CHAPTER 19
ABI
The Next Step
I came back to Molly’s Knob for a few very specific reasons, none of which involved Sam Forrester in any form or fashion. And yet now I find that a big chunk of my life is focused on him—thoughts, hopes, fears, plans. Only that can’t be. He wasn’t part of my plan. I guess that’s why avoiding him has now become my biggest objective. It’s that or…
Or what?
I’ve agreed, committed to do this thing for him, for his wife, but…now what? What’s the next step and how do I make it?
I have no idea.
Are we supposed to date? Because I can’t even wrap my head around how that will go, how that will feel.
Are we supposed to pretend? Pretend to be in love, pretend to be falling in love, pretend to be making a future? I’m equally uncomfortable with that.
Are we supposed to just wait? If so, for what? For his wife to die? That is unthinkable. It feels traitorous and just…wrong.
So what then? What is the next step?
I don’t know the answer to any of those questions, which is why I’ve taken to more or less avoiding Sam this week. It’s been days since I’ve seen him because I’m not sure I can deal with any of those options. So I’m steering clear. I feel guilty for ducking him, but at least I haven’t run yet, so there’s that.
Lucky for me, I don’t go out much, and when I do, I know to avoid certain places. For instance, I had to go to the grocery store yesterday. Rather than hitting Mullins Grocery and risking running into Sam (which, based on recent experience, seemed very likely), I drove all the way to Carville, a neighboring town, and picked up what I needed there. As much as I can, I stay at home. It’s the coward’s way out for sure, but I’m just not ready to be brave yet. I wanted to do good things for people, to help people, but never in my wildest dreams would I have imagined I’d be in this position. I think I may have agreed to something that exceeds what I’m capable of.
Today is the day I promised Anna that I’d help with the 5k, though, so there was no hiding out at my little cabin. My foot is much better and I had no real excuse to cancel, so here I am. Doing some good, helping out where I can.
My table is the one beyond the finish line, so I’m by myself for the most part. The people who are gathered to watch for the winner are several feet away, and looking in the opposite direction of where I’m situated. Best part, Sam isn’t among them. I hope he’s not among the participants either.
My stomach bunches just thinking about it.
But even if Sam is among the participants, I’ll be okay. I’ll smile and be polite. I’ll serve my drinks. I’ll clean up when it’s over. And then I’ll run back to my sanctuary by the lake. Bing, bang, boom, done! And once there, I will wait. For what, I don’t even know, but I will wait.
I’ve already set out rows and rows of cups filled with water. I was told to do half the table in water, the other half in Gatorade, so now I’m pouring orange Gatorade into the other half.
I know the moment the runners start to trickle in. The rhythmic thud of shoes on asphalt touches my ear and the crowd at the finish line starts to murmur and clap. I pour a little faster, trying to get at least the first row of cups filled before the winner arrives.
Cheers erupt behind me and I glance over my shoulder to see who won. Instantly I wish I hadn’t.
It’s Sam.
My luck is crappy. This, I know. Why wouldn’t I expect to see Sam Forrester whipping through the yellow tape stretched across the street? I’m trying to avoid him, so of course he’d be here. And of course he’d win.
Of course I’d see that tape break over his wide chest, which is barely heaving beneath the black Under Armor tank he’s wearing. Of course I’d see that his powerful legs are just as muscular and tanned as they were in high school. And of course I’d see him wave a hand at the crowd and then make a beeline for me.
Of course. Because my luck is shit. That’s all there is to it.
I straighten as he approaches, wishing I’d had these cups filled so I could at least be behind the table for this. That’s not the case, though, so I hang onto my cool, polite composure as tightly as I hang on to the bottle of Gatorade, and I brace myself.
Sam stops a foot or so from me, reaching around to take a cupful of orange liquid and toss it back like a shot of tequila. When he lowers it, I hoist the bottle. “More?”
He nods and I refill his cup before taking a step back and angling my body away from his.
“Congratulations,” I tell him, busying myself with filling the remaining cups. “I didn’t know you were a runner.”
From my peripheral vision, I see him shrug one big shoulder. “Kind of hard for me to preach physical fitness to my patients if I don’t practice it, don’t you think?”
My gaze flickers up. One corner of his mouth is quirked sardonically, and his eyes, two pale puffs of smoke, are trained on me.
