SAM.
“I thought only dilettantes drank iced coffee.”
Sam was reorganizing the tea drawer while sipping on a tumbler of iced mocha. The tea drawer was an overstuffed cubby under the coffee machines. Fin made a habit of ripping open a new box of tea instead of rooting around for the desired flavor, so there were countless half-used boxes and orphaned bags. Sam only ever reorganized it when he was in an especially foul temper.
Lorraine kept her eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses. She grabbed his glass and took a sip.
It had been thirteen days since their last encounter. Just shy of a fortnight since she’d air-kissed him as if she were some movie star, dropped the bomb about the ghost baby, and pranced back into the street without a care in the world.
“What do you want, Lorraine?” Sam hated how much of a sitting duck he was running the local coffee shop. Anyone could come see him whenever they wanted. A hit man could take him out with zero prep. In fact, if the shooter did it at the right time, he could wait until Sam was in a baking mood and snatch roadie desserts on his way out.
“I wanted to see you,” she said. Her perfume pierced the air around him.
“Great,” he snapped. His hair flopped defiantly in his face as he collected every blood orange Rooibos. He hated that it was supposed to be pronounced “Roy-Buss.” And why were herbal teas “tisanes”? So annoying.
“I thought we should talk about what happened.”
“So talk,” he said. He couldn’t see what was so newly urgent.
“Let’s go eat somewhere,” said Lorraine. She grabbed his watered-down iced coffee and took another sip.
Sam slammed the boxes of tea down on the counter between them.
“Can’t,” he said with finality.
“I have something to say,” she said.
“So say.” Lorraine’s nails were freshly painted in metallic-gold triangles over black.
“Can we do this somewhere more private?” It was fifteen minutes before closing and there were only two other people in the coffee shop. “When you’re less busy arranging or whatever super-important tea business you’re doing?”
“Just say what you need to say and say it fast.”
“I know these past few weeks have been confusing,” she said carefully. Then she changed tactic and removed her shades. “Don’t you miss me? I miss you.”
Lorraine stared up at him and bit her lip. It was a rehearsed expression he instantly recognized. She made this face in moments she thought were particularly poignant.
“You know what, Lorraine? There were times, I swear, when I would have robbed a bank, thrown the money into Lake Travis, and tap-danced on my ancestors’ graves, anything to hear you say that. Not anymore.”
Sam wanted to hurt her—true—but he also realized that for once in the last four years, for reasons he couldn’t fathom, at a point that he hadn’t even noticed, he was finally over her. He was done. He felt as if he’d taken a crap the size of the Washington Monument. It was liberating. He was free.
“Are you serious?” She scowled. “You get why I couldn’t be with you when I thought I was pregnant, right? That would have been a mess. I wanted a clean slate. I wanted us to start completely new.”
“You can’t keep doing this, Lorr,” said Sam. “You only want me some of the time. And every time you do, I drop everything and bolt to you. But you’re right. This is a clean slate. The cleanest slate. We’re done. Lorraine, you said we weren’t friends. And you’re right. You know what? I don’t think you even like me as a person.”
“I love you, Sam,” she said. “Why are you making this complicated after all this time? You’re one of those impossible knots. The kind from the myth.” She sighed dramatically and smoothed some imaginary wrinkles from her dress.
“What do I prefer, cake or pie?” he asked.
“What?” Lorraine was confused.
“Simple question, Lorr. Cake or pie? What team do I ride for?”
“You make both all the time. It’s a trick question,” she said defiantly.
“I’m a pie person, Lorraine. Just like you. Your favorite is strawberry. The trashy kind with condensed milk in the middle. You love it because your grandma Violet used to make it for you, and you’d hide it from your mother because she didn’t appreciate you having sweets. Because until you developed an eating disorder in ninth grade, you were a little on the husky side. Your words. You know why I know this? It’s because I know everything about you. Not only do I know everything about you, but I remember everything about you. My folder on you is so fat and complete and bursting with nonsensical shit because I couldn’t help myself. Your hands? Bullshit. Your feet, your knobby, misshapen feet are the real treat, and that’s a fact. You know, I thought you didn’t know me because I was insecure or broken or poor, and then I thought about it. It’s because you never asked. Ever. I want to be with someone I can talk to. I want to be with someone who automatically has a fat folder on me. Someone who feels lucky when I tell them the most unflattering, scary stuff. I don’t think I love you anymore, and I got to be honest, I don’t believe that you love me.”
Lorraine’s mouth formed a straight line that went down slightly at the corners. “I’m sorry you feel that way,” she said.
“That’s not an apology,” he said. “You know that, right?”
“I only said it because I know you hate it,” she spat.
Lorraine turned around and walked out. Her hemline flipped up as she spun, and he could see the tops of her gartered stockings. She was a nightmare caricature of a male fantasy.
That night, he actually sent the e-mail he’d been working on for more than a week.
To: Penelope Lee
From: Sam Becker
Subject line: Mic check 1, 2
Hi,
Okay, so things have been weird. And I know that I made them weird even if I’m not totally sure how.
So, I’m sorry.
(Nothing beats a vague apology, right? So sincere!)
Ugh.
Hmmm . . .
Anyway, I know it’s ancient history, and if our autobiographers were to trace back to when I made it weird it would probably have something to do with me not calling you after I said I would. After we saw each other.
That was a big day for us, huh? Meeting your mom. Having to smile across the counter and pretend like nothing was up. So many exciting experiences rolled into a ball of panic.
The last thing I asked you was “You good?” Well, are you? I think about it all the time.
If you’re like, NEW LIFE, WHO DIS? I totally understand.
If you’re not, here’s a list of things that have happened in no particular order since I last bothered you.
I got stupidly drunk. Hurt-drunk. It was depressing.
Lorraine isn’t pregnant. And that was strangely disappointing and I don’t know why.
I started shooting the doc. Finally! I don’t know exactly where it’s going at all, but I love it. Turns out the kid’s name is Sebastian. He goes by Bastian, which sounds so badass, and he’s brilliant and insane and I want so badly for you to meet him. Badly? Bad? I never get those right. Kind of how “bemused” doesn’t mean “amused” and how I think “nonplussed” means “unimpressed” when it means something else. Does anyone know what “nonplussed” means? You probably do. Don’t tell anyone, but I don’t actually know how irony works either.
Flammable/inflammable = also confusing.
Anyway. I miss you.
I know we’re basically just a series of texts. But I’m glad that whatever led you to me happened. I’m grateful that you’re my emergency contact. Even if you’re super intense and talking to you late at night is as constructive as Web MDing a bunch of symptoms in the sense that I’m almost always convinced all roads lead to death, but I mean that in a good way. I hope you know that it’s my favorite.
I think I get to miss you. I feel like I’ve earned it. Which I know sounds weird/creepy/possessive or whatever. Our relationship, as abstract as it is, is the best of any relationship, I think.
You’re intense, so much fun, and maybe a bit nuts, and at the same time you’re super focused and passionate about how you want to live your life and your work and it’s beautiful. Also, NONE of this is meant to make you uncomfortable or put you on the spot (I know how you feel about compliments). You give the best advice (for a kid etc., etc., etc.).
I’m happy to know you exist. And even though I feel like I screwed things up, I thought I’d let you know. And to remind you that I exist also. I hope you’ve been good. You good? Let me know.
*all the best emojis even the embarrassing girlie ones*
—S.