Suffer Love (7 page)

“I wouldn't say that. Hunter Academy is so different from anything I've ever experienced. I wish I'd gone there as a teenager. The staff really believes in fostering individual talents. It's amazing.”

“Well, we don't go to Hunter, do we?”

Mom dropped her fork and leveled me with a glare. “You wouldn't like it.”

“Sure. Whatever you say, Mom.”

“Why do you have to make everything so difficult?”

I sat back, almost flabbergasted. Almost. “I'm not making anything difficult. I'm here, aren't I? I moved. Again. I made your dinner. I helped Livy unpack her room. What do you want from me?”

“A little less attitude.”

“Sorry, I'm having a hard time knocking that back a notch. Something about being dragged away from my few friends for the second time in less than six months, with Dad up in Boston, just leaves a sour taste in my mouth.”

She tugged on her earlobe, something she always does when she's nervous. Or when we're nervous. When I had bad dreams as a kid, I used to cower on her lap while she sang and ran her thumb over my ear.

“Your father chose to go to Boston,” she said, dropping her hand. “And he chose to go alone. That's not my fault.”

Livy chewed on her lip, moving her food around her plate. Mom sighed and pressed her eyes closed. For a second, I really thought she was going to apologize. But she forged ahead, her hands white on the edges of the table.

“We wouldn't be in this situation, Samuel, if you had been a little less rash and a little less selfish.”

My jaw tightened. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Livy's head snap up. Mom and I stared at each other, and right there, in that moment, I almost told her about Hadley. I wasn't positive this was the right girl, but something in my gut said I knew exactly who she was and I wanted to see Mom's face when she found out.

But Livy was in the room.

So I shut up.

But I couldn't shake this overwhelming urge to pour all of my shit on Mom the way she'd done to me for the past six months. To change the tide, if that was even possible.

So two hours later, I got a better idea. No big deal. Hadley and I needed to work on the project anyway. This was just a way to get under Mom's skin a little.

Now, standing in my room, Hadley's voice still echoing in my ear, the prospect of her gingery smell filling up my house, that “better idea” makes me feel like a complete douche.

My legs, which I had locked into place right before I rang the doorbell, turn to water as soon as he opens the door.

Because he looks good.

Not in a Josh Ellison I-can-get-any-girl-I-want kind of way, but in this boyish, relaxed sort of way that makes my resolve turn to mush. His hair is sticking up like he's been pulling on it and his light blue T-shirt hugs his trim torso. His blue eyes are wide on mine, as though he's a little surprised I showed up.

“Hey,” he says without smiling, but his gaze slides up my body in a flash. “Come on in.”

“Thanks.” I give him a smile and let my shoulder brush against his chest as I pass. He smells like some cool, clean soap and . . . Is that cinnamon?

“Sorry about the mess.” He weaves through a maze of cardboard boxes. “We just moved in last week.”

Like this isn't obvious. “Where did you move from?”

“Atlanta. We lived with my grandma for the summer.” He pushes a box labeled
LINENS
away from the stairs and turns to face me. “Lived in Nashville before that.”

“Really? Me too. We moved this past summer.”

“Yeah, I know.” He rubs the back of his neck and looks away as my phone pings in my bag.

“Sorry.” I dig it out and find a text from my dad.

Hope your day went well, sweetie. Love you!

I stuff my phone in my bag without replying.

“How do you know?” I ask Sam, who's rummaging through a box filled with paperback novels and shampoo bottles.

“How do I know what?” he asks, standing up with a few books. The top one is a tattered copy of
Romeo and Juliet
.

“That I used to live in Nashville.”

“Oh. From Josh.”

I fight to keep my lip from curling. “Ah. I see.” I'm sure Josh has been a wealth of information.

He runs his hand along the tawny wood of the banister, starting up the steps. His fingers are long and slender, almost elegant. “All my books and stuff are in my room.”

