“Sure, let me use the restroom and we can go.” She slides out of the booth, and I study the bar. There’s a pretty good crowd, considering it’s after midnight on a weeknight and the college kids have gone home for the summer. The people filling the tables and lingering around the bar are people I’ve known my whole life.
What am I going to do when the campaign is over? Find another job in Indy? Try to find something in DC?
What I really want is to come back to New Hope, but I can’t do that if Sam is here. Maybe he and Sabrina will live somewhere else. Would he leave his job at the bank? And if they live here, will I ever get over it? Will there be a time when I could watch them walk down the street, children in tow, and not feel as if I’m being torn apart?
“Sam!” someone calls, and I think I’m imagining it at first—my liquor-addled brain imagining the word it’s thinking of. But then I hear it again, and I see him talking to Brady at the bar.
As if he can sense me, he turns. The second his eyes land on me, he flinches.
Right back at ya, buddy.
My stomach cramps. It hurts to have him this close. And yet I want him to come talk to me almost as desperately as I want to disappear.
He says something else to Brady, then he walks toward my table. Is he really coming over here? Crap. He is.
He’s standing right here, looking down at me as if I’m supposed to say something, as if he expects me to remember how to speak when he’s standing so close I can smell him.
“You’re avoiding my calls,” he says.
“With good reason.”
“May I sit?”
“You sure your fiancée would approve of you sitting with your . . .” I almost say ex-girlfriend, but that sounds too pathetic. “With another woman?”
He slides into the opposite side of the booth. “Yeah, I’m sure.”
I look away. Shit. I was so proud of myself for that standoffish, fuck you very much response, and look where it got me—sitting across from the only person who can make me feel worse than I already do.
“I didn’t expect to see you here,” he says, his words gentle when I expected accusatory.
“I could say the same for you,” I say. “Aren’t you supposed to be in New York?”
“We flew home right after the interview. Sabrina has an important meeting in the morning.”
“Good for her.”
He shakes his head. “Never mind about Sabrina. I’m glad you’re here. I think we should talk.”
I close my eyes at the sound of his voice. I’m still drunk; it’s true. But even sober, I’m pretty sure I’d be tempted to bottle that voice and take it home with me. Sweet torture.
“I need to ask you a favor.”
His rich honey eyes lock with mine. For a minute I picture myself giving him anything he wants. I picture myself being his secret mistress after he marries Sabrina. I picture myself living a despicable life that leaves me empty in every moment I’m not with him. Maybe it would be worth it—if only to be alive for those moments when we were together instead of dead every second of every day.
“What you need to do is walk away and never talk to me again.” The words don’t come out hard like they should. Instead, they’re soft and tentative, each one a drip from a tap that fills my throat with tears.
I will not cry.
“Hey,” Nix says behind me. “I can’t leave you alone for—oh. Sam. You’re supposed to be in New York.”
“I came back. I need a minute alone with Liz.” He never takes his eyes off me. “Please hear me out?”
“Er, um.” Nix checks over each shoulder as if she’s looking for backup. I’m sure that, like me, she’s wishing the other girls hadn’t left yet.
“It’s okay,” I tell her. But it’s really not. I’m about to have that conversation where he tells me he’s moved on and that he’s really happy with Sabrina. That Saturday night was a mistake and he’d appreciate it if I didn’t tell anyone. Maybe he’ll say he was drunk, or maybe he’ll say there was no excuse for whispering dirty words in my ear and making me think he’s missed me as much as I’ve missed him.
“There’s so much you and me, there’s no air left when we share a room. There’s always you and me.”
Nix clears her throat. “I’ll be at the bar if you need me.”
Sam watches her go. “She hates me.”
“She’s my friend. Hating you is part of the job description.”
When he returns his eyes to mine, there’s vulnerability in them that I don’t want to see. “And what about you?” he asks.
“I’m pretty sure the way we feel about each other became irrelevant the second you asked Sabrina to marry you.” Yep. Definitely too drunk to have this conversation.
“I’d rather not talk about this here. Can we go outside? I can explain everything. Please?”
“That depends. Did you fuck me while you were engaged to another woman?”
He stares at me for a long time, and for the life of me I feel as if he’s trying to tell me something telepathically—my untrustworthy gut at work again.
Ultimately, his silence is more painful than any answer I can imagine.