I shrug, too. “Makes sense.”
I say nothing else as I fill and fill and fill, not even caring when I slosh a little out onto the white vinyl tablecloth. When I’m finished, I hurry to round the table, anxious to have it between the man who is once again becoming the nucleus of my life and me.
I glance behind Sam, hoping to see more racers. And I do. Two of them, only they’re talking to some people at the finish line, not the least bit interested in a refreshment yet.
“Something wrong?” Sam’s question brings my attention back to him.
“Of course not. Why do you ask?”
“Abi.” Between the way he says my name, just like he did a lifetime ago, and the expression on his face, I know he sees right through me.
“What?” I play dumb. If I can’t run and I can’t hide, that’s the next best thing.
“You’re avoiding me.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Yes, you are.”
“Sam,” I say, assuming the same tone and body language as him. “How can I be avoiding you? It’s not like there are a lot of things we do that put us in the same place at the same time.”
I don’t admit that, if there were a lot of things, I would avoid each and every one.
“Are…are you having regrets?”
“Of course not.” My voice rises at the end this time, and I know it’s clear that I’m trying too hard to sound casual.
Wordlessly, Sam watches me and I imagine that he’s coming to the same conclusion. Only an idiot would be fooled by me. And Sam is no idiot.
“Fine, then would you like to come for dinner tonight? I’m making one of Sara’s favorite dishes. Chicken and broccoli Alfredo.”
My guts roil at the thought. How can I go over to their house and eat her favorite dish with her husband and her child in front of her like she’s already gone?
I feel green and I swallow back a dry tangle of tumbleweed that’s lodged in my throat. “Sam, I don’t think—”
“I’m not asking for me, Abi. This is for her. Do it for her.”
I close my eyes. She’s both the reason I should and the reason I don’t want to.
But, then again, so is Sam.
If I had no feelings for him whatsoever, this would be so much easier. I wouldn’t feel like I’m betraying her every time I look at him and my pulse leaps or my stomach flutters. But, according to her, the fact that I have feelings for him, feelings I’ve never been able to get rid of, is what pleases her most.
What a screwed up mess!
“Please, Abi.”
At his velvety words I open my eyes and look up. Behind him, I see the movement of other runners making their way to my table, but for a moment, it’s just us. It’s just the man I’ve loved half my life and me, alone in the world. And he’s pleading with me. For his wife’s sake.
“Okay, Sam. Okay. What time?”
“Seven.”
I nod, already dreading it, but forcing a smile to my lips in hopes of hiding most of that dread from him. “See you then.”
Sam backs away, still watching me for a few steps, his eyes penetrating in a way that makes me feel stripped bare. If he hadn’t chosen to be a medical doctor, he would’ve made a great psychologist. He has this way of reading people. Always has. Like he can see through carefully constructed walls and right into souls. I used to love it. I used to think he could see straight into my heart and know how much I loved him.
Now I’m not such a fan. There are a million things I don’t want Sam to know. Some that I don’t want anyone to know.
I’ll just have to keep my guard up and pray he can’t really see what I want to keep hidden.
********
I hold the cake I made on the palm of one hand while I knock with the other. I should’ve pressed the doorbell, but some part of me thinks, Well, if they don’t answer, I’ll just go back home. Childish, I know, but…
After only a few seconds, however, the door swings open to reveal a smiling Noelle. She immediately reaches for my hand. I give it without hesitation.
“You’re here!” she exclaims as she starts to pull me forward. I try to wrench my fingers free so I can close the door, but before I can, Sam appears, as if by magic, to close it for me.
I should’ve known he wouldn’t be a slack enough father to let his little girl answer the door by herself, even though in all likelihood it would be me since I was expected. But just in case… I mean, who wants to take that chance? No parent who loves his or her child would be so careless. A good parent protects their child at all costs.
An old, familiar pinch of agony nips at my heart, but I make a point to push it aside. Now is neither the time nor the place for thoughts that will drag me down the rabbit hole of shame and self-loathing.
“Thank you,” I tell Sam over my shoulder as Noelle guides me toward the kitchen.
His lips tilt up into a lopsided grin. “No problem.”
“Look what we’re watching,” Noelle tells me when she lets go of my hand and runs around the sofa to where her mother is sitting in front of the television in the den. On the screen is a cartoon about a popular fish.
