CHAPTER 20
Cory
Her apartment looks almost exactly like the antique store she works in. A reupholstered nineteenth century sofa sits on Queen Anne legs in the middle of the floor and is flanked by two ornately carved side tables. Cut glass lamps give off the dimmest light, and an old grandfather clock counts off the time from the corner of the room. White glass bottles in various sizes line a shelf above the television, and I’m pretty sure I recognize the pattern of a blue vase perched on the hearth. I want to ask Sam how much she spent on it, but the question seems rude considering I just walked inside the apartment.
An ancient chopping block similar to one my mother owns is pushed against the wall just outside the small kitchen. The apartment smells new and old, a mix of this century and the one prior.
Sam doesn’t just work with antiques, she collects them.
I turn to face her and see the caution in her eyes. I’m used to people staring at me, but I’m not used to this. I made a mistake coming here. I never should have assumed she would be happy to see me. She’s not happy at all. The way she keeps blinking at me, all I want to do is walk backwards, drive backwards, and run backwards until I’m back inside the airport.
Time travel only works in movies and stupid television shows. Someone really needs to invent it for real life.
I do the next best thing. I start stammering like an idiot.
“I looked up your address online. If you don’t want anyone to find it, you should really do a better job of hiding your identity. This is your apartment? It’s smaller than I thought it would be. Not that it’s small. Just smaller than…”
I force myself to stop talking. First I ruin her life. Then I pile on the insults to make it all stick together. I take a deep breath. Since when am I such a nervous prick?
“What I meant to say was—”
“You’re right, it is small.” She runs a hand through her hair and looks around, an almost visible fog seeming to clear from her mind. “And I don’t care how you found me. But what are you doing here? They cancelled your flight?” She bends to retrieve a fleece blanket from the floor and drapes it over the sofa.
Her hands are shaking.
She’s as nervous as I am.
I spot a set of knives on her kitchen counter and think about turning one on me. Instead I take a minute to assess the room. I wasn’t kidding when I said this place is small. I could fit this entire apartment in my bedroom and still have space to walk around. The kitchen is more like a nook for appliances, with only enough counter space to accommodate a couple of essentials like paper towels and a toaster. A square oak table is situated near a tiny window cracked open to usher in the sound of rain; a few drops have made their way inside and puddled onto the white laminate floor. My instinct is to find a towel to wipe it up, but I shove both hands in my pockets and pretend not to notice it. It’s bad enough that I’m here; something tells me she wouldn’t take well to me searching through her things.
On the other side of the room, a bedroom door is open to reveal a quilt-covered twin-sized bed and a cherry round table next to it. From where I stand, there doesn’t appear to be much room for more. Another door is closed, I assume a second bedroom is behind it.
The thought of it belonging to Sam’s sister nearly flattens me, but I work to keep my composure as I face her again. Too late, I realize she’s been watching me the whole time.
“I like your apartment. Obviously you love antiques.” My voice is weak and the compliment is lame, but it’s all I have.
“It isn’t much, but it’s home to us…to me. Kassie was the antique-lover. I just accommodated her.” She glances down, and I pray to God against more tears. “I can pay for this place myself without having to borrow anything from my dad. That was important to me.”
I struggle for a response. “You should be proud. It’s nice.”
Lightning strikes as though searching out my lie. Sam finds it right away.
“You’re a terrible liar.”
I could kiss her for breaking the tension. “So I’ve been told. How do you live here in this closet? It would make me claustrophobic having to walk around here all day. Plus, it smells bad. Old.”
“It smells old because it’s full of antiques. Excuse me for not shopping at Target. But it doesn’t smell bad. I just cleaned.” I see the eye roll and struggle not to laugh. She walks to the kitchen window and peers out, looking up at the night sky. “They really cancelled your flight? Is it that bad outside?”
“It’s awful. We’re under tornado warnings from here to Kansas City and have been for an hour now. The lightning looked like a firework display the whole way here.”
