CHAPTER 9
Sam
I close my laptop, my lunch break officially over. Thank God. I hate the silence, hate the mindless passing of time the television provides. But more than that, I hate the pressure of trying to act normal, of attempting to go through the motions of returning to a regular routine, of smiling and asking if anyone needs help when clearly I’m the one who needs help. I’m the one whose emotions are held together by nothing but a Steri-strip and a wish. An old, dirty, used one with barely any adhesive left. It’s pulling. Tugging. Straining against the cut. One false move and it will come apart completely, the remnants of my sad life broken open and dripping all over the floor.
I had a sister. I essentially had a child. I’m only working here because of her, and now even my future here is in question. Antiques were Kassie’s thing, not mine. We have an apartment filled with them because of the forty percent discount and her love of history. I prefer Pottery Barn, new instead of old. Everything about this job reminds me of her. No matter where I turn, I can’t get away from it. Still, I can’t sit in my apartment all day. Can’t allow myself to succumb to the grief pressing against my brain and my four darkened bedroom walls forever. The pressure is so bad it hurts. Behind the eyes, in that tender spot where pain produces headaches and crying, both of which have occurred non-stop for days now.
I rest my head on the tabletop, knowing I need to get up but wanting to stay here in the security of the break room for the rest of the day. Here, I’m not alone. Here, I can have the companionship of my co-worker and then distraction of busywork. Just knowing both are available is a small comfort, though I’m not sure I can deal with the onslaught of customers bound to come with the afternoon. This place is always busy after lunch, really picks up during after school hours. My head throbs harder.
“Sam, are you asleep?” Hannah’s whispered words force my head up. It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust; all I want to do is drop my head back down.
“No. If the last two weeks are any indication, I doubt I’ll ever sleep again.” I prop my head in my hand and look at her. “Do you need help?”
She frowns at me from her spot at the open doorway. “Maybe you should go to the doctor and have him prescribe something for you to take. An anti-depressant or something.”
I shake my head. “I already did, but I don’t like the way it makes me feel. Like I have a hangover or something.”
She smirks. “Had a lot of hangovers in your life, have you?”
I sit up straighter and rub the space between my eyebrows. “Just one. So awful I’ve never forgotten it.” My hands fall to my lap. “Do we have customers?”
“Two, but they’re just looking around. No rush.”
I stand on shaky legs. It’s been two weeks, but my strength seems to be draining from me, not returning like everyone says it should. I’ve never struggled with depression before, but I wonder if this is what it feels like. So tired, so worn out, so hopeless, so alone. Why is it that the lonely feeling often intensifies in a room full of people? And currently two of them are waiting for me in the front room. “Give me a minute, and I’ll be out to help.”
“No rush.” Hannah walks out of the room and I make my way to the restroom. I splash a little water on my face, then stare at the leftover stream of water that trickles into the sink. We have a slow leak, have had since we first opened. It’s always bothered me in the past; today, I want to swirl down the drain with it.
It’s been fourteen days since Kassie died. Like alcohol on a fresh burn, the day dawned with color and beauty—a rude contradiction to the murkiness I’ve felt since my eyes opened this morning. Birds sang, a neighbor was already mowing his lawn, two people rode by on bikes as I walked to the car. The entire world has moved on without my sister and even found the bright side. Everyone except me.
“Sam?” Hannah whispers my name on the other side of the door. “I need you.”
I frown midway through swiping a wet paper towel under my mascara-streaked eyes. It’s been one minute. Two maximum. Nothing could have fallen apart that fast.
“I’m almost done. What is it?” I don’t bother to lower my voice as I ball the towel in my fist and toss it into the trash.
“Someone is here to see you.”
