I smear my bagel with a generous amount of cream cheese and pile on the lox, my favorite, and cringe when Danny starts asking me about sexual exploits, like it would be even remotely appropriate even if my girl-who's-not-my-girl—which in his defense, he's ignorant of—wasn't sitting right across the table. But for God's sake, our mothers are right there.
"I've been busy with school and finals, and everything." I blow off his question as best I can. If it were anyone else, they would take the hint, but with Danny, social cues can get completely lost.
"What happened with that hot chick you were talking about last time?" Danny persists.
Shit. He's talking about Rory. I notice her stiffen across the table, and I wonder if she's uncomfortable because she thinks I spoke about her in those terms recently. After all, I promised her we could go back to being just friends. Fucking Danny.
"Nothing," I murmur vaguely, hoping someone will change the subject. And Danny does just that, and I regret it instantly.
"Hey, what the hell happened on spring break, bro?" He nods at Thea, and the girls all turn their attention to our conversation. "Thea said one of your friends got attacked in an alley by some crazy dude? And you beat his ass? Was it that same hot chick? Is she really that hot that guys can't control themselves?" Danny thinks he's said something witty, and he just keeps on munching his bagel, unaware that I am pummeling him with my gaze.
"Ow!" he yelps, and I don't have to unlock my glare from my cousin to know Thea must have kicked him.
"You are so freaking stupid sometimes, Danny," Thea practically growls.
"What'd I say?" he asks, truly dumbfounded.
I take deep breaths. It would not be helpful if I were to jump across the table and repeat my mind's actions with my fists. But God, how I want to get just one good one in. When I've convinced myself that I'm in control of my anger, my eyes search for Rory, but she's already excusing herself and fleeing to the bathroom.
Our moms peek over to see what the interruption was, and I shove my chair back violently to go after her, but Bits stops me.
"I'll go," she says. I notice Carl has also gotten up, presumably to do the same thing, and she looks to me for my opinion. The truth is I want to go. Selfishly, I want to see for myself that she's okay, and to be the one to console her if she's upset. Christ, maybe I do have some kind of hero complex when it comes to her. And for that reason, I nod at Bits to go instead. Carl looks at me dubiously, obviously thinking she should be the one to go after her friend, but she sits back down for now.
Bits and Rory have their own bond. I know they barely know each other, but in other ways, they understand each other better than any of the rest of us can. Bits knows what it's like to feel so desolate she'd rather be dead—as much as that knowledge guts me—and I know she can offer Rory a perspective that neither Carl nor I ever could.
My sister has come a long way since last summer, no doubt we have Dr. Schall to thank for much of it, and through all of her struggles, she's grown into someone wise beyond her years.
And, of course, there's the additional benefit that Bits looking after Rory frees me up to yell at Danny. I take full advantage.
"What the fuck is wrong with you?" I demand. Danny's eyes widen and he stops chewing abruptly.
"Sammy!" my mother scolds, but it's not the first time Danny has inadvertently said something stupid and set me off.
"She was sitting right fucking there!" I shout.
"I didn't know!" he says in defense, as if I hadn't already realized that.
That's not the fucking point! My blood boils in my veins as my heart rate skyrockets. I feel my muscles tense, and my mind reels with frustration over everything. Over the aching weight in my chest, over the memory of that motherfucking bastard pawing at Rory, over Danny's big fucking mouth, and his insistence on fucking up a brunch where everyone was actually getting along for once.
"Because you can't take a fucking hint!" I slam my palms down onto the table and the dishes rattle dramatically. Out of my peripheral I see my mother stand up in warning.
"Cap," Tucker warns. But I'm fuming, only vaguely aware that my frustration is only partially Danny's fault. And I want to take it out on someone. I want to take it out on Danny.
No.
I want to take it out on the person who deserves it—that motherfucking bastard. But he's not here. And if I play my cards right, he'll never be anywhere near Rory again. I take several deep breaths, just like Schall taught me to deal with my anger issues. And logic prevails.
Danny is a moron and his words upset Rory, but the rest of it… it's not his fault.
I wrench my gaze from my idiot cousin and take in the scene. Everyone is staring at me like I'm crazy. Like they're afraid of what I might do. Like I'm the fucking monster.
My breath catches in my throat. They're staring at me like they used to stare at my father.
I turn from them and start walking. I head up the stairs and to my bedroom.
I wanted to hit him. Danny.
I didn't do it, I know, and that's got to count for something. Or at least that's what Rory would tell me. But it still bothers me that I wanted to beat the shit out of my cousin over the fact that he didn't know any better than to be the moron that he inescapably is. I sit down on my bed, and drop my head into my hands.
Rationally I know Danny had no reason to know about Rory and me, or about Rory being the girl who'd been assaulted in Miami. A part of me was aware of that even in the moment I'd been seriously considering acting on my impulse to pummel him. It's just… does he seriously have to think of the worst thing he could possibly say at every fucking turn?