Sure they are.
I follow him, glad his back is to me so he can't see the smirk that's taking over my face right now. I managed to go all day without talking to him. Ms. Artigas drowned us in her lecture on the power of disguise in
As You Like It,
and I made sure I sat in the back of the room. Luckily, my locker had been scrubbed clean and Sloane had yet to strike again, so I flew under the radar most of the day. I'm almost positive Sam is in my lunch block, so I ate in the library with an
Us Weekly
while the Sci-Fi Club sketched pictures of balloon-chested intergalactic spacecraft captains onto posters advertising for new members. This is my riveting social life. The only person I said more than three words to was Kat, who leveled me with plaintive are-you-sure-about-this looks every thirty seconds.

“I mean, you're basically going to manipulate him into thinking you want to hook up,” she whispered while we changed for gym. “You really want to be that kind of girl?”

“What kind of girl?”

Kat pressed her mouth flat and she busied herself with her shoelaces.

“Besides, I'm not manipulating,” I said, pulling on a royal blue Woodmont High T-shirt. “I'm just . . . proving a point.”

“Are you sure that point doesn't have something to do with making the whole of the male population suffer needlessly?”

“I'm sure.”

By the time I got to Sam's, I wasn't sure about anything. I've never played around with guys like this, and honestly, I'm not sure I know what I'm doing. Usually I get with a guy because
I
want to, and then I stop things before they go too far. Even though I pick guys who aren't assholes—Josh Ellison represents a grave lapse in judgment—I'm fully aware that I've developed a reputation as a tease in a few short months. But it's not a game to me. It's not a power trip. It's comfort without too much risk. No one gets too close. No one gets hurt. At least, not until Jenny Kalinski.

Sam's room is pretty much what I expected. A mess that makes my palms itch. Boxes everywhere, clothes draped over the unmade bed and desk chair. Stacks of books and magazines. Some guitar-driven music pumps out of an iPod dock.

From his desk, he grabs his laptop and trades the paperbacks for a copy of
Much Ado
before settling on the floor against the bed.

“So what act do you think we should do?” he asks, flipping through the play.

I sit down next to him and take out my own stuff. “I'm not sure. It's been a while since I've read it.”

He flips through his notebook, a few wrinkled papers sticking out from every direction. “Do you have the packet explaining the project? I can't find mine.”

I open my binder and find it immediately. “It says we need a multimedia component.”

“Can I see it?”

“Oh . . . um . . .”

“Thanks.” Before I can stop him, he slides the paper from between my fingers. I inhale deeply and watch him while he reads.

A grin ambles across his mouth. “Am I seeing things, or did you correct this teacher handout?” He holds up the paper, his finger on a paragraph where several red marks bleed across the page.

I snatch the paper back from him. “You'd be surprised how many teachers make spelling and grammatical errors.”

He nods, pressing his tongue to his top lip, probably to keep from busting up laughing at my neurosis.

“Oh, shut up,” I say, cracking a smile and brandishing my red pen at him. “What act are we doing?”

He blocks my pen with his book and finally laughs, a resonant boom from deep inside his chest. “Why don't we skim the play really quick and see what we think?”

“Okay.”

So we do. In silence. I watch him for a minute, waiting for a sidelong glance or a subtle brush against my arm. Nothing. He just reads and keeps checking his phone, like he's waiting for something better to pull him from my presence.

Finally, he slaps his book shut. “I think we should do act three. It's long, but it's when everything starts really heating up. Beatrice thinks she might love Benedick, Claudio thinks he sees Hero in bed with what's-his-name. It's a good tension-building act.”

“I like act five.” Actually, act three sounds good to me too, but I don't feel like acquiescing so easily.

“Why?”

“It's the resolution. The happy ending.”

He makes a sound in the back of his throat, something between a laugh and a snort.

“Everyone wants a happy ending, Sam, even if you don't believe it's possible.”

He glances at me and puts his book down. “
Is
it so impossible?”

“Have you ever seen one? A real, honest-to-God happy ending?”

He frowns and opens his mouth. Nothing comes out, but he keeps looking at me. With our eyes locked like this, I know this is the moment. I need to lean in, let him get within a millimeter of my mouth, whisper what an asshole I think he is for assuming words on a locker somehow mean I'm going to sleep with him, and then leave.

