by Maya Rodale
Sam Chase: I’m in town. Need to talk. Can we meet for a drink?
I hesitated. Sam had been weird lately—lots of confusing text messages, Facebook posts and long emails philosophizing about life choices and a man’s role in the modern world. Or something like that. I’d just been too busy to figure out what he was talking about to compose an appropriate reply. That, and I just didn’t really want to deal with it. I cared about him deeply, but I wasn’t too keen to be his therapist. Or his drinking buddy on a night like this.
But I had loved this man deeply for a long time. We’d been high school sweethearts and I thought he would be my husband and the father of my children. It was his idea for us to break up. Though it hurt like hell for a while, I was now glad. My life was so much more amazing because of it.
So even though he was acting weird, I had loved him and he seemed to be in a rough patch. We could still be friends, right?
Besides, it’s not like I would get much writing done anyway.
Another text message interrupted me, this one from Roxanna.
Roxanna Lane: Working late. Might swing by with you know who. Don’t be there? XOXOXO!
Well that settled that. I was going out. After one drink, I’d head over to Duke’s place. I doubted that his flight would be taking off after all and it’d be nice and romantic to ride out the storm together.
One glance at Twitter told me this had better be a quick drink.
@NYCGOV: Batten down the hatches! Subway is closing at midnight. Bridges and Tunnels will be closed at 10pm. #Geoffrey
I texted Sam back.
Jane Sparks: Let’s meet in 20 minutes and make it quick—storm’s a-coming!
Sam Chase: I’m at that bar we met at before. Our place in the city.
I decided a quick outfit change was in order. I looked through my closet for the perfect outfit that said “FRIEND ZONE!” I settled on boyfriend jeans, black patent ballet flats and my second favorite sweater set, a charcoal grey cashmere shell and cardigan.
Since I would be heading over to Duke’s afterward, I quickly tossed some things into a bag: a change of undies and some toiletries along with the usual phone, wallet and keys. I grabbed my bag and trench coat and dashed out, down the four flights of stairs to the front hall and then down the very steep front stoop. From there, I headed downtown. Hopefully, I wouldn’t encounter the storm tonight.
But I did, oh I did.
Chapter Three
* * *
Employees Only, Hudson Street
SAM AND I had met up here once before. It had been the night of a party celebrating Project-TK’s $150 million dollars of investment funding. I remembered it as the night things with Duke went from make believe to real.
Sam and I didn’t have many places in the city that were “ours.” Not like we did back home anyway, where every spot in town held some memory: the high school where we met, the bleachers at the stadium where we’d made out (and a bit more); Fiorello’s, the “fancy” special occasion restaurant; Armetta’s, the pizza parlor for casual Friday night dates, the movie theater where Sam had worked as an usher one summer and the library where I had worked until I was fired.
That was another reason I had to leave Milford. Too many places triggered too many memories and that made it impossible to move on. New York City was a blank slate where I could reinvent myself.
When I arrived at the bar, it seemed no one took the storm warning seriously. The place was packed. I saw Sam in a red plaid shirt, hunched over the bar and nursing a pint of beer.
“Hey there,” I said, resting my hand on his shoulder. He startled.
“Jane. Hey.” He smiled faintly. I smiled too, hoping that it hid my shock at how bad he looked. The red plaid shirt looked and smelled like it spent the night on the floor after a pub crawl. Dark stubble covered his jaw, which was a big change from the clean shaven man I had kissed nearly every night for twelve years.
It seemed the pint in his hand wasn’t his first.
I ordered my standard glass of chardonnay and sat on the barstool next to him. One drink. Be a friend.
“So what brings you into the city?” I asked, kicking off what I hoped would be a bright, friendly conversation. “Especially with the storm coming.”
One drink. As a friend. Then I would go. I wanted to be nice. And I didn’t want to upset him anymore.
“Just wanted to leave Milford for the day. I had to get out.”
“What did you do today?”