She presses her forehead to the glass but says nothing. I watch her for a second before the awkwardness of the moment overtakes me again. “I managed to get a later flight that would have been rerouted through Memphis, but it wound up being cancelled too. So rather than stay at the airport all night—as fun as it was watching people point at me and snap pictures—I came here. I hope that’s okay.” If I was hoping for a positive response, it doesn’t come. Instead, she pushes away from the window and grabs a pillow, then lowers herself to the sofa. I take it as permission and sit beside her, making sure to leave plenty of space between us. I stretch an arm across the back and angle my body to face her. She seems distracted. I don’t press for information.
She hugs the pillow to her chest and stares straight ahead. “I’m glad you came.” Her expression doesn’t match her words. She looks troubled, staring at the space in front of her for several long moments. “It hasn’t been a good night so far. I lectured Kassie about spilling something on my shirt.”
The statement jolts me in the way it comes from nowhere, and I wait for her to continue. When she says nothing, I take it as my cue.
“When?” Whatever memory is bothering her, I can tell it’s a painful one. She’s on the verge of adding new tears to the dried streaks temporarily imprinted down her jawline. I shift in place. I’ve never been good when women cry…haven’t been able to handle it over the past decade. A side-effect of old wounds, I suppose. Sam isn’t the only one haunted by memories.
She slides her gaze to me. “Right before she left. She wanted to wear my shirt. I told her she could, but I lectured her about spilling something on it. Kassie was the clumsiest person you could ever meet. It never mattered, if there was a cup of coffee or a pint of chocolate ice cream or even a ballpoint pen nearby, she would get it on her clothes. Definitely on my clothes. So I told her to be careful.”
“She sounds like a certain big sister who sometimes walks around with black Sharpie on her nose.”
I smile. She doesn’t. The crease between her eyebrows only deepens. “That’s the last thing I said to her in person. She didn’t wear the shirt.” She nods toward the closed bedroom door. “It’s still in there, lying on the floor. And the last thing I said was Thank God you won’t get anything on it. What kind of last words are those to say to a sister you might never see again?”
So that was it. Last words. They can kill you with their lack of meaning, slay you with the absence of thoughtfulness, shackle you to a career of writing lyrics for the rest of your life just to hopefully one day get them right. Last words cut. Last words haunt. Especially if they’re careless. Especially if you have no hope of ever having another chance to make them better. But Sam’s…
“Those are normal last words, Sam. Those are the last words of a sister who fully expected her sister to come home late that night.”
She locks me in a stare and doesn’t look away. “But I didn’t tell her I loved her. Not even when she called to say they were running late after the concert. I lectured her about her curfew.”
I shift to get a better look at her. “Did she know you loved her? Had you told her before?”
“Yes. Probably even that day, but—”
“Then that’s all that matters. Some people never say the words at all. Some people spend their entire lives regretting all the things they didn’t say while they had the chance.” Like me. I regret a lot about my life, because I’m guilty of everything I’m telling her. Still, if I can keep her from traveling down this barbed-wire-lined path of guilt and shame, I’ll do it. Otherwise I should have stayed at the airport. “Don’t beat yourself up for talking about laundry or lectures. It was a normal conversation, one you’ll likely have with someone else again.”
“But what if—”
“Aw, the worst words in the English language. Trust me Sam, her last memories of you were good ones. She wasn’t thinking about your lecture. Not for a second.”
“But it’s just that…”
“Don’t Sam. Don’t torture yourself like that. What if I hadn’t booked a show in Springfield? What if I had disregarded public opinion and forced the meet-and-greet to happen before the show instead of changing it to afterward?”
“That’s not the same thing.”
“It is.” I run a hand through my hair. “I’ve asked myself that question a few dozen times already. But you can What If yourself until you’re crazy. And then you can move on to asking a bunch of What Ifs about me. God knows I’ve done that enough already. It won’t accomplish anything except to make you feel insane.”
Believe me, I know. Despite the words I’m saying, I’ve struggled with What Ifs for years. Advice is much easier to give than follow. Isn’t that the nature of being human?
