Suffer Love (11 page)

“So, I didn't have breakfast this morning,” Sam says as soon he gets in and starts the car. “Are you up for some food?”

I buckle my seat belt slowly and look at him. He scans his iPod lazily, seemingly unbothered that he could open up a sex shop out of the back of his car right now. “Yeah, I guess.”

“Any good local places?” He presses play on his iPod and a moody song blasts out of the speakers, all guitars and violins.

“Um. There's a coffee shop called the Green-Eyed Girl that has really good scones.”

“Sounds great. Where is it?”

“On Church.”

He smiles and pulls out of the lot. I take a deep breath as the school fades behind us. It's just one day. And Sam's right. I'm in no mood to sit through classes and try to pull myself together enough to act like nothing is wrong. Plus, Kat would see right through it and flutter around me like a mother bird.

We don't talk again until we're settled at a corner table, lattes and pumpkin scones steaming on thick glazed plates in front of us. The Green-Eyed Girl is one of my favorite places in downtown Woodmont. It's small and cozy, with rugged wooden tables, mismatched chairs, and local art on the light green walls. And it always smells like cinnamon and butter and coffee.

“Those are really cool,” Sam says. He points to the space behind us. Six or seven photos of the human eye hang on the wall. They're all black and white except for a little splash of green. On one it's the iris, on another the pupil, another the lashes, and on one green is slicked under the eye like a bruise.

“Yeah, I think the owner did those.” I watch Sam as he chews and soaks in the photos. “Suzanne. She used to be a photographer and named the shop after that series.”

“I need to bring my sister here.”

“Does she like coffee?”

He shrugs. “She's more a tea girl, but she's getting into photography lately.”

“Kat loves the chai tea latte here.”

“She's your best friend, right? I think I have a class with her.”

I nod. “Government.” I immediately blush—again—and take a too-large bite of my scone. Sam just grins and sips his coffee, graciously saying nothing about how I seem to know his class schedule.

We talk about stupid stuff—schoolwork and our project and his compulsory need to always have music playing, my job teaching swimming at the Y. He tells me that his sister loves swimming and how he used to be terrified of water because he fell off the dock at Radnor Lake when he was four. I keep waiting for him to bring up the locker, but he remains infuriatingly quiet on the subject. I just want it over with. It feels like a giant elephant is standing on the table and I have to look around it to see him clearly. Finally, I snap.

“Aren't you going to ask me about this morning?”

He cocks his head to one side and lays his fingers on the rim of his mug. “I figured that if you wanted to talk about it, you would.”

“Aren't you curious?”

“Curiosity doesn't mean it's any of my business.”

“You made it your business when you rode over on your white horse and threw everything away.”

He frowns and leans forward, his blue eyes narrowed. A shimmery ring of gold encircles his pupils. “Okay. I'm sorry. You're right, I shouldn't have taken charge like that, but I could tell you were upset and I was trying to help.”

“Don't be sorry. I appreciate it. It's just . . .” I press my fingers to my face, trying to push back the creeping flush. “It was embarrassing.”

“I didn't mean to embarrass you.”

I glance up and meet his eyes. “I know that.”

“It's not like that stuff is yours.” His lips spread into a mischievous smile, both eyebrows popped into his messy hair. “Wait.
Is
that stuff yours?”

“What? No!”

He laughs and nudges my arm with his and I find myself laughing too. A few minutes ago, after the vacuum and the penile paraphernalia, I didn't think my mouth could bend itself into a smile, much less emit a laugh.

“Seriously,” he says as he finishes off his scone. “If you want to tell me, I'll listen, but I won't ask.”

I grab the container that holds the sugar packets and start separating them. Sweet'n Low, Equal, Splenda, raw sugar. “It's not a big deal.”

“Which usually means that it is.”

I smile a little at that as I slide a pink packet in with its mates. Then I start on the blue and let my words spill out quickly. “I messed around with Josh at a party and he was dating Jenny Kalinski. She found out and her friend Sloane is the one putting all that stuff on my locker.”