I set the cake on the island. “Is that Dory?”
Noelle nods, her eyes sparkling happily as she climbs up beside her mother. I’m unsure of what to do with myself. Am I supposed to go sit down and watch the movie? Am I supposed to help in the kitchen and assume the wifely role?
I stuff my hands into the back pockets of my jean capris. It’s a nervous gesture I’ve had since I was a kid. I used to bite my nails when I was tense, but my mother would smack my fingers when she caught me, so I started shoving my hands into pockets to keep myself from nibbling on them. It worked then, and it’s a habit I still use today, although, thankfully, the urge to gnaw my fingernails is gone.
When Sam enters the room behind me, I turn to him, desperate for some guidance. “What can I do to help?”
He bypasses me for the stove where there are several pots and skillets bubbling and simmering. By the heavenly scent in the air, I’d say dinner is nearly ready. “Not a thing. It’ll be time to eat in just a few.”
“It smells like an Italian restaurant in here,” I mutter, inhaling the mouthwatering aroma of garlic and cheese.
“Sam’s a great cook,” comes Sara’s voice from the den. I glance up and see only the back of her head. She hasn’t turned around. She’s still facing the television, her daughter standing up on the sofa, leaning against her side.
The fact that she hasn’t really greeted me and that she won’t turn around gives me a distinctly uncomfortable vibe.
“He said this is your favorite dish.”
“It is. We used to go out and get it, but when I started having more bad days than good, he mastered it just so he could make it for me. What a guy, right?”
I look back at Sam who is bent over a pan of Alfredo sauce, stirring.
“Yeah, that was pretty nice of him.” I keep my answer noncommittal. It feels odd to brag on Sam, and I’m not sure why.
I stand awkwardly waiting for…something, something that never comes, so I take out my hands and slap them together, asking the room in general to tell me where the plates are so I can set the table.
“No, no,” says Sara from the den, a heave in her voice as she comes slowly to her feet. “You’re our guest. That’s my job.”
She wobbles unsteadily, reaching out for something to grab onto, but there’s nothing. I race across the room, thinking she’s about to fall, and stretch over the back of the sofa to offer my hand for support. Her thin, cold fingers clutch mine in a grip so hard it shakes.
“Thank you.” Her voice is a bit breathless. “I…I can’t seem to keep my balance these days.”
She is trying to pass it off as nothing alarming, but Noelle is standing on the couch with a scared look on her face. I can see Sam in my peripheral vision, too. He came from the kitchen and is tense just to my left, at the ready to rescue his wife in the blink of an eye.
No, this is not nothing. This is not normal for her.
“Here, let me help you,” I say, all awkwardness gone in the face of her struggle. Keeping hold of her hand, I walk around until I’m beside her. She leans heavily onto me and, even through my shirt, I can feel how cool she is.
She finally looks up and meets my eyes. “Thank you.”
This person looks like a ghost of the woman I’ve seen up to now. It’s as though she’s waning, right before my eyes. Like a picture that was once vibrant, but is fading with each passing day. Her blonde hair seems paler, her eyes more opaque, and her skin more translucent. She looks as fragile as the world’s most delicate crystal rose, as though simply handling her in the wrong way could break her in two. It’s evident that her condition is far from stable.
Her lips curve into a weak smile, as though she knows what I’m thinking. I clear my throat guiltily, wondering if I was silent too long or if I’m merely that transparent.
I don’t want to usurp what she feels is her duty, but she plainly isn’t up to it, so I try to involve her in another way. “Why don’t you sit at the table and tell me what you’d like put out? Just point me in the right direction.”
She doesn’t put up a fight, but simply nods in gratitude. I lead her carefully to the dining table. I get that she wants to do as much as she can for as long as she can. I get that she wants to save face in front of a guest, but considering the “arrangement” she’s invited me into, she needs to let me help her while I can.
Sara’s health is not good. Anyone who looks at her can see that. I didn’t really catch it before. She looked a little pale and not exactly robust, but I wouldn’t have guessed this. But now, as she is in this moment, I get how dire the situation is.
Sam pulls out a chair and I ease Sara down into it. I can feel as much as hear her exhale when she sits. Even that short trip exhausted her.
“My…my blood pressure is becoming more and more erratic,” she says, huffing. “And my energy…I just don’t have any.”