At that, I fling to door open and level a look her way. There’s only one reason she would whisper, and that reason is the press. They’ve been awful. They’ve harassed me and bombarded me with messages and even left threats. Some posted Twitter statuses directly at me, a couple even left questions written on yellow sticky notes stuck to my front door. Everyone wants a statement. I’ve given them one through a family attorney, a please let me grieve in private message that satisfied no one. People want me to speak out against Cory Minor and his supposedly questionable ethics, but I won’t do it. One, because I’m not into celebrity bashing, no matter how many people seem to enjoy it. Two, Megan veered into his lane–probably too excited to pay attention, possibly sleepy—but it wasn’t the other way around. Tire marks tell that story. I can be mad and upset and place blame all day long, but to do that to Cory Minor would mean I would also need to blame my sister. I don’t have the energy to be angry at either right now.
And three, my lawyer advised me to say nothing. I’m not going to sue, but that doesn’t mean insurance isn’t involved. Until settlements are decided on, it’s best to appear positive.
I have no intention of talking to anyone now. My nerves are so frayed, I barely trust myself with Hannah.
“Who is it?” My words come out harsh, but I’m just so tired.
“Um, he didn’t give a name. But I’m pretty sure it’s—”
I storm past her, not giving her the chance to finish. “Oh for the love of God. Can’t they just leave me alone?”
“Sam, it isn’t what you think,” Hannah rushes to say.
But I don’t listen. I’m way past listening. My head hurts and I haven’t slept in days and everyone I’ve ever loved has left me alone on this godforsaken planet and I’m way past all of this.
Seeing nothing but the anger behind my eyes, I fling open the curtain separating the front room from the back and march toward the main store, pausing a second to shake my arm free when it gets tangled in the fabric.
“Where are you, and what do you want?” I glare at everything, then come up short when I’m met with an empty room. I blink and look around. This is not how reporters are supposed to work. I’ve watched Access Hollywood and crime shows. Everyone portrays them as being pushy and in your face, so this is totally unexpected.
There is no face. The only thing I see are the same dust-covered antiques we’ve had for ages.
Until someone appears. A guy stands up a few yards in front of me, his back to me. I see enough to know he’s on the youngish side—maybe a couple years older than me. He wears a white fitted tee that reveals a tattoo wrapped around his arm, and he’s holding a blue and white china plate that he carefully returns to a display rack lined with others just like it. He stares at the dishes for a long moment as if trying to decide whether or not he wants to buy one. It makes an odd image; usually old ladies are the only people interested in patterns like those. Never men who look like this. A worn gray baseball cap rests on his head, covering up a thick mass of dark brown waves that curl against his collar. Low slung tattered jeans give him a very rugged, almost dangerous look—at least from behind. But I know fashion. His hair, hat, shirt, and jeans cost more than I make in a week.
He turns around and shoves both hands in his pockets, then takes a step toward me. All of a sudden I’m nervous, though I have no idea why. The last time I remember feeling this way was the exact moment before the policeman delivered the awful news about my sister. The feeling is irrational, inconvenient, without merit—but it’s all very familiar and it doesn’t stop my heart from pounding between my ears. Maybe I should sit down. Maybe I should stand up. I settle for leaning against the counter and try hard to breathe.
“Can I help you?”
He looks me in the eye. Realization washes over me. It knocks the air from my lungs and the sense from my brain and one tear leaks from my eye. And suddenly it’s not irrational at all.
Why can’t I escape my life?
* * *
For what seems like the span of a thousand tense minutes, neither of us says a word. I’m stuck reliving a scene from Notting Hill—the one where the celebrity walks into an obscure small-town store, clearly out of place, and comes face-to-face with the star struck but frazzled employee who can’t think or speak or comprehend because he’s too busy trying to process and come to terms with his emotions. Except I’m Hugh Grant in this case, and Julia Roberts in male form keeps staring at me and I have no idea what to say.
Another tear trails down my cheek and lands on my shirt.
I don’t bother touching my face to wipe it off.
I’m just so tired of living this nightmare.
“Are you Samantha?” He barely manages a whisper before he clears his throat. “Samantha Dalton?” He takes a deep breath. Rocks back on his heels. Cracks a knuckle. Another one. Glances around the store. Clearly wishes to be anywhere but here.
That makes two of us.
