like going into the fight of my life without any armor.
I look around the quiet side street.
“C’mon, Percy. Save your money.”
“Okay,” I agree. I step into the dark kitchen behind him, and when he flicks on the lights, my eyes slide down the slope of his back to the curve of his butt, which is a very big mistake because it is a stupidly great butt. It is at this precise moment that he turns around, catching me mid-ass-ogle.
“Bar?” I ask, feigning ignorance. I brush past him and through the dining room doors, turning on the lights in the main room. With my hand still on the switch, I take in the space. I have to blink a few times to process what I see because it’s wild how little has changed. Pine planks cover the walls and ceiling; the floors are some kind of tougher wood, maple maybe. The effect is of being in a cozy cabin, despite the large size of the room. Historic photos of Barry’s Bay hang on the walls along with antique logging axes and saws and paintings from local artists, including a few of the Tavern itself. The stone fireplace sits where it always did, and the same family photo is placed on the mantel where it always was. I make my way over to it while Sam takes a couple of glasses from the shelf behind the bar.
It’s a framed shot of the Floreks in front of the Tavern, which I know was taken the day the restaurant opened. Sam’s parents are wearing massive smiles. His dad, Chris, towers over Sue with one arm wrapped around her shoulder, holding her tight to his side. A toddler Charlie clutches his free hand. Sue is carrying an infant Sam; he looks about eight months old, his hair is so fair it’s almost white, and his arms and legs are deliciously dimpled. I studied this photo countless times as a teen. I touch Sue’s face now. She’s younger than I am in this photo.
“I always loved this shot,” I say, still examining the picture. I hear the gurgle of liquid being poured into glasses and turn to see Sam, adult Sam, watching me with a pained expression.
I walk to the bar and put my hands on the counter as I take a seat in front of him. He passes me a generous tumbler of whisky.
“You okay?” I ask.
“You were right earlier,” he says, his voice rough as gravel. “It’s a lot having you here. It kind of feels like I’ve been punched in the heart.” My breath hitches. He lifts his glass to his lips and tosses his head back, downing its contents.
I am suddenly one thousand degrees hotter and hyperaware of the dampness under my armpits and how my bangs are stuck to my forehead. There’s probably a cowlick up there. I try to push them off my face.
“Sam . . .” I begin, then stop, not sure what words come next.
I don’t want to do this now. Not yet.