I don’t know what to say to that, so I nod, glancing up at Sam who is still standing nearby, a worried expression contorting his features.
Worried and maybe pained.
This is bad. Very bad. It’s all right there on his face.
Sara doesn’t have much longer.
“Then let me do this. I can set the table. And clean up, too.” I push up my sleeves, ready to take charge. No room for argument. “Where do you keep your dishes?”
I direct my question to Sam, who points to the glass-front cabinets to the left of the stove. “Silverware is in the drawer underneath,” he adds.
“Got it.”
As I gather the plates and saucers, I notice that Noelle is still standing on the sofa, now turned to fully face the table, watching what’s going on behind her. Her eyes are big and round, and a still little bit frightened.
“Hey, pretty girl.” I keep my voice gentle. Noelle turns her attention to me and I smile. “Want to help me fold napkins? We can make one into a flower for your mom.”
At this, she perks up, nodding vigorously and leaping down off the couch to race into the kitchen.
“Napkins are on the right, under the island,” Sam supplies automatically.
I set the plates down so I can add napkins to the stack. Once they’re safely on top, I lead Noelle to the table. After unloading my arms, I drag a chair close to the one Sara is sitting in and pat the seat. Obediently, Noelle hops up into it, coming onto her knees like the eager beaver she is. I can’t help smiling at her. Only a child would be excited by the prospect of making a paper flower.
I pull another chair over, closer to hers, and sit down, taking a napkin and unfolding it. “Hold it right here.” I show Noelle where to place her tiny fingers. “Good, now fold this around.” I work the napkin with her and go through, step by step, how to make a simple rose.
When we’re done, Noelle holds it up, pinching the long, twisted stem delicately between her thumb and forefinger, her eyes rounded in awe. “Mommy look!”
“It’s beautiful.” Sara’s voice is a wisp, little more than an airy breeze coming in off the lake.
“We made it just for you,” Noelle says proudly, as if Sara hadn’t been sitting there the whole time.
“I’ll treasure it always.” She takes the rose and tucks it behind her ear. Noelle grins and claps her hands in glee.
Content to let them have this precious time together, I get up and begin doling out plates and bread plates, silverware and (regularly folded) napkins. It’s as I’m rounding the other end of the table that I notice Sam. He’s standing at the stove with a wooden spoon in his hand, staring at his wife and daughter. His face is full of a sadness that only those of us who have lost someone, or are losing someone, can understand.
His eyes flicker to mine before I can look away. They lighten, almost imperceptibly, and he nods once, mouthing the words thank you. I smile the barest smile and nod in return.
He holds my eyes for a few seconds more before he turns back to the food. “Who’s ready to eat?”
“Me, me, me!” Noelle chimes. I’m beginning to think she does everything with this level of verve. What a bright, fun, lively girl she is. Sam and Sara are very lucky to have her. And it’s plain to see she’s very lucky to have them, too.
“Sam,” Sara says, glancing over her shoulder at her husband. I hear his “yeah” come and she adds, “Why don’t you open a bottle of wine? That’ll make this meal perfect.”
“Wine? But you can’t have—”
Sara cuts off his protest. “Sam. Bring the wine.”
As I set down the last knife, I see that she is staring at Sam. I spare only a quick glance behind me to see that, yes, he is staring right back. I can tell they’re holding an entire conversation without either having to say a word. I’ve been there before. And not just with Sam.
Thoughts of Greg, of our silent conversations and how very different they were from this, cause my temper to spike. As always, that spike is followed by a deep and abiding sense of loss that I know time will never completely diminish.
I feel the heaviness of the mood. On everyone’s part. And I feel the desperate urge to do something about it, to break the tension that’s come over the room.
“You know, you’ve got an awfully big appetite for a little girl,” I say to Noelle. “Do you even eat your broccoli?”
I make a face like ewwww, but she just giggles and nods. “I even eat my boccoli.”
“Broccoli.” Sam and Sara correct her simultaneously, likely out of habit.
“Bo-co-leeee,” she says.
“Brrrroccoli,” Sara repeats.
“Brrrroccoli,” Noelle finally mimics. “I like it, but it smells like a stinky.”
Her comment is so unexpected, I laugh.
Then she laughs.
Then Sam and Sara laugh.
It feels good. Like the relief that we all needed. A group exhale.
