The Creeping

“Hi,” I say, sounding too jittery.

“Hey. I’ll be there in ten and didn’t want to scare you ringing the doorbell without warning. I brought supplies to cook dinner if you haven’t eaten.” I stare bewildered at the laptop’s clock. How is it past nine?

“Thanks. I totally lost track of time.”

Once the call ends, I dial Dad.

He’s worn-out answering, his voice thin. “Hi, Pumpkin. Everything all right?”

“Yeah, I just wanted to let you know I’m home and that Sam Worth is coming over to make food and watch a movie.”

“Oh, good. Listen, Stella, I’m really sorry I haven’t been around much for you with everything going on. I’m working on a complex tax evasion case that’s demanding most of my attention, and I can’t let any of the details slip through the cracks.” I mouth the next part along with him, because I’ve heard it a billion times before. “You know the devil’s always in the details with cases like this.” Goose bumps spread up my arms.

“It’s okay, Dad. Really. So you’ll be pretty late?”

“We’ve got the whole team working through the night.”

“?’Kay. Well, love you and drive carefully,” I say, knowing full well I sound buckets more like a parent than he does.

At least I don’t have time to mope. I sprint upstairs to change the clothes I’ve been marinating in all afternoon. Right as I swing open my closet, the doorbell rings. I swap my hoodie for a black tank and wrestle on a pair of jeans.

Thirty seconds later I’m breathy but there to let Sam in.

“Hey,” I pant, flinging open the door. Sam stands on the porch, one arm around a bag full of groceries, the other around a bouquet of flowers. He shakes the thatch of hair off his forehead.

I stand half-dazed in the doorway, trying to blink the stars from my eyes. It’s not only that he brought flowers, that I don’t want to be alone, that he said he’d be here and now he is and few people actually stick around when they say they will. It’s that I haven’t looked at Sam—or maybe anyone—this way since I was little. Everyone else’s insults and opinions fall away so that he’s only Sam to me, and my whole body hums to be near him.

“Hi.” He glances awkwardly from armload to armload. “I know this isn’t a date or anything,” he adds quickly. I imagine a muddy boot stepping on the papery-winged butterflies fluttering in my chest. Whoa there, tiger, rein the roller-coaster emotions in.

“Sorry,” I blurt. “I mean, c’mon in.” I step clumsily back on a pair of Dad’s running shoes by the door and almost sprain my ankle trying to hide what a klutz I am.

“These are for you.” He offers me the bouquet of delicate ruffled pink rosebuds.

“Non-date flowers,” I say before I can stop myself.

He frowns at the bouquet. “I’m confused.” He looks from the flowers to me. “I thought you didn’t want this to be a date.” I swallow hard and twist my finger in the hem of my shirt, sure that my cheeks match the flowers. “If it were up to me, it would be.”

I take a shaky breath, inhaling too much of the bouquet’s perfume, drunk off nerves. “You said that I would just have to say the word and you’d be all over me.” I speak carefully, like I’m in a verbal minefield. The ceiling lights suddenly beam down on me like strobe lights. But rather than let my resolve melt, I steady the hitch in my breath. “What word is it that I need to say?”

The corners of his mouth twitch up as he leans in until our noses practically touch. The flowers press against my chest. I want to look away but can’t. “Why do you want to know?” There’s laughter and heat in his voice.

“Oh, just for future reference.” I shrug a shoulder and breeze on, “You know, so that I don’t say it by accident.” I can’t help smiling like a fool.

The warmth rolls off him. With his free hand he reaches toward me, coiling a strand of my hair around his finger, brushing my shoulder with his arm. “I lied before. It’s not just a word but a sentence.” His eyes twinkle mischievously.

“Okay, what is this magic sentence?” I fight to stop my gaze from traveling to his lips.

He tugs my hair lightly. “You have to say, ‘Sam, I want you to be my boyfriend.’ And then poof, I’ll do the rest.”

I withdraw. His hand drops away from me. “Sam, I—I don’t have boyfriends. I told you that.” I look down at my bare feet, wishing I had at least put socks on. With socks on I wouldn’t feel so exposed.

His lips form a perfect O shape. “Stella, I’m telling you I want you. I—I’m in love with you. I’ve always been.”

For some reason my chin trembles as he says it. I don’t know why it sounds so terrifying to me. Dad tells me he loves me all the time. Mom says it when we talk on the phone. Even Zoey tells me. But coming from Sam’s mouth, the words turn me into something wild and skittish.