The Creeping

“That’s what you say now, but Sam, you won’t. You’ll get tired of me and being my . . . you know.”


He closes his eyes and shakes his head. “I haven’t gotten tired of you for as long as I’ve known you.” His voice gets deeper, huskier. “I won’t be someone who leaves you. I’m not your mom. I’m not your dad. I’m not Jeanie. I won’t go.”

I blink up at him. If anyone else said those things, I’d probably scream bloody murder in response. Sam’s right, though, I’ve lost a lot of people. I keep everyone at a distance except for Zoey, and that’s only because it’s too hard to tell where I stop and she begins.

“Are you hungry?” he asks suddenly, the flush in his cheeks receding. I remember the grocery bag still in his arms and nod, grateful for something easy I have the answer to. “Great. I’m not as good a cook as my mom, but my specialty is pasta and turkey meatballs.” He slips around me and moves toward the kitchen. From behind there’s no sign that he’s been rejected. I follow after a few moments of nerves paralyze me. When I do, Sam’s already unpacked the bag of groceries and is searching through drawers of cooking utensils.

“Hey, tell me what you remembered yesterday. If you’re up for it,” he says, bumping through the cabinets.

I stow the flowers in a vase I snag to stall for time. I’m not eager to fill Sam’s head with the nightmarish memories I recovered. When that’s done, I twiddle my fingers on the counter, playing an imaginary keyboard. “How was work?” I ask.

He shrugs, hunched over a giant sauté pan. “It was okay. I remembered to take off the red vest this time.” One brown eye winks at me, and he turns back to cooking.

I jump up to sit on the counter and dive into rehashing the ugly things I remembered. I start with the ladybugs in Jeanie’s front yard.

Sam stops washing mushrooms to listen, and when I’m done, barely skipping a beat, he says, “In the dream, you knew Jeanie was afraid of something, but that’s because you’re not six anymore. You might not have understood what you were seeing while it was happening.” Then more firmly, “You’re not to blame.”

I grip the countertop and nod. What he says makes sense, it just doesn’t make me feel as innocent as it should. I start telling him about the disfigured hand twined in Jeanie’s hair. Obviously, I spare him the parts where I was up close and personal with Taylor.

I stare at the lines on my palms. “You don’t think what happened to Jane Doe’s head happened to Jeanie, too?” A shudder runs through me. “Her scalp, I mean.”

Sam stands at the chopping block, studiously slicing an onion. He smiles ruefully at me. “I wish I could tell you no, but I can’t. None of the other little girls’ bodies were found either, and they all had red hair. There’s a connection there. The scalp injuries . . . the red hair. What did Zoey say about what you remembered?”

“Umm . . . I didn’t tell her. She took off with one of the lacrosse boys she hooks up with, and I didn’t get a chance.” He raises an eyebrow over the lemon he’s zesting.

“Why were you holding your breath underwater? Didn’t anyone ever tell you that oxygen deprivation and alcohol don’t mix?” He dumps the chopped onions in the pan, and they hiss in the hot oil.

“I was with Taylor,” I admit as quietly as possible. Maybe he just won’t hear? The knife he’s washing in the sink slips from his hands and clatters against the other dirty dishes. “I didn’t invite him, Zoey did.” I’m flustered. “I was underwater to escape him. And it wasn’t just Taylor but other guys at the cove too.” I’ve made it sound like a party Sam wasn’t invited to; that’s the case, though, isn’t it? All of high school there’s been an impassable line between us, albeit one I helped create. I’m trying to vault over it, when what I wish I could do is erase it. I’m indignant for Sam; he is so much more than boys like Taylor.

Sam leaves the knife where it lies in the sink and adjusts the stovetop. He fiddles with the onions and adds meatballs he rolls between his palms. The silence is earsplitting. I sound too defensive when I say, “Nothing happened with Taylor. Sure, he would have liked it to, but I’m not interested in him. I made that clear.”

Sam turns abruptly to me. “You don’t need to explain.” His smile is slow and sweet. We don’t speak again until we sit down to eat. He grins at me over our food and takes a gigantic bite of spaghetti.

“Your dad won’t mind if I’m here when he gets home?” he asks midway through dinner.

I scrunch my nose up. “My dad isn’t that kind of dad. He probably wouldn’t even care if you slept over.” I blush once the words have left my mouth.

Sam chuckles them off. “Good to know.”