I swallow. “Congratulations, by the way. You are officially your father’s son.”
* * *
Sam
The words drive into me like the dull blade they were meant to be. “Touché.”
What am I going to do when the campaign is over? Find another job in Indy? Try to find something in DC?
What I really want is to come back to New Hope, but I can’t do that if Sam is here. Maybe he and Sabrina will live somewhere else. Would he leave his job at the bank? And if they live here, will I ever get over it? Will there be a time when I could watch them walk down the street, children in tow, and not feel as if I’m being torn apart?
“Sam!” someone calls, and I think I’m imagining it at first—my liquor-addled brain imagining the word it’s thinking of. But then I hear it again, and I see him talking to Brady at the bar.
As if he can sense me, he turns. The second his eyes land on me, he flinches.
Right back at ya, buddy.
My stomach cramps. It hurts to have him this close. And yet I want him to come talk to me almost as desperately as I want to disappear.
He says something else to Brady, then he walks toward my table. Is he really coming over here? Crap. He is.
He’s standing right here, looking down at me as if I’m supposed to say something, as if he expects me to remember how to speak when he’s standing so close I can smell him.
“You’re avoiding my calls,” he says.
“With good reason.”
“May I sit?”
“You sure your fiancée would approve of you sitting with your . . .” I almost say ex-girlfriend, but that sounds too pathetic. “With another woman?”
He slides into the opposite side of the booth. “Yeah, I’m sure.”
I look away. Shit. I was so proud of myself for that standoffish, fuck you very much response, and look where it got me—sitting across from the only person who can make me feel worse than I already do.
“I didn’t expect to see you here,” he says, his words gentle when I expected accusatory.
“I could say the same for you,” I say. “Aren’t you supposed to be in New York?”
“We flew home right after the interview. Sabrina has an important meeting in the morning.”
“Good for her.”
He shakes his head. “Never mind about Sabrina. I’m glad you’re here. I think we should talk.”
I close my eyes at the sound of his voice. I’m still drunk; it’s true. But even sober, I’m pretty sure I’d be tempted to bottle that voice and take it home with me. Sweet torture.
“I need to ask you a favor.”
His rich honey eyes lock with mine. For a minute I picture myself giving him anything he wants. I picture myself being his secret mistress after he marries Sabrina. I picture myself living a despicable life that leaves me empty in every moment I’m not with him. Maybe it would be worth it—if only to be alive for those moments when we were together instead of dead every second of every day.
“What you need to do is walk away and never talk to me again.” The words don’t come out hard like they should. Instead, they’re soft and tentative, each one a drip from a tap that fills my throat with tears.
I will not cry.
“Hey,” Nix says behind me. “I can’t leave you alone for—oh. Sam. You’re supposed to be in New York.”
“I came back. I need a minute alone with Liz.” He never takes his eyes off me. “Please hear me out?”
“Er, um.” Nix checks over each shoulder as if she’s looking for backup. I’m sure that, like me, she’s wishing the other girls hadn’t left yet.
“It’s okay,” I tell her. But it’s really not. I’m about to have that conversation where he tells me he’s moved on and that he’s really happy with Sabrina. That Saturday night was a mistake and he’d appreciate it if I didn’t tell anyone. Maybe he’ll say he was drunk, or maybe he’ll say there was no excuse for whispering dirty words in my ear and making me think he’s missed me as much as I’ve missed him.
“There’s so much you and me, there’s no air left when we share a room. There’s always you and me.”
Nix clears her throat. “I’ll be at the bar if you need me.”
Sam watches her go. “She hates me.”
“She’s my friend. Hating you is part of the job description.”
When he returns his eyes to mine, there’s vulnerability in them that I don’t want to see. “And what about you?” he asks.
“I’m pretty sure the way we feel about each other became irrelevant the second you asked Sabrina to marry you.” Yep. Definitely too drunk to have this conversation.
“I’d rather not talk about this here. Can we go outside? I can explain everything. Please?”
“That depends. Did you fuck me while you were engaged to another woman?”
He stares at me for a long time, and for the life of me I feel as if he’s trying to tell me something telepathically—my untrustworthy gut at work again.
Ultimately, his silence is more painful than any answer I can imagine.
I swallow. “Congratulations, by the way. You are officially your father’s son.”
* * *
Sam
The words drive into me like the dull blade they were meant to be. “Touché.”