By the time Sam arrives a few seconds later carrying a big, deep platter full of pasta mixed with broccoli and chicken smothered in Alfredo sauce, the tension has dissipated nearly to the pre-wine point.
Nearly.
I only notice a slight hitch in it when Sam leaves and returns to the table with three wine glasses and an uncorked, chilled bottle of white. No one says anything as he pours into all three glasses and then hands them out, one to me and one to Sara. Their eyes meet over the top of the glass. I look away. It feels like I’m intruding on something important, something that should be discussed in private, just between the two of them.
I toy with the idea of excusing myself to the bathroom. I am the interloper. I feel it in every possible way, and rightly so. It’s what I am. To expect anything less would be ludicrous.
What the hell I was thinking, agreeing to something like this?
The moment and the sensation are broken when Sara turns to me and raises her glass. As she stares across at me, her eyes remind me why I did this, why I agreed.
They are full.
They’re full of gratitude and sadness, desperation and acceptance. They’re a sea of emotion that I can’t look away from, and looking into them makes me feel like I’m taking on the water of her plight. Absorbing the sadness that never quite goes away, the desperation that her body and her life are spinning out of her control.
This woman is dying. Probably in the not-too-distant future. And I give her some amount of peace. Me. As uncomfortable as it is (probably for all of us), I bring her peace, and by doing so, I’m increasing not only the quality of her last days, but Sam’s and Noelle’s, too. If she’s at peace, they can make the most of their time together.
That’s why I’m here.
That’s why I agreed.
Because this is bigger than me, bigger than my feelings.
“To you, Abigail Simmons. For finding your way back home, just in the nick of time.”
Just in the nick of time.
I smile, but I know it doesn’t fully reach my eyes. I can’t be one hundred percent positive who she’s talking about when she says that.
Her or me.
********
Noelle begged for us all to watch Finding Dory with her after dinner. If I could’ve extricated myself gracefully, I would have, but it turns out the wine is helping with what might otherwise have been an incredibly uncomfortable evening.
It’s still weird. Not that the whole evening hasn’t been. Not that this whole situation isn’t. But it’s not as bad as I expected when Noelle first asked me to stay, big emerald doe eyes pleading with me. Who could say no to that?
Apparently not me.
I’m on my third glass of wine now and, every time my glass goes empty, Sam fills it up. He doesn’t even make eye contact. It’s like he just knows that I need it. Of course, his glass hasn’t been empty very long either.
Sara, on the other hand, seems as relaxed as she can be. She’s resting on the couch, feet on the ottoman. Her daughter is on one side, her husband on the other.
Noelle insisted I sit by her, so I’m at the end of the couch. I’m at the end of the couch, watching a cartoon and drinking wine with a dying woman who wants me to love her husband, and all I can think about is how much I hope there’s another bottle of wine somewhere close.
It hasn’t even been fully dark for an hour when Sara announces that she’s exhausted and is ready for bed. I rise, grateful that the night has come to an end. Sara puts out her hand to stop me. “No, please stay. Noelle won’t be sleepy for a while yet.”
My mouth works open and closed as I think of how to decline without seeming like a clod, but nothing comes to me. It’s like my brain is on slow motion. I blame the wine.
“Please stay, Miss Abi, pleeeease!” Noelle adds her plea like she knows that if anything has the power to make me stay, this will be it. She will be it, the kryptonite to my resistance.
I smile down at her before dragging my eyes back up to Sara and nodding. “Okay. I’ll stay a while longer.”
I sit back down and Noelle scoots over to cuddle up against my side. I throw my arm over her and do my best to ignore the couple making their way from the room. If I hadn’t seen the exhaustion written on Sara’s face, I’d certainly see it in the way she moves. I’m not the least bit surprised when, from the corner of my eye, I see Sam sweep her up into his arms and carry her away. It must be horrifically painful for him to watch her struggle.
With a heavy heart, I take a blonde curl that’s dangling over my hand and wrap it around the tip of my finger. I let my head rest back onto the sofa, and I let my mind wander.
I feel for Sam and Sara. For little Noelle, and for everyone else who has lost someone they love. I’ve lost more people I’ve loved than I’ve been able to keep, so I know what they’re going through. I wish I was more calloused toward it, but it seems that having been there more than once, I’m, if anything, even more sensitive to it now. As though their loss is somehow a bit my own as well.