“Walked around, mostly.” Sam shrugged. OK, so he wasn’t in the mood to be conversational. But then why did he ask me to meet him? I concealed my annoyance with a sip of wine. I could be at home, writing. Or I could be at Duke’s, having orgasms.
“Is everything ok?” I asked.
“Yeah,” he said. And then, “No. The gig at NYU fell through.”
“I’m so sorry,” I said, reaching out to touch his arm lightly. It was habit. He was tense beneath my touch. “What happened?”
Sam lifted his head and looked at me instead of the half empty pint in his hand. He asked, “Are you really sorry?”
“Of course,” I said cheerily. “You were really excited about the position. It would have been a great move for your career.”
His eyes searched mine. What was wrong with what I had said? What was going on with him? Had I done something wrong?
Okay, so I wasn’t totally sorry. I’d been a bit dismayed at the possibility that Sam would be living in my neighborhood. Truth be told, I wasn’t sure this town was big enough for both of us.
“But what about us?” Sam asked softly.
I took a sip of my drink, biting back the words “There is no us anymore.”
One drink. Be a friend. He’s obviously hurting.
“What about us?” I echoed. Then, I tried to keep my voice gentle as I added, “We broke up, Sam. You broke up with me. And I’m with Duke now.”
“So it’s not just a fling? Or a fake relationship?”
It was a fair question, but I was annoyed all the same. After publishing a romance novel where the hero and heroine embark on a sham engagement—which happened to be based on my own sham engagement—everyone doubted that Duke and I were a real couple.
“I don’t have a pretend boyfriend,” I said, trying to laugh it off.
Sam downed the rest of the beer—almost half a pint—and set the empty glass down on the bar. He motioned to the bartender for another.
“We just have so much history, Jane,” Sam lamented. “Doesn’t it seem like a shame to throw away so much of our past?”
Sam put his hand on my knee.
Once upon a time that was the sort of casual, affectionate gesture between a boyfriend and girlfriend. Once upon a time it was a sweet, innocent gesture. Tonight it felt invasive.
Tonight I realized I didn’t want Sam to touch me anymore. This alone was a revelation, because I had spent so much of my life loving him. I thought he was The One. I had picked out the names of our unborn children. Until a few weeks ago, I still harbored fantasies of getting back together.
But tonight I knew we were over. The question was, did he?
His hand was still on my leg. I shifted my position. He took his hand away. I felt relief.
“What about the history, Jane?” Sam asked.
“We can still be friends,” I said. Right? Ex’s were friends all the time. But next time I hung out with my friend Sam, I’d make sure Duke was with me. Or Roxanna. Or anyone who would make this less awkward.
“Yeah,” Sam said bitterly. He obviously didn’t believe me.
I took a big sip of my wine. The sooner this glass was empty, the sooner I could politely make my excuses and leave.
“What about UC Berkeley? Have you heard from them?” I asked, trying to change the subject.
“No.”
“Oh, well perhaps you’ll hear soon . . .”
“They said no.” He took another long swallow of his pint.
“Oh.”
“Everyone has said no
to me Jane.” He glanced nervously at me. The sadness in his brown eyes kind of broke my heart.
“You just need one yes,” I said, trying to be encouraging. “You’ll get it.”
“How are your books doing?” Sam asked.
“Really well,” I said. Then I thought maybe I should have downplayed my success for him now. But then I thought: fuck that. It was Roxanna’s influence that I was thinking in swear words, and her influence that I was no longer putting the men in my life before myself. It was also thanks to her influence that I was dating a great guy, published and basically being more successful and happy than I’d ever imagined.
Maybe Sam ought to be having drinks with Roxanna instead.
But it wasn’t all due to her. I had typed—and imagined and felt—every word of my novels. I offered up my heart and soul—aka my novels—to the world and that had been terrifying. I weathered the good reviews and the bad. Everything wasn’t always perfect with Duke, either, but I held on and had faith.
So I was sorry Sam was having a bad time, but I didn’t want to apologize for my own success.