I angle my body toward him and press lightly against his arm, holding his gaze. I hear him suck in a breath and I look at him from beneath my lashes. All those little tricks I used to abhor. But something stops me from going any further. For one thing, he doesn't move closer. He doesn't even blink. Just maintains this baffling intensity that chews at my stomach. It's not the same type of look I got from Josh or Henry Murphy or Isaac Jorgensen, like I was their favorite flavor of ice cream. It's a different kind altogether.

His gaze flicks down to my lips once, but he remains a fortress. Unreadable. I shift away from him and fiddle with the neckline of my shirt.

“All right,” he says hoarsely before he clears his throat. “Let's give your happy ending a shot.”

I nod and write
Act V
in my notebook, tracing over the letters again and again while I wait for my heart to stop hammering. I feel unsettled, like I'm face-to-face with a mirror, only I don't quite recognize my own reflection. I look around Sam's room, but it's all unfamiliar, making my head even lighter.

A strident beep sounds from somewhere downstairs, and I startle.

“Oh, just a sec.” Sam gets up and heads for the door. “I need to get this out of the oven.”

“Did you just say
the oven?
” He doesn't answer and I follow him downstairs, entering the kitchen in time to see him pull a casserole dish out of the top of a double oven.

“What's that?” I ask, taking a seat on a stool at the island.

He places the dish on a trivet on the counter. “Chicken Georgia. Or maybe it's Tennessee.” He waves a gloved hand. “Whatever. It's dinner.”

“You cook?”

He smiles while he moves aside some mushrooms and melted cheese, cutting into a piece of chicken to inspect it. “Surprised?”

“A little.”

“I started when my dad left. My mom's not very domestic.”

“Oh. I'm sorry. About your dad I mean.”

He shrugs and lays down the knife. “He had a good reason.” I'm not sure what to say to that, but he saves me by continuing. “Anyway, it was either cook or let my sister live on frozen pizzas. After a few rubbery chickens and a couple of kitchen fires, I actually got pretty good. It's fun.”

“Kitchen fires?”

“No one was hurt except an oven mitt or two.”

I laugh, breathing in the savory smell of the casserole before he covers it with foil. Another timer dings and he slides a coffeecake out of the bottom oven. Cinnamon.

“Wow. And you bake?” I lean over the counter and inhale again. “That smells incredible.”

“Thanks. My grandma taught me how to make this while we lived in Atlanta. Took me a while to get it right.”

My mouth spreads into a smile as he sprinkles some raw sugar over the top of the cake.

“What?” he asks, one corner of his mouth ticked up.

“Nothing. It's just . . . well, you're a baseball player, right?”

“Yeah.”

“And a guy.”

“Astute observation.”

“You have to admit, it's a little unusual to meet a teenage-boy-slash-baker-slash-athlete.”

He purses his lips and opens a door next to the refrigerator, disappearing into what I assume is the pantry. I hear him rummaging around, and when he emerges, he's smocked in an extremely ruffly green and white striped apron. He spreads his arms wide. “Well, now you've met one.”

I cover my mouth and laugh. “I guess I have. What would Josh say?”

“He'd say ‘Dude, this cake kicks ass.'”

“Oh my God, you sound just like him.”

“He's not a tough one to imitate.” He takes out two plates from the cabinet. “Want to try some?”

“Yeah?”

“Sure. You can be my taste-tester.”

“Okay, but only if you take off that apron.”

“Not my color?”

“I don't think the color is the problem.”

He removes the apron as he rounds the island. Before I have a chance to protest, he loops it over my head and pulls my hair out of the strap's grasp. His fingers graze my neck a little and I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from shivering.

“You're right. Looks much better on you.”

I laugh nervously and look down at the starchy, cottony stripes. He grins and returns to the cake, slicing two large pieces onto the plates. He slides one over to me with a fork. I quickly take a bite, my mouth already watering.