Every Summer After

“That’s the idea,” he says, then adds, “I wouldn’t mind the distraction.”

“Do you even have something to watch these things on?” He points at the PlayStation. I screw my mouth up. Looks like we’re watching a movie.

“Do you have popcorn?”

Sam smiles. “Of course.”

“Okay. You go make some, and I’ll choose a movie.” I give the order with confidence, but really I just need a minute alone, away from Sam. Because I feel like I’ve been scraped over a cheese grater.

Once Sam heads upstairs, I take my phone out of my back pocket. There’s a missed call from Chantal and several texts wanting to know how my run-in with Sam went. I cringe and shove the phone back in my pocket and then riffle through the DVD box.

I can do this, I think. I can be friends with Sam. I don’t know how to do that anymore, but I am determined not to leave here on Monday and never see him again. Even if it means dealing with him being in a relationship with someone else. Even if it means planning his fucking wedding.

I’m standing in front of the TV holding the movie behind my back when Sam returns to the basement, a large bowl of popcorn in one hand and two more beers in the other.

“Want to guess which one I picked?” Sam puts the bowl and drinks on the coffee table and faces me with his hands on his hips. His eyes scan my face and then a grin touches his mouth.

“Nuh-uh,” I say before he speaks.

“The Evil Dead.”

“Are you kidding me?” I wave the DVD in the air. “How did you do that?”

Sam stalks around the coffee table to me, and I hold the movie above my head, like I’m playing keep-away. He reaches around me to take the movie from my hand, brushing his chest against mine in the process. He pulls the DVD, and my arm along with it, down to our sides, his fingers overlapping mine. We are a few inches apart. Everything goes blurry except for the details of Sam’s face. I can see the darker specks of blue that encircle his irises and the purplish rings under his eyes. I glance down at his mouth and stop on the crease that parts his bottom lip. Friends. Friends. Friends.

“Old habits, right?” Sam asks, and it sounds like velvet.

“Huh?” I blink up at him.

“The movie—you want to watch it for old times’ sake.”

“Right,” I say and let go of the DVD.

“Did you mean what you said earlier?” he asks. “That you don’t want to know about Taylor and me? I can respect that, if it’s not something you want to talk about. Charlie has other opinions, but . . .” He drifts off. “Percy?” I have my eyes closed, bracing myself for impact. I can hear him announcing that they’re getting engaged so clearly in my mind, it seems like a foregone conclusion.

“You can tell me,” I say, looking up at him. “We can talk about it . . . about her.” His shoulders seem to relax a little, and he motions for me to go sit on the couch. He pops the DVD in, lowers the light, and sits down on the couch, placing the popcorn between us. We’re in our old positions, curled up at either end of the couch.

“So we’ve been seeing each other for a little over two years,” he says.

“Two and a half years,” I correct for some goddamn unknown reason, and even in the dim light I can see the corner of his mouth flit upward a little.

“Right. But the thing is we haven’t been together that whole time. We were actually broken up for, like, six months of it. And I felt like it was done. I knew that it was done, but Taylor has this way of talking you into something. It’s probably why she’s a great lawyer. Anyway, we got back together about a month ago, but it wasn’t working. It hasn’t been working.” He pauses, running his hand through his hair. “I don’t want you to think what happened earlier in the boat . . .” He stops himself and starts again. “What I’m trying to say is that we’re not together.”

“Does she know that?” I ask. “She introduced herself as your girlfriend last night,” I remind him.

“Yeah, she was then,” he says. “But she’s not now. We broke up. I ended things. After we dropped you off.”

“Oh.” It’s all I can manage to get out of the noise that’s whirling around my head.

Is this because of me? It can’t be because of me.

As much as I would like to insinuate myself into Sam’s life like the past twelve years haven’t happened, like I didn’t completely betray him, I know I don’t deserve that. I stare into the bowl of popcorn. He’s waiting for me to say more, but I can’t grasp any of the words floating around in my head and smoosh them into a sentence.

“She’s going to be there tomorrow,” he says. The funeral, he means. “I didn’t want you to get the wrong idea. I just wanted to be honest with you.”

I hold my face still so he can’t tell that he’s delivered a direct blow, slamming into my weakest spot with precision. He keeps talking. “I also wanted to make sure you knew I wasn’t being totally inappropriate earlier.” I venture a peek up at him. “Maybe just a little out of line.” His mouth moves into a one-sided smirk, but his eyes are wide, waiting for reassurance. And at the very least I owe him that, so I reach for a joke.

“I get it. You’re obsessed with me.” Except it doesn’t sound funny when it leaves my mouth, doesn’t drip with the sarcasm I’d intended.

He blinks at me. If the TV wasn’t casting a blue light over his face, I feel certain I’d see a flush moving across it.

I open my mouth to apologize, but he picks up the remote.

“Shall we?” he asks.

Throughout the movie, I keep sneaking glimpses of Sam instead of watching. About an hour in, he starts yawning. A lot. I move the popcorn bowl onto the coffee table and pull out the throw pillow from behind me.

“Hey.” I nudge Sam’s foot with mine. “Why don’t you stretch out and shut your eyes for a bit?” He looks over at me with heavy lids. “Take this.” I pass him the pillow.

“All right,” he says. “Just for a bit.” He tucks his arm under the pillow and lies on his side, his legs extending well onto my side of the couch and his feet bumping up against mine.

“This okay?” he whispers.

“Of course,” I say and pull the afghan over our legs and up to his waist. I snuggle down into the couch.

“Good night, Sam,” I whisper.

“Just a few minutes,” he murmurs.

And then he falls asleep.



* * *





SAM AND I are a tangle of limbs when I wake up. We’re still on either end of the couch, but my leg is across his leg, and his hand is wrapped around one of my ankles. My neck aches, but I don’t want to move. I want to stay here all day, with Sam sleeping soundly, a hint of a smile across his lips. But the funeral starts at eleven this morning, and light is streaming in from the small basement windows. It’s time to wake up.

I unfurl myself from Sam and gently shake his shoulders. He groans at the disruption, and I whisper his name. He blinks up at me in confusion and then a crooked grin slowly spreads across his mouth.

“Hey,” he croaks.

“Hey.” I grin back. “You slept.”

“I slept,” he says, rubbing his face.

“I didn’t want to wake you, but I figured I should so you weren’t rushing around before the funeral.”

Sam’s grin fades, and he sits up and leans forward, his elbows on his knees and his head resting in his hands.

“Is there anything I can do to help? I can go to the Tavern to set up or . . . I don’t know . . .” Sam straightens, and then rests his head on the back of the couch. I sit facing him, my legs crossed beneath me.

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