I sipped more of my wine and couldn’t help but note how the tables had turned. Sam had once been the darling of the Montclair University English Department who mocked women’s fiction and other genre authors so much that I kept my romance novels hidden under the bed. I didn’t dare let my guy see the real me. Until now.
“That’s great Jane,” Sam said. I breathed a sigh of relief. Too soon. “Well, all those desperate housewives in the red states need something to get them off. Your book is as good as any I suppose.”
I spit out an ill-timed sip of chardonnay, spewing it over my jeans. Curses!
I couldn’t let that dig at romance readers slide.
“Sam, all kinds of women read romance novels. Red states, blue states. Happily married, or single. Young, old. Lots of education. Or a little. There are too many of them to fit neatly into that stupid stereotype.”
He ordered another beer. I eyed him nervously.
“Sam, did you take the bus into the city?”
“No, I drove.”
“Are you staying over? Because drinking and driving is a bad idea and they’re going to close the bridges and tunnels before you can sober up.” I checked my watch. “In an hour, to be exact.”
“I don’t know if I’m staying over or not. Am I, Jane?” He lifted his head and fixed his darkened gaze on me. In all our years together, I’d never seen him so wounded, haunted, troubled. I wasn’t in love with him anymore, but my heart ached for him all the same.
“What’s going on Sam?”
He shrugged those broad shoulders of his. He sighed wearily.
“Everything in my life has gone to shit since you left, Jane. When we were together, I knew who I was and where I—we—were going. We had a house—a fucking home. I had someone to come home to. I was the rock star of my English Department with all the promise in the world. Then I lost you. Then I lost my job and now I’ve got nothing and you . . .”
He stopped talking then. Just laughed bitterly.
I had blossomed since we broke up. But Sam had clearly stumbled. And fell. On his face.
“Sam . . .”
“Now you’re a successful published author and dating a fucking billionaire. And I need you back. So tell me how to win you back.”
“Sam, I don’t think that’s in the cards for us.”
“You’re not wearing your ring,” Sam pointed out.
“I lost it.”
That, at least, made him laugh. A bitter laugh that made me cringe.
“You lost that rock? Jesus, it must have cost what, a hundred thousand? More? That thing was huge. Bigger than anything I ever could have gotten you. But he’ll just buy you another won’t he? Won’t even notice a few hundred thousand missing in his bank account.”
“It was insured,” I lied. I didn’t want to explain that it was only a cubic zirconia piece of gift shop junk—that would have prompted too many questions. I just wanted to leave. Sam was wearing me out. All I wanted was to rest my head against Duke’s chest as he held me. I wanted to get out of here and get to Duke before the storm hit.
Was it rude to go so soon? Sam still had half a beer to go. I glanced at my phone again—the minutes were ticking by way too slowly. The storm was getting closer. Soon there’d be no way out of the city for Sam and already the island of Manhattan felt too small for us both.
“You know what else?” Sam asked.
“What?”
“Even Kate dumped me.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“No you’re not. You hate her.”
“I don’t hate her. And gosh, Sam. Just because we’re not together doesn’t me I wish you ill.”
“Jane . . .” He sighed and put his hand on my thigh. I pushed it away.
“No girl. No job. No house.”
“No house?” I echoed. “What happened with the house?”
“Payments. Moving back with the folks. Etc., etc.”
We had lived in that house on Court Street for years. We had loved there. I had left out bridal magazines on our coffee table. He had written his dissertation at the kitchen table.
Gosh, when it rains it pours doesn’t it? He’d always been the golden boy and now he was crashing hard. Of course he was a wreck about it.
“I’m really sorry, Sam. I’m sure this is just a rough patch. You’ll be fine. You’re smart and good-looking and you’ll be fine.”
“Yeah,” he said dryly. His head was still bent over his pint.
“I’m going to go now,” I said. “I have a thing.”
“I’ll walk you home. It’s the gentlemanly thing to do. Especially with this storm coming.”