He sits back. “Ah. And I'm guessing from the way that you've been dicing Josh into little pieces with your eyes all week that you didn't know he had a girlfriend.”

I shake my head.

“So it's not your fault.”

“I shouldn't have believed him. I thought he was a decent guy.”

“But he's the one who lied.” His tone raises a little, something sharp edging his usually smooth voice.

“I know, but . . . I still hurt someone. You wouldn't understand.” I stuff the last brown packet into the container. “The whole thing just made me feel cheap. It made me feel no better than that woman who—” I stop myself just in time, biting on my lip so hard, tears sting my eyes. Sam remains silent, and when I look up at him, his jaw is clenched, a muscle jumping near his temple. His fingers are bloodless on his cup.

“It's Josh's fault too,” he says, his voice gravelly. “You weren't the only one who made a bad decision. The guy lied, probably talked you into it—”

“He didn't—”

“And he was probably using you to fill up some pathetic midlife crisis hole and didn't give a damn who he hurt.”

I sit back in my chair and stare at him. His eyes are a little hazy and I don't know what to say. It's nice he's defending me, but it feels like something else is going on.

“Midlife crisis?” I question, grinning a little in an effort to lighten the mood.

He presses his eyes closed, shaking his head. “You know what I mean.” Then a ghost of a smile drifts over his mouth. “A quarter-life crisis, then.”

I smile, relieved to see him do the same.

He clears his throat and focuses on a toddler at the next table who's shredding his napkin, forming a pile of papery snow on the table. After a few seconds, he asks, “So, do you like Josh?”

I almost laugh. “Josh? Um. No.”

“So why did you hook up with him?”

I blow out a breath, disturbing a strand of hair so it grazes my cheek.

“Were you drunk?” Sam asks when I remain silent.

“No. I don't drink.”

He hands me a Splenda and I stick the little yellow packet in with the others. “Why not?” he asks.

“I just don't. I don't like how I feel when I do. I hate that loose my-head-is-floating-three-feet-above-my-body sensation. It makes me feel like I need to heave into a paper bag.”

“Okay. So why Josh?”

I press my fingertips to my thumb until they whiten, remembering Josh's breath on my skin, the way he temporarily unsnarled the mess in my head. “Why does a girl need to be either madly in love or drunk to kiss a guy?”

He frowns, his forehead creased in thought like he's pondering black holes. “Um. She doesn't.”

“That's right. She doesn't, and I was neither. Josh was there. He was nice. He was a distraction, all right? That's it.”

“A distraction.”

“Yes.” I pull on the ends of my hair, working my fingers through a tangle.

“From what?”

I continue to detangle my hair, stalling from giving an answer because I don't have one. Kat's asked me the same question a million times, and I don't have an answer for her, either.

“Do you want to talk about something else?” Sam asks.

“God, yes.” I let a nervous laugh slip from my throat.

He leans back lazily, propping his ankle on his knee. “Enough of this heavy shit. Tell me something about you I would never guess.”

“Something you'd never guess?”

“Yeah, like a funny quirk or a weird phobia or obsession. Although I already know you have a compulsion toward organization.”

“I do not.”

He holds up the color-coordinated sugar container. “Would you like to ask Suzanne for a job?”

I laugh and yank the container out of his hands. “All right. But you first. Tell me something unexpected about you.”

He smiles and taps his chin in thought before jutting his forefinger into the air. “I'm afraid of spiders.”

“Wrong. So am I. So is half the world. Try again.”

“Damn, you're bossy.”

“Come on, Baker Boy, quit stalling.”

He laughs, then purses his lips while he thinks for while. In the café, the breakfast crowd thins out as the sun lifts higher into the sky. Finally, a small smile cuts into his cheeks and he drops his eyes. He looks almost shy.

“All right, here's something. The only people who know this are Livy and my friend Ajay, and he's weird enough that he doesn't judge me.”

“I'm intrigued.”

He draws a breath and presses his fingertips together. “Last year, we read
Romeo and Juliet
in my English class. It wasn't the first time I had read it, but for some reason I became obsessed with it. This past summer, I watched every film version a million times and I dragged Livy to any live performance I could find.”