I sigh. I stand up and walk to the window that overlooks the patio. Brunch is continuing on, although seemingly quieter than before. And then Bits walks out and starts whispering something to Carl. I wait for Rory to follow after Bits, but when a few more moments pass and I realize it looks like Carl is saying goodbye to Tucker, I become concerned.
So concerned, in fact, that I rush back down the stairs to the guest bathroom to which I suspect Rory fled. The open door reveals the empty room, and my worry grows as I race through the foyer, and out the front door.
I practically skid to a stop like a fucking cartoon character. Rory is standing there, her arms wrapped protectively around her middle, her cheeks dry but her eyes inexorably wet.
I loathe seeing her upset. The sight of it guts me and faint nausea swells inside me, like I have an adverse physical reaction to her sorrow. Like my body rejects it outright.
And I'm the reason she's upset. I pushed her to attend this brunch.
I push my fingers through my hair reflexively.
"Ror, I'm sorry," I tell her. Her brows pinch together vaguely. Like maybe she's confused. But also a little not confused. Like she agrees that I should be sorry for something, she's just surprised I agree, or even know what it is. "Danny didn't realize. I didn't mention it—"
"It's fine." She interrupts. An ice-cold chill shivers down my spine.
It's an unsettling moment of deja vu. Of the morning I met her. When she'd panicked outside of calc, and she kept insisting she was fine. It was before we were even just friends. When we were nothing. And I don't want to go back to that. It's enough that I have to give up the something more. But I'm supposed to be her friend—her best friend, supposedly. And I won't accept nothing from her. I can't.
"It's not fine, Rory. He's got a problem, my cousin. He's completely incapable of basic social awareness. He's always putting his foot in his mouth. And it's my fault, because I should have prepared him and told him not to bring up—"
"Sam, you couldn't have anticipated your cousin asking you about Miami…" she trails off for a moment and swallows nervously. "Or about some girl you mentioned the last time you spoke." Her accent peeks out when she's upset, though she's getting better and better at keeping it at bay. I wish she wouldn't keep it hidden. It's fucking adorable. And sexy.
Then it hits me that Rory is jealous.
My smirk is immediate and insuppressible. Does she really not understand that she was the hot chick? Did she think that when I said Danny put his foot in his mouth, that I'd meant to imply that Danny mistook her for the girl I'd obviously talked about? That maybe there was some other girl I'd spoken about since our trip?
The idea is ridiculous, but Rory doesn't agree, and my amusement only annoys her further. But I enjoy it, because I know I'm about to cheer her up—at least if that's really what got her so upset in the first place. Well, that and Danny bringing up the assault, anyway.
"Yes, but it's my fault for not mentioning to Danny that the, uh, hot chick was going to be at brunch, Ror. Though I would have thought it would have been made obvious when he saw you." I say the last part slowly, and take immense pleasure in watching the blush steal over her skin, starting at her cheeks, and disappearing beneath the collar of her shirt.
Tension subtly slips from her body, though her arms tighten around herself. I feel an answering twitch in my own muscles. The need to hold her is taunting me. To hug and comfort, and touch.
Just friends.
"Oh," Rory breathes.
"Oh," I repeat, my smirk stretching further.
I wait for her to relax, for the relief I'll feel when her sour mood lifts, but it doesn't happen. The weight in my chest intensifies. I should have realized that Danny's bringing up that motherfucking bastard at brunch without warning would fuck with her head. And I don't know how to fix it. I can't fix it. And I feel fucking powerless. It's a terrible feeling. Any lingering humor has drained completely and I feel our distance in some existential way.
I feel utterly lost. I just keep stumbling in every which way, unable find my footing in this new kind of friendship. Before Miami, when we were just friends, I knew I had real feelings for her. And it was hard. Navigating the blurry lines of that version of our friendship. But in Rory and Sam—Just Friends 2.0, it's like I'm adrift at sea, with no real guidelines on what my role even is.
"You're going?" I ask her. I already know that she is. It's what she does when things get too hard, and I don't even blame her for it. This was supposed to be a casual fucking brunch.
Rory shrugs. It's an affirmative answer I've come to expect from her when she thinks she'll be judged for answering yes. It's her way of saying And so what if I am? I take an automatic step forward. It's not a conscious decision. It's as if her presence just draws me in.
"Do you want me to drive you?" I offer. What I really want is to push her to stay. But I've learned to pick my battles with her and this one is a lost cause.
Rory shakes her head. "Carl's just sayin' bye. She's gonna drive me."
I sigh in reluctant acceptance. "I really am sorry, Ror. Don't let Danny's stupid comment upset you. I mean how moronic could he be? What kind of an idiot says a girl got attacked because she's so hot guys can't—" I cut myself off. It hits me like a wrecking ball. Why Danny's words hit Rory so hard.