Some minutes later, I hear air whisper out of a cushion and I lift my head to see that Sam has returned. He’s staring at me, an inscrutable look on his face. We watch each other for a few seconds before his eyes click down to where his daughter rests against me. His expression softens.
As though she’s melting under his scrutiny, I feel Noelle slide ever so slowly down, down, down until her head is nestled in my lap. Within seconds, she’s fast asleep, the crescents of her lashes quiet against her cheeks, the tiny bow of her mouth slack. I guess she’s had a little more excitement than usual and wore out more quickly than Sara expected.
Or maybe she knew this would happen. Maybe this is what Sara wanted, matchmaking me with her daughter as well as her husband.
Automatically, as naturally as I might take a breath or blink, I reach down and smooth Noelle’s blonde hair away from her face. She snuggles in more closely and my heart swells, memories and sympathy colliding to leave more painful wreckage in their wake.
“You’re a natural,” Sam whispers.
I don’t look up and meet his eyes. Without thinking, I reply, “There are some things a woman just knows how to do.”
When I finally get the courage to glance up, Sam is watching me again and the unfathomable expression is back.
I shift uncomfortably, trying not to wake Noelle. “Is Sara okay?” I mouth, barely making a sound.
I see Sam’s chest rise with a deep breath and then deflate as he exhales. His shoulders slump a little and he suddenly looks spent. Beat. As exhausted as his wife.
He lowers his eyes and shakes his head.
I frown in question.
He nods to Noelle before he scoots closer to me and slides his hands under her, lifting her into his arms. She’s as boneless as a rag doll when he cradles her against his chest. And the picture they make…
Quickly, I glance away. I hate myself for looking at them with the love and the longing that’s in my heart right now. Even though it’s what Sara says she wants, it just feels so wrong, so traitorous and forbidden. I would never dally with another woman’s man, whether he was my first love or not. Whether I still had feelings for him or not.
But this situation… It’s different. This will all have to be intentional. And accepted. By all parties.
Can any of us do this?
The moment Sam and Noelle are out of sight, I get up from the couch. My first thought is to grab my purse and leave, but as I pass through the kitchen and see the mess still there—dirty dishes on the table, dirty pots on the stove, general disarray in both the dining room and kitchen—I realize that I can’t leave this for Sam to do. And I can’t leave it for Sara to wake up to if Sam is too tired. So, with a viciousness born of this unthinkable predicament I find myself in, I push up my sleeves and dig in, attacking the mess like it’s to blame.
I don’t know how long it is before Sam returns. The table is cleared and wiped down, chairs put back where they belong. Everything has been moved off the island, and all the dirty dishes and pots are stacked beside the sink, ready to go into the dishwasher.
Sam doesn’t say a word; he simply walks up to the sink, turns on the water, and starts to spray out the pot that he used to steam the broccoli. I open the dishwasher and take the pot from him when he’s finished, placing it on the lower rack and then waiting for the next. We work, side by side, silently, until the dishes are arranged neatly and Sam hands me the cube of detergent that goes in the door. I toss it inside, set the wash to heavy with steam dry, and then push it closed until I hear a snap.
Sam is wiping water from the granite when I open my mouth, every intention of paving the way for my exit.
“Well, thank you for dinn—”
“She’s stopping dialysis.”
He doesn’t look up and I don’t look away. Neither of us says anything else for a few seconds. He just keeps wiping and I just keep staring.
I guess there’s not a lot to say.
Sam tosses the rag into the sink and turns to lean back against the counter, letting his head fall back on his shoulders. “She won’t have much longer.”
The bottom drops out of my stomach. This is all happening so fast all of a sudden. Too fast. I need more time. We all do.
“This is so sudden. Why now? Did something happen in the last few days?”
What the hell did I miss while I was avoiding Sam?
“She’s been waiting. Now she doesn’t have to wait anymore. I think she was fighting for Noelle and me. But now that you’re here… She’s ready to go. She’s ready to give up. Stop fighting.”
I hear the tremor, the anguish in his every word.
“Oh…oh God, Sam! I…I’m so sorry. I don’t…I don’t even know what to say.”
My chin trembles and I will myself not to cry. I hardly know the woman. In fact, I hardly even know Sam anymore. These aren’t my problems, aren’t my heartaches.