We sit in silence even though I want to say more, but my mind is screaming at me to shut up, to be careful not to push the wrong buttons, to remain on the right side of the line. I don’t want to hurt her or come across as uncaring, but this point is an important one. The proverbial mirror is a lot easier to turn on her than it is on myself, and right now I’m practically sending blinding streams of reflective light right into her eyes.
“All I’m saying is this. You can second guess yourself to death. You can ask yourself how things might have been different. You can even beg God for a million redos.” I sigh, knowing full well that the man upstairs doesn’t grant redos no matter how many times you beg. The permanent bruises on my knees and the guilt still keeping me company every night prove it. “But trust me, Sam. It doesn’t do any good. Don’t put yourself through it. In fact, if you need to blame someone, blame me. Just don’t blame yourself.”
She’s quiet for so long that I begin to believe she’s finally heard me. That a little of my first-hand wisdom has penetrated her brain, and what a beautiful brain it seems to be. But then she speaks and kills that hope.
“Fine. I’ll stop blaming myself when you tell me what happened to make you such an expert.”
I blink. Then blink again and focus on my hands. My cuticles are jagged and I could really use some clippers, but this is my first time at her place and it seems as presumptuous a request as asking for a bath towel to mop up the kitchen floor. I should probably save clippers for the second or third time and besides how am I going to get out of answering this question?
No way I’m telling her the truth.
I really do need some clippers.
I avoid both possibilities and settle somewhere in between. Partial truths never hurt anyone, and I can cut my nails later.
“I had a falling out with my brother a few years ago. Nothing too awful, we just couldn’t see eye to eye on something and could never come to an agreement.” I clear my throat. The funny thing about partial truths is that they usually make room for partial lies, but that’s a technicality I don’t care to analyze. She shifts in her seat to face me. Her nose is still red from crying, but her eyes are dry. Too dry, maybe. She won’t stop staring, and I’m fairly certain she’s sizing me up.
“There’s more you’re not telling me. Now spill it. It’s only fair since you know almost every bad thing that’s happened to me.” She wipes her nose with a sleeve but doesn’t look away.
Good thing I’ve dealt with reporters for years. Good thing I’m an expert at deflecting.
“That’s it.” I shrug for extra emphasis. “All in all, my life is pretty boring.”
She’s forming a response when a crack of lightning splits the room in half. Thank God for lightning strikes and the girls who hate them. Sam jumps, ducks behind a pillow, and I start to think that maybe God isn’t always such a bad guy. When the rumble of thunder subsides, I stand up to peer out the window. There’s nothing but sheets of water slamming against a window that showcases nothing but endless black. I’m not going anywhere for a while. I hope Sam doesn’t mind.
“Anyway,” she says, clearly undeterred. “There’s obviously more to the story despite what you want me to believe. Maybe someday you’ll tell me, but for now I’m going to tell you this.” She sets the pillow aside and pats the seat cushion next to her. I obey and sit. “About your family. I don’t know the circumstances. Maybe they were awful. But Cory, my mom died a decade ago. My dad is in a nursing home. And my sister…” She takes a deep breath and locks her gaze on me. “She’s gone now too. Your family is still alive, right?”
I nod. I know where she’s going, because other people have gone here too. But none with the same authority as Sam, which makes her plea hard to brush off. Still, I wish she’d stop talking.
“What about your grandparents?’
I shift in place. “My mom’s parents are still around.”
“Do you have any sisters?”
I sigh. “Only a brother.”
“Any nieces or nephews?”
I don’t look at her. I’m afraid to. “A niece. She’s almost two. I’ve never met her.” This is sounding worse and worse, even to me.
When she just looks at me for a long moment, I don’t have to read her mind to know what she’s thinking. It’s all in her eyes. “What are you doing, Cory? You have two parents, a brother, a niece, and I’m guessing a whole bunch of other people in that family of yours. Meanwhile, I have a dad who can’t remember me, and that’s it.” She hugs her knees to her chest. “You should at least try to reconcile with them while you have the chance. Trust me, chances pass. They pass really fast.”
I could pretend to think about it. I could list off a dozen reasons why reconciliation wouldn’t work. I could tell her she’s wrong, but I’m not a fan of lying and there’s just no arguing with her logic. So I do the only thing I can manage. I shrug.