It seemed like he was really searching for a place to crash and there was no room at the apartment I shared with Roxanna. That, and I wasn’t going home—I was going to Duke’s apartment and there was no way I was taking Sam there with me. That, and I was kind of done with Sam for the night.
Or so I thought.
“I’m fine,” I said. “The streets are well lit. But I’ll just get a cab. It’s safe. Stay, finish your beer.”
Sam chugged the last of his pint. I threw down some cash—hopefully enough to cover whatever enormous bar tab he had racked up.
“I don’t need you to pay for my drinks,” Sam said, eyes flashing. Was that anger at a gesture of generosity?
“No worries! My treat!” I said brightly. “Goodnight Sam.”
“Take your money back, Jane. Or is it your boyfriend’s? Either way, I don’t need it.” He grabbed a bunch of it in his fist before throwing it back down on the bar in frustration. He was drunk. And mad. This wasn’t the man I knew.
I wanted to leave, desperately, and I already regretted coming out tonight.
“I have to go,” I said, leaving the money on the bar and pushing my way through the crowd of New Yorkers who seemed oblivious and/or unconcerned about the looming hurricane. Honestly, it was the least of my worries at the moment.
“Jane . . .”
He grabbed my wrist. I shook it off. I didn’t want to be rude, but I really wanted to get away.
I pushed through the doors and out onto Hudson Street and started walking uptown. Sam was right behind me on the street. My heart started to pound, and not in the “Ooh he might kiss me” kind of way. Strange but true: I was scared of a man I knew. I walked away at a brisk pace.
Sam caught up with me on the corner of West 10th Street and grabbed my wrist.
“Jane, I just need another minute with you.”
“Sam, let me go,” I said, trying to keep my voice firm.
“Please, Jane.” Then his other hand closed around my upper arm. “Come with me.”
What was happening? His fingers gripped me so tightly that I winced from the pressure.
“I have to go,” I repeated firmly.
He tugged me onto the side street. Before I knew it, I was up against a brick wall.
Sam was tall, dark, and handsome. Women tend to have a thing for tall, dark, and handsome. But right now I was so over it. Because he was tall, towering over me and making me acutely aware of how small I was. He was dark—not in the handsome way—but in the dark, twisty, slightly dangerous way.
Sam pressed his weight against me. I felt the cold, rough brick wall hard up against my back.
“Jane . . . I need you.”
I was reminded of all the times we made love and he’d whisper those words. It was romantic then.
I was reminded of all the times we made love and he hadn’t said that because we had become comfortable old lovers together.
I didn’t want him anymore. I didn’t want this.
“Sam, you have to let me go,” I insisted, trying to shrug his hands away. “We broke up. We’re over. I don’t want this.”
“I need you.”
It was as if I hadn’t spoken. As if I didn’t matter.
“Stop it, Sam.” I struggled. I tried to push him away. But his hands had enclosed around my arms, grasping with a force that would certainly leave bruises in the morning. His chest and hips pinned up me against the brick wall, leaving me stuck. And powerless. Tears stung my eyes.
One drink. Be a friend. I knew I shouldn’t have come out with him. I should have heeded all the red flags—the strange and cryptic text messages indicating someone had gone off the deep end, all those pints he’d been downing.
This is what I get for trying to be kind to the former love of my life.
This is what I get for being fucking nice.
Nearby, a police station was lit up. I could see it halfway down the block.
“Sam, let me go or I’ll scream.”
He didn’t release his hold on me so I opened my mouth to holler for help. I wasn’t kidding, and I was no longer feeling like being a friend to him. I was going to scream and cause a scene.
But Sam’s mouth crashed on mine for the worst sort of kiss. One-sided. Unwanted. Eyes open. Bad taste of beer in my mouth. His stubble was like sandpaper against my cheeks.
I struggled and I thought of statistics: Was it one in four women in the United States? Hadn’t I read somewhere that women were most likely to be assaulted by a current or former partner? I couldn’t remember exactly. I just knew I didn’t want to be another nameless, faceless number.