“That's it? A lot of people like Shakespeare.”

He shakes his head. “I even drove down to this rinky-dink town in south Georgia from Atlanta and back in one night to see a production—if you could even call it that—at some podunk theater that served beer and peanuts. It was the
only
thing I read for four months. When I finished it, I'd just flip back to the beginning and start again. I can quote the whole thing from memory. I'm okay with admitting I took it to an unhealthy level.”

“Why did you love it so much? Don't tell me you're a sappy romantic.”

He smiles grimly. “It wasn't the romance. I know that's what it's about for most people, but not for me. And I'm sorry, but that play is anything but romantic.”

“Then what?”

He props his elbows on the table, his gaze turned inward. “It sounds stupid, but I think it was just about how sad it was. It was comforting. My parents were going through all this shit right when we studied the play and . . . I don't know. It made me feel less alone. Like if two people who loved each other that much still managed to fuck everything up, then maybe the way my parents destroyed each other wasn't so bad. It was like this weird sort of hope in reverse.”

“You liked that there are no happy endings. For anyone.”

He shrugs. “I guess I'm better suited for Shakespeare's tragedies.” He smiles, but it doesn't reach his eyes. “I got over it.”

Looking at him now, I'm pretty sure he's not over it. Not even close. I want to ask him what happened with his parents, but if he's anything like me, that question is more unpleasant than a stomach virus. So I swallow my curiosity.

“Sorry,” he says, pulling on his ear. “I didn't mean to get so morose. I should've just told you that I still sleep with the stuffed duck I had as a kid.”

I laugh. “Do you?”

He shrugs as he studies my face. “Okay, your turn.”

I shift in my seat, not sure I have anything interesting to tell that I'm willing to part with. “There's nothing unexpected about me.”

He leans forward and gives me a lopsided grin. “Everything about you is unexpected.”

He holds my gaze, locking me in place. I'm relieved when he finally slides his eyes away and clears his throat, but I keep watching him, half hoping he'll press me for an answer.

“Do you want to go back to school?” he asks.

Without hesitation, I shake my head. I may barely remember my own name right now, but I know I don't want to go back to school. “No. Can we . . .” My gaze drifts to a server writing lunch specials on a chalkboard. I look back at Sam, his expression curious. “Can we go to your house and hang out? Watch a movie or something?” The words fall from my mouth like rain—I felt them coming, smelled them in the air, but there was nothing I could do to stop them.

Sam's mouth drops open a little. “You want to go back to my house?”

“Is that all right?” I swallow as I wait for his reply. I'm not even sure what I want it to be. I'm just about to revoke my request when his brows dip into his eyes and he answers.

“Yeah. Sure. Why not?” He stands so quickly, his chair cracks onto the floor, scaring the toddler into spilling his paper snow on the ground. “Crap,” Sam mutters, and runs a hand down his face. The toddler starts wailing and Sam bends to pick up the chair and the paper. “It's okay, little man.”

I kneel to help him, accepting a thank-you from the boy's harried-looking mother. When we finish, I edge Sam's hard stomach with my elbow, trying to play off his sudden nervousness. “Don't get any ideas, Sam Bennett. I just want to hang out.”

Pink splashes over his cheekbones as he throws up his hands in surrender. He smiles that lopsided grin. “I wouldn't dream of getting any ideas.”

Okay, I would dream of getting ideas. In fact, I've dreamed up several ideas in the past week since I've met Hadley St. Clair, and none of them are of the PG-13-rated variety. It's not like I haven't heard that she's fooled around with a few guys in school, but what that entails exactly, I don't know, nor do I want to. It's none of my business, right? This girl is beyond off-limits, but suddenly the whole idea of her with Josh—or any other douchebag—makes the back of my neck itch.

As I drive Hadley to my house, I start really brooding over the whole thing. Josh has never mentioned specifics about him and Hadley, but I'm almost positive Jenny is the cheerleader he's been mooning over during lunch all week. If he liked her so damn much, why the hell did he mess around with Hadley? And why the hell do I care?