I raise my glass to my mouth and take a large sip.
Sam’s gaze is relentless. His ability to maintain eye contact was something I got used to after I first met him. And as we got older, that blue stare set fire to my blood, but now its pressure is overwhelming. And I know, I know, that I shouldn’t find him attractive right now, but his dark expression and his hard jaw are unraveling me. He is undeniably gorgeous, even when he’s a little intense. Maybe especially so.
I tip back the rest of the whisky and gasp at the burn. He’s waiting for me to say something, and I’ve never been able to evade him. I’m just not ready to open up our wounds now, not before I know whether we’ll survive them a second time.
I look down at my empty glass. “I’ve spent twelve years thinking about what I would say if I ever saw you again.” I grimace at my own honesty. I pause, counting four breaths in and out. “I’ve missed you so much.” My voice trembles, but I keep going. “I want to make it better. I want to fix things. But I don’t know what to say to do that right now. Please just give me a little more time.”
I keep my attention on my empty glass. I have both hands wrapped around it so he can’t see them shake. Then I hear the soft pop of the bottle’s cork. I glance up, my eyes wide with fear. But his are soft now, a little sad even.
“Have another drink, Percy,” he says gently, filling the glass. “We don’t have to talk about it now.”
I nod and take a deep breath, grateful.
“Na zdrowie,” he says, touching his glass to mine and raising it to his lips, waiting for me to do the same. Together, we gulp down our drinks.
His phone buzzes in his pocket. It’s not the first time it’s gone off this evening. He checks the screen and shoves it back in his shorts.
“Do you need to get that?” I ask, thinking of Chantal and feeling a pang of guilt. “I don’t mind.”
“No, they can wait. I’ll switch it off.” He lifts the bottle of whisky. “Another?”
“Why the hell not?” I attempt a smile.
He pours more and then comes around the bar to sit on the stool beside me. “We should probably take this one slowly,” he says, tilting his glass. I ruffle my bangs with my fingers, partly from nerves and partly in the hope of making them somewhat presentable.
“You once swore you’d never get bangs again,” Sam says, looking at me sideways. I turn in my seat to face him.
“These,” I pronounce, “are my breakup bangs!” And, wow, am I drunk already?
“Your what?” he asks, swinging to face me with a lopsided grin, brushing my legs with his in the process. I look down where his thighs bracket mine, then quickly back to his face.
“You know—breakup bangs,” I say, trying to enunciate as clearly as possible. He looks mystified. “Women get new hairstyles when we get dumped. Or when we dump someone. Or sometimes just when we need a fresh start. Bangs are like the New Year’s Eve of hair.”
“I see,” Sam says slowly, and it’s clear what he means is I really don’t see and also That’s crazy. But a smile plays across his mouth. I try not to focus on the little crease in the middle of his bottom lip. Booze and Sam are a dangerous combination, I realize, because my cheeks are toasty and all I can think is how much I want to suck on that crease.
“So were you the dumper or the dumpee?” he asks.
“I got dumped. Just recently.” I try to focus on his eyes.
“Ah, shit. Sorry, Percy.” He moves his head down to my level so he’s right in my eye line. Oh god, did he notice I was staring at his mouth? I force myself to meet his eyes. He’s wearing an odd stern expression. My face is burning. I can feel beads of perspiration forming above my upper lip.
“No, it’s okay,” I say, trying to subtly dab at the sweat. “It wasn’t that serious. We weren’t together very long. I mean, it was seven months. Which is long for me—the longest for me, actually. But, like, not long for most grown-up people.”
Oh, good, I’m rambling now. And maybe slurring?
“Anyway, it’s fine. He wasn’t the guy for me.”
“Ah,” he says, and when I look back to him, he seems more relaxed. “Not a horror fan?”
“You remember that, huh?” Delight tingles in my toes.
“Of course,” he says with open, disarming honesty. I smile—a huge, dopey, whisky-fueled smile. “Who could forget being subjected to years of shitty scary movies?” This is classic Sam, teasing but always gentle and never unkind.
“Excuse me?! You loved my movies!” I give him a playful punch on the arm, and, Jesus, his bicep is like concrete. I shake my fist, looking at him in disbelief. He wears a small grin as if he knows exactly what I’m thinking. I take a sip of whisky to cut the tension that’s closing in.
“Anyway, no. Sebastian definitely did not like horror movies,” I say, and then I rethink this. “Actually, I don’t know. I never asked. And we never watched one together, so who knows? Maybe he loved them.” I leave out the part about how I haven’t told anyone I’ve dated about this odd passion of mine. That I don’t even watch scary movies anymore. To Sam, my love of classic horror films was probably a basic biographical Percy fact. But to me, it was far too intimate a detail to reveal to any of the men I saw. And, more to the point, after that first summer at the lake, I’ve associated those films with Sam. Watching them now would be too painful.
“You’re joking?” Sam asks, clearly confused.
I shake my head.
“Well, you’re right,” he murmurs. “He’s definitely not the guy for you.”
“What about you?” I ask. “Still reading anatomy textbooks for kicks?”
His eyes grow wider, and I think his cheeks have gone darker under the stubble. I hadn’t meant to bring up that particular memory. Of his hands and mouth on me in his bedroom.
“I didn’t . . .” I start, but he interjects.
“I think my textbook-reading days are over,” he says, giving me an out. But then he adds, “Calm down, Percy. You look like you’ve been busted watching porn.”
I let out a relieved sound that is halfway between a laugh and a sigh.
We finish our drinks in a happy silence. Sam pours more. It’s dark outside now, and I have no idea how long we’ve been here.
“We’re going to regret this tomorrow,” I say, but it’s a lie. I would endure a two-day hangover if it meant I could have another hour with Sam.
“Do you stay in touch with Delilah?” he asks, and I almost choke on my drink. I haven’t spoken to Delilah in years. We’re friends on Facebook, so I know she’s some kind of political PR ace in Ottawa, but I pushed her away not too long after I messed everything up with Sam. My two biggest friendships: gone within months. Both because of me.
I run my finger around the rim of my glass. “We stopped being close in university,” I say. The truth of this still stings, though it’s not the whole story, not even close. I look at Sam to see if he can tell.
He shifts his weight on the stool, looking uncomfortable, and takes a big drink. “I’m sorry to hear that. You two were really tight for a while there.”
“We were,” I agree. “Actually,” I add, glancing up at him, “you probably saw her more than I did since you both went to Queen’s.”
He scratches the scruff on his jaw. “It’s a big campus, but yeah, I ran into her once or twice.” His voice is coarse.
“She’d get a kick out of seeing how you’ve grown up,” my stupid whisky mouth blurts. I look down at my drink.
“Oh?” he asks, bumping my knee with his. “And how did I grow up?”
“Cocky, apparently,” I mutter, squinting at my glass, because somehow there are two of them.
He chuckles and then leans toward me and whispers in my ear, “You grew up pretty cocky, too.”
* * *
SAM SITS BACK and studies me.
“Can I tell you something?” he asks, his words running together just a little.