“Of course,” I choke out.
His eyes are slightly unfocused, but he has them set on mine. “There was this incredible used book and video store in Kingston when I was premed,” he begins. “They had a huge horror section—all the good stuff you loved. But other movies, too. Obscure ones that I thought maybe you hadn’t seen. I spent a lot of time there, just browsing around. It reminded me of you.” Sam shakes his head, remembering. “The owner was this grumpy guy with tattoos and a huge mustache. One day he got super pissed at me coming in all the time and never buying anything, so I grabbed a copy of The Evil Dead and plunked it on the counter. And then I just kept going back, but of course I had to buy something each time. I ended up with Carrie, Psycho, The Exorcist, and all those terrible Halloween movies,” he says. He pauses, searching my face. “I never put them on, though. My roommates thought I was nuts to have all these movies I didn’t watch. But I just couldn’t bring myself to. It felt wrong without you.”
This shakes me.
I’ve spent hours, days, entire years wondering if Sam could possibly long for me the way I did for him. In some ways, it seemed like wishful thinking. In the months following our breakup, I left countless messages on his dorm room phone, sent text after text, and wrote email after email, checking to see how he was, telling him how much I missed him, and asking if we could please talk. He didn’t respond to a single one. By May, someone else answered the phone—a new student had moved into his room. I considered driving up to Barry’s Bay, telling him everything, begging for forgiveness, but I thought he’d probably wiped me, my name, and all memory of us from his mind by that point.
There’s always been a small, hopeful part buried inside me that felt he must sometimes find his mind drifting to me, to us. He was everything to me, but I know the same was true for him. Hearing him talk about the video store dislodges that deeply hidden sliver of hope, just a little.
“I don’t watch them, either,” I admit in a whisper.
“No?”
“No.” I clear my throat. “Same reason.”
We’re looking at each other, unblinking. The tightness in my chest is almost unbearable. The temptation to lean into him, to show him what he means to me with my hands and my mouth and my tongue, is almost impossible to ignore. But I know that wouldn’t be fair. My heart is a stampede of animals escaping the zoo, but I sit still, waiting for his response.
And then Sam smiles and his blue eyes glint. I can feel what’s coming before he speaks, and I’m already smiling.
I know you, I think.
“You mean you finally got decent taste in films?”
His smart-ass comment chases away the heaviness looming over us, and we both fall into a fit of laughter. Clearly the whisky has taken its full effect because my cackles are broken up with hiccups, and tears are streaming down my face. I put my hand on Sam’s knee to steady myself without realizing that I’ve touched him. We’re still cracking up, and I’m taking big gasping breaths to try to calm down, when a woman’s voice silences our outburst.
“Sam?”
I look up and Sam turns toward the kitchen doors, my hand falling from his knee as he shifts. In the doorway stands a tall blonde. She looks like she’s around our age, but she’s dressed immaculately in white sailor-style trousers and a matching sleeveless silk blouse. She’s thin and crisp looking, her hair pulled back into a low bun at the nape of her long neck. I am suddenly fully aware of how crumpled my red dress is and how disheveled my hair must be.
“Sorry to interrupt,” she says, walking toward us, car keys clenched in one hand. Her expression is cool, and I feel rather than see her sizing me up because I’m looking to Sam in confusion.
“I tried calling you several times,” she says, her hazel eyes oscillating between us. I met some of Sam’s cousins when we were kids, and I’m trying to place this woman among them.
“Shit, sorry,” he says, the words of his apology blurring together. “We got a bit sidetracked.”
She purses her lips. “Are you going to introduce us?” she asks, waving toward me. She has the fair Florek coloring but definitely not the warmth.
Sam turns and gives me a crooked smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.
“Percy, this is Taylor,” he says.
“Cousin?” I ask, but Taylor answers for him.
“Girlfriend.”
* * *
SAM IS INTRODUCING me to Taylor. His girlfriend. Not his cousin.
Sam has a girlfriend.
Of course he has a girlfriend!
How had I not considered this? He is a hot doctor. He’s tall and he’s got those eyes, and the messy hair is working for him. I’m pretty sure whatever hard surface he’s keeping under his T-shirt would make me weep. The Sam I knew was also kind and funny and brilliant—too smart for his own good, really. And he’s so much more than all that. He’s Sam.
Taylor is standing in front of us, her hands on her hips, looking fresh and stylish and imposing in her all-white outfit while I am sitting with my mouth hanging open. What normal person wears all white without getting some kind of stain on the front, anyway? Come to think of it, who wears dress pants and a matching silk top on a Thursday night in Barry’s Bay? On any night in Barry’s Bay? I want to squirt her with one of the restaurant’s ketchup bottles.
“Taylor, this is Percy,” Sam says as though he’s mentioned me before, but Taylor looks at him blankly. “Remember? I’ve told you about Percy,” he prods. “She had a cottage next door. We hung out all the time when we were kids.”
Hung out? Hung out?!
“How cute,” Taylor says in a way that makes it sound like she doesn’t think our childhood hangouts are very cute at all. “So you two are just catching up?” She directs the question to Sam, but her eyes flash over to me, and I can see the assessment she’s making: threat or no? My dress is wrinkled and possibly sweaty. There’s an ice cream stain on my boob. And there’s no way I don’t smell like whisky. Her shoulders relax a little—she doesn’t think there’s anything to worry about.
Sam is saying something in response to Taylor, but I have no idea what because I’m suddenly so nauseated that I have to hold on to the counter.
I need air.
I start taking deep breaths. Iiiin one, two, three, four and ouuut one, two, three, four. The whisky, which was warm and honey-sweet moments ago, now tastes stale and sour in my mouth. Puking is a very real possibility.
“You all right, Percy?” Sam asks, and I realize I’ve been counting out loud. He and Taylor are both looking at me.
“Mm-hmm,” I hum tightly. “But I think the whisky is catching up to me. I should probably go. It was nice meeting you, Taylor.” I get down from my spot at the bar and take a step forward, and my foot catches on the leg of Sam’s stool. I stumble right in front of Taylor, who, by the way, smells like a fucking rose garden.
“Percy.” Sam grabs my arm, and I close my eyes for a brief moment to steady myself. “You can’t drive.” I turn back to him, and he’s got this look on his face like he feels sorry for me. I hate it.
“It’s okay,” I start. “No, I mean, I know I can’t drive. But it’s okay because I didn’t drive. I walked here.”
“Walked? Where are you staying? We’ll give you a ride,” Sam offers.
We.
We.
We.
I look at Taylor, who is not doing a very good job at hiding her annoyance. Then again, if I found my hot doctor boyfriend drunk with a strange, clumsy woman who thought I was his cousin, I would be annoyed, too. And if that boyfriend were Sam, annoyance wouldn’t cover it. I would be murderous.