“Yes.” A shaky hand comes to my throat before I can stop it. “Sam…I go by Sam.” My voice doesn’t sound right; like it’s being processed through a filter, one that alters it to mimic the sound of grief. I try not to think about it as I study him. There’s no trace of the charm he is famous for, no devil-may-care attitude, no easy grin that crosses his lips.
“You look just like your picture.” He says it more to himself than to me. I frown at his interesting choice of words. “I looked you up on Instagram several days ago. I hope that isn’t weird.” His neck stains pink. He thinks it’s weird.
Under any other circumstance it would be, but not this one. If there were ever rules put in place for how to react when a tour bus slams into someone’s sister and kills her, they no longer apply. Do you get angry? Get even? Get familiar by stalking each other’s social media?
I’d be lying if I said I haven’t done the same to him.
“So you’re Cory.” It isn’t a question. The answer is obvious, but processing this takes work. I fold and unfold my hands, look around the room and look at him. “What are you doing here?” Beside me, Hannah shifts in place. I’d forgotten she was here, but she’s curious. With Hannah curiosity trumps everything, but so does friendship. No matter what I say, she’ll back me up. “I mean, don’t you have a tour to be on?”
He rubs his hands together and takes a hesitant step toward me. My heart becomes a fist punching, slamming, beating against my ribs. I don’t want him to touch me. Or maybe I do.
“I’m sorry, I forgot my manners.” He holds out a hand—hesitant, far from confident—and I take it. “I’m Cory Minor. The tour ended last week, and I have four weeks off until I have to be back in the studio. It’s been a long time since I’ve had this much time to myself.” I’m the first to let go and he massages his forearm, something I gather is a nervous habit. The sleeve of his shirt comes up a bit and reveals a much larger section of his tattoo—a series of conjoined lightning bolts connected by a thin black line. I’ve seen it on posters…so many posters in my sister’s room. It’s much more impressive and intimidating in person. I study his face again. I don’t like feeling intimidated.
“And you came here? To Springfield?” I’m trying to guess his train of thought, but I can’t even guess my own. Nothing about the past two weeks has felt real, and his presence only compounds the grief. Now my resentment has a face, up close and personal. And knowing that his face is one of the last Kassie saw…
He blinks, a welcome interruption. “I didn’t know where else to go.” For a moment he looks unsure of himself, but then a wave of determination crosses his features; jaw set, eyes sharp, lips parted to speak. “I came to tell you I’m sorry for what happened with your sister.” He runs a shaky hand through his hair and then replaces the ball cap. “If I could redo that night…”
“You can’t.” Tears burn behind my eyes, and I quickly turn away to keep them hidden. One tear was one thing, a stream of them is another. I reach for a basket of magnets by the register and begin to rifle through them. Keeping busy, forgetting the moment…it’s the only way I can begin to survive. Hannah slips behind the counter without saying a word. A show of support, a proverbial pat on the shoulder.
Cory remains in place, watching for a long moment. A part of me feels sorry for him. Another part of me feels nothing at all. Unseeing, I search through magnets looking for something…anything to keep myself from crumbling. I find one with a quote from Van Gogh and flip it over in my palm. Kassie would have liked it.
“Do you mind if—”
A bell rings over the door and two women walk in, a toddler in tow. An excited voice asking for a gumball from the machine by the front window drowns out Cory’s question. A mother searches her purse, a quarter drops inside, a blue gumball spirals downward. I watch it, Cory watches it, Hannah watches it. And then like waking up from a trance, she jumps into action, walking away and chatting like she’s never been so happy to have a customer before.
I set the basket down and look at Cory, feeling a shift in the moment. The tension eases a bit. At least until he speaks.
“Do you mind if we go somewhere to talk?” he finally asks. “Even just outside? I promise I’ll only take a few minutes of your time, and then I’ll leave you alone.”
I want him to leave me alone. I want to cry by myself. I don’t want to go anywhere, especially not with him.
My mouth, my conscience, my curiosity…they all have other ideas.
“Give me a second to tell Hannah, and I’ll meet you by the door.”