Twenty-two
“He won’t let me have a job or get my license or anything,” I grumble in the middle of the Shop Mart canned foods aisle the next morning. “The whole overprotective thing is starting to get old.”
“Can you really blame him?” Sam plucks the can of raviolis out of my hand and puts it back on the shelf. “You’re not exactly being honest about any of this. Maybe if he knew you were working with my mom, he’d be more open to the idea. Maybe if you told him about us—”
“No.” No way am I telling my brother about Sam—not yet, anyway—and James would connect the dots way too fast if I told him I worked at Liz’s florist shop. I won’t risk it.
“Here. Get this instead of that canned Chef Boyardee crap.” He hands me an enormous jar of spaghetti sauce. A full serving of vegetables in every half-cup! the label proclaims. “You know, if he doesn’t trust you with me, he’s probably not going to trust you with anyone.”
James has made how he feels about me and Sam dating perfectly clear. Rather than explain this again, I blink at the display of dried noodles he positions me in front of. Flat-end tubes, pointy cylinders, curly-cues, and bowties—all in various shades of orange, green, and paste-yellow. None of which look like the canned ravioli my brother loves. “Are you sure about this? I’ve never cooked anything homemade before.”
Sam snorts. “Boiling pasta and dumping a jar of sauce on top is hardly homemade.” He grabs a blue box of the flat-end tubes—rigatoni the label says—and tosses it into the cart. “You should come over for dinner this weekend. My mom’ll probably make a five-course meal to celebrate you helping her out at work.”
The warmth in Sam’s voice when he mentions his mother slips past my usual defenses. I grab a few more boxes of noodles and force myself to smile. “Your mom’s so nice.”
“Is that a yes?” He slides his cell phone out of his pocket. “Because I could call her right now. Now that she knows you, I think she loves you more than she loves me.”
I highly doubt anyone could love me more than they love Sam, least of all the person who knows him best. She lives with the side of him I’m just beginning to uncover.
“I wish I could, but I can’t.”
“Why not? Why can’t we just tell him already?”
I’m not sure how to explain without going into all the gory details of the pact James and I made. My brother will see me going out with Sam as desertion. Missing last night’s dinner was bad enough, and while I’m still irritated about the job thing, I feel awful about pissing him off. Without James, I’d be dead.
“It’s complicated,” is what I settle on. “I’m sorry.”
We walk up and down the narrow aisles, neither of us saying anything. I’ve hurt his feelings—though apparently not enough to stop him from snagging most of the cans and boxes I pick up out of my hands and swapping them for what I assume are healthier options—but I don’t know how to make things better without lying. I’m sick of lying, so I don’t bother.
“I don’t like how possessive he is of you,” Sam finally grumbles when we reach the small bakery section. He swaps the loaf of white bread I just picked up with whole wheat and tosses a loaf of French bread into the cart with it. “I’m not the only one who’s noticed, either. There were some pretty nasty rumors about you two back when we were in school. James got into a lot of fights. I got into a lot of fights.”
Embarrassment pricks my skin. “A lot of fights” implies a lot of people. Is this why it’s so easy to keep everyone away?
Stunned, I stare at the wheat bread in the cart. “James hates wheat bread.”
“James hates a lot of things,” Sam says, leaning against the display case. “He doesn’t own you. Why not do what you want, and tell him to fuck off?”
The bakery woman who’d been carefully lining up donuts in the display case a few feet away clears her throat and shoots Sam a dirty look. He mumbles a quick apology.
“My brother’s always had friends,” I say carefully, “but I’ve only ever had him. The way we are used to work fine, but everything’s different now that…” I hesitate, hoping he doesn’t laugh at what I’m about to say. “Now that I have you.”
The smile Sam gives me could melt the North Pole. Thank God for the shopping cart. If I didn’t have it to cling to, I’d be on the floor doing a really good impression of a swooning, love-sick puddle. I don’t even protest when he leans in and kisses me. In public.
“Yes, you do. And when you’re ready to tell him, I’ll be there.”
“Thank you.”
Though I’m giddy over what he said, I can’t tell him it’s not “when” I tell James, but “if.” He doesn’t need to know I’m still terrified he’ll dump me in a week or maybe a month and I’ll have gotten James mad at me for nothing. While being with Sam is every bit as incredible as I’d dreamt it’d be, he’s temporary.
James is permanent.