Only they feel like they are.
And the woman lying in bed upstairs thinks they are.
I let her believe they would be. I made her promises I have no hope of keeping. How could I have done that?
As much as I try to fend them off, the tears come anyway. I bury my face in my hands and I cry softly into them. Sara is giving up. I know what that feels like.
Strong, warm arms wrap around me and I can’t help but lean in. There’s something so familiar in them, something so comforting. I wonder if I’d know Sam’s touch anywhere. I wonder if I ever really forgot it.
I don’t hug him back. I don’t move a muscle, not even my hands away from my face. I just let him hold me. Even though he’s the one who’s hurting the most, I hope the simple contact is enough to give us both the comfort we need. Lord knows I need it. I’ve needed it for years now, and it’s tragic that I’d only find it when I come back to my childhood home, in the arms of a man I loved a lifetime ago, and when he’s hurting as much as I am.
“She,” he begins, but pauses. After a couple of seconds, he tries again. “She said now that you’re here, she can rest. But she didn’t just mean tonight.”
I cry all the harder, this time winding my arms around Sam’s waist and pressing my cheek to his shoulder. He curls in around me, tucking his face into the curve of my neck and we stand that way until my tears abate. Nothing sexual, nothing inappropriate, just two people who have known the best and the worst in each other, finding the solace they so desperately need.
“She’s been sick for so long,” he mutters into my hair, his voice low and scratchy with emotion. “I just don’t want her to suffer. She’s been through enough. She deserves happiness. And peace. And I…I’m doing everything I can to give her both.”
I lean back and look up at him. “She knows that, Sam. She has to. Anyone who watches you two can see how much you love each other.”
Staring down into my eyes, that indecipherable expression returns to Sam’s face. Neither of us steps back. He has something to say. I can tell.
“Abi, Sara’s symptoms are going to get worse. Fast. She won’t be able to take care of Noelle, and I can’t be here all the time. I mean, I’m taking off work as much as I can already. I’ll take a leave of absence, but I have to get some things in place, people lined up to see more patients before that, and…and…”
“What do you need, Sam? I’ll do it. Whatever it is.” His need makes me feel strong. Like I can be strong for them. Stronger than I can be for myself.
“I hate to ask and—”
“I want you to. What do you need? The house cleaned? Dinner cooked?”
“No, Mrs. Sturgill already cleans the house for us. And I can take care of the cooking most nights. That’s not a problem.”
“Well, whatever you need, whenever you need it, just say the word. I can be here, day or night. Just call.”
Sam raises a hand and strokes the backs of his fingers down my cheek. His heart is in his eyes when he says, “Thanks, Abs. I mean it. Thank you.”
I nod and smile, tucking my chin and taking a step back.
Abs.
He hasn’t called me that since the day I kissed him for the last time, before I got in the car with my mother, not knowing if and when I’d ever see him again. That was his nickname for me—Abs. No one else has ever called me that.
Hearing it pleases me in a place so deep, so hidden and so sacred, that I feel the need to flee. To go find a quiet place in the dark where I can sort through all the ways I feel conflicted about it.
“It’s no problem. Really.” I shove my hands into my back pockets again. “I guess I’d better get going so you can get some rest. Thank you again for dinner. It was delicious.”
“Thanks for cleaning up,” he says, sweeping his hand to encompass the kitchen and dining areas. “I…I just…Well, I appreciate the help. That’s all.”
“It’s the least I could do.” I grab my purse from where I sat it around the corner, out of the way. I throw the strap over my shoulder before looking back at Sam. “Call if you need me.”
“You probably need to give me your number then.” His lips quirk like he’s suppressing a mischievous grin.
“Oh. Duh.” I shoot a self-deprecating eye roll toward the ceiling. Sam gets his phone out and I rattle off my phone number.
“I’ll text you tomorrow so you’ll have mine, too.”
I nod, backing away, feeling almost desperate now to get away from the source of this clamoring that’s going on inside me. Sam’s presence is like a live wire, delivering a constant stream of electricity to thoughts and feelings and ideas that have been shut off for half a lifetime.
“Good night, Sam. Thanks again.”
“Good night, Abi. Sleep well.”
“You, too.” We both know he won’t. Something tells me that Sam will be awake until the wee hours of the morning.