“Okay.”
I feel her eyes on me, but I stare straight ahead until she bumps my knee with her toe.
“That’s it? Okay?”
The move surprises me. It’s almost playful. I roll my head sideways to look at her. “Yeah, okay. What do you want me to say?”
She rolls her eyes. “I expected an argument at least.”
I’m grinning before I think better of it. I can argue all day long, but right now I don’t feel like it. Not with Sam. With her it’s…different. Something in my chest folds in half at the thought, but I take a deep breath and refuse to acknowledge it. “Sorry to disappoint. I’m too tired to argue.” I slide my eyes to her refrigerator. “Got any food? I’m starving.”
“I don’t have much, but I’ll look.”
She yawns and stands up, then stretches with her arms over her head in front of me. I avert my eyes from the bare strip of skin that reveals itself between her thin white tank and worn jeans, but then I find myself staring again. She shouldn’t do that so close to me—I’m a guy and it isn’t fair and where else am I supposed to look? There’s nowhere else I want to look, and this apartment is small. Have I mentioned that?
She turns on her heel and walks toward the kitchen, and now I’m staring at her butt. It’s cute the way it sways back and forth—more than cute; my mouth goes dry—and suddenly my mind is practically doing the backstroke in a gutter. But it’s storming and dark and late and if this isn’t the perfect set-up for a cheesy romance novel I don’t know what is. I scrub a hand over my face and stand up. I’m not used to reigning myself in with women—never have to anymore. But Sam isn’t just any woman, and sometimes it’s hard to remember. But she deserves more than that from me. Much more.
That thing folding in half inside my chest? It’s now folding in thirds and fourths and eights and that’s enough math for me. I turn toward the wall and stare holes into it.
“Okay? Does that mean you’ll think about going to see them?”
Man, she’s persistent. I turn back around to see her at the refrigerator, leaning around the open door to look at me.
“Fine, I’ll think about it. But can we eat first and debate the pros and cons later?”
In response, she holds up two very mismatched items in both hands.
“There are no cons. Do these work?’
“That remains to be seen. And don’t knock yourself out on my account.”
“First of all, I wasn’t expecting company, especially not of the pampered Hollywood variety.” She closes the freezer door with her hip while I open my mouth to protest.
“Second of all.” She cuts me off. “It isn’t exactly grocery shopping weather outside, so we have what we have and you’ll have to deal with it. And third, I’d rather not go out to eat. So if you’re opposed to frozen pizza and tater tots—which let me point out that there would be something seriously wrong with you if you were—then you’re stuck starving. Unless you would like a half-eaten box of Cocoa Pebbles. You’re welcome to those if you want them.” She plops both boxes on the counter.
I laugh and walk into the kitchen. “You eat like a teenager. I’ll take those. Not a fan of chocolate cereal.” I say, opening the pizza box.
She gives me a look like I couldn’t be weirder. “What kind of person doesn’t like chocolate cereal?” She shakes her head and swats me on the arm. “Whatever. Move out of my way, I’m going to start cooking.”
“Oh good lord, you cook like a teenager too.”
She glances over her shoulder and turns on the oven. “I’m a regular Julia Child.”
“If she could hear you, she’d probably start drinking bourbon from the grave.”
“Shut up, Cory.”
And I do.
My mind isn’t exactly on the conversation anyway. I’m still thinking about Sam’s request, about her suggestion that I see my family. It’s been years, a decade to be precise. How am I supposed to walk back into their lives now? Do I just show up with flowers in hand, carrying a I’m Sorry Hallmark card signed by me and made out to them? Do I ask for forgiveness? Pretend it never happened? More confusing, when does the passage of time turn into too much time to turn back the clock?
This is why it’s so much easier to ignore everything.
This is why it’s so much easier to run.
But there’s one thing I can’t shake, one thing I can’t ignore, one thing I can’t get past no matter how hard I try.
As I watch her move around the kitchen, it hits me harder with each passing second.
Sam’s life has been every bit as difficult as mine. Maybe even more so.
But she’s never run from anything.