Her issues with blame and self doubt. Her piece of shit father and all the guilt he laid at her feet for her own abuse. I take another compulsive step forward, the muscles in my arms clenching harshly to keep them from wrapping around her.
"It was a ridiculous thing to say. However you look, whatever you wear, whatever you do, no one has a right to lay a hand on you, Rory. None of it was your fault," I say intently. I hold her gaze fiercely, watching to see whether she accepts my words, or if she's really still thinking that she'd asked for that fucking torture in some way.
Her eyes fill with moisture and it catches in her lashes, making them look impossibly dark and thick, framing such uncertain, beautiful brown eyes that completely undo me. Her arms tighten around herself even more.
Rory is foundering. She is strong, but even the strongest of us need support, and right now she is particularly vulnerable, and she is foundering.
I don't make a conscious decision to break my rule. It just happens. My arms envelop her, one around her waist, the other bracing her back, my fingers digging into her loose auburn hair and pulling her face to my chest.
I whisper repeated apologies and reassurances while her small body racks with stifled, silent sobs. She keeps her face buried in my polo shirt until she pulls herself together.
I heed her cues when she pulls away, though there isn't a single part of me that wants to let her go. I can read in her eyes that she's harboring a question, and she's unsure as to whether or not she wants to ask it.
I brush my thumb across her cheeks to rid them of the residual tears, and then tuck her hair behind her ear. Her eyes close, and it takes everything I have not to let my fingers linger. I silently implore her to ask whatever it is she wants to ask, and so I remain silent.
"You touched me," she finally breathes.
"I…" I don't know if she's just making an observation or reprimanding me.
"You haven't touched me in weeks. Not even a high five," she grumbles as her eyes drop to her sneakers.
"I…" Fuck. I can't exactly say I haven't touched you because I'm afraid that if I do, I won't be able to stop. I sigh again. "I'm just trying to find the right path back to this just friends thing, you know?" I say instead.
"Yeah," she whispers, but I know she doesn't mean it.
I feel like a colossal asshole. Here I was trying to be all hands-off because of my own broken heart, and Rory is fucking suffering because of it. She can't even tolerate the touch of most people, even her friends, and she's been to fucking hell and barely back in the past month, and she needs support.
I grab her and pull her back into a hug, and she comes willingly.
"I'm sorry. It was stupid. I'm stupid," I murmur. She doesn't argue, she just accepts my comfort.
"Sorry-" We are interrupted by Carl, and Rory steps out of my embrace and blushes again. "I— uh… sorry, I had to, you know, deal with Tucker," she says vaguely, waving her hand dismissively toward the house.
I don't take my eyes off Rory, though I'd like to shoot Carl a glare to tell her just how much she's interrupting.
"Do you still want to go? Or—"
No, she wants to stay, but you need to go, I answer silently just as Rory answers out loud.
"Yeah."
The weight expands tenfold. I knew one hug wouldn't change anything of course, but it still hurts.
Everything still fucking hurts.
I force a weak smile to let her know it's okay. That everything is going to be okay. Even if I don't fully believe it myself.
Carl hands Rory her purse, and murmurs a goodbye. I nod at her, but my eyes are still locked on Rory.
"'Bye, Sam," she murmurs.
"Later, Ror."
Chapter Five
The school week is dragging on and it's hard to believe it's only Wednesday. But on the other hand, I've been in a much better mood than I have since returning from Miami. I could pretend it has nothing to do with Sam, but I've come to learn that lying to myself rarely does any good.
I still don't understand why he spent weeks so careful not to touch me. I understand even less why he decided to hug me like I freaking belong to him again after that disaster of a brunch. But I wasn't surprised that he recognized exactly what had upset me.
His stupid cousin bringing up Robin attacking me in Miami came out of nowhere. It stunned me, made my pulse skip. But his next words were what sliced straight through my chest, cracked open my sternum and flayed my heart.
Is she really that hot that guys can't control themselves?
I was already on edge when Daniel referenced some hot chick that Sam had mentioned the last time they spoke. I don't know why I assumed they spoke often, maybe because Sam and Thea seem so close, but that's where my brain went. It presumed that Sam had met someone, or taken an interest in someone new.
And so I was already desperately unsettled when Daniel brought up Miami. His words smacked me in the face. I was instantly assaulted with images from that night. Images of myself. My short, white sundress, my done up face and tousled hair from the nigh
t before.
All the words of the men who betrayed me rung through my mind, about how I'd asked for Robin's abuse—how the way I'd acted and dressed had led him on.
I breathed and counted and breathed some more. But it wouldn't do.
How's a man supposed to behave himself?
Robin's words were the last ones to crash through my head before I made my hasty escape to the bathroom where I thanked God out loud that I'd had the forethought to keep a pill in the small mini pocket above the front pocket of my jeans. Somehow I knew I was likely to need it, though I couldn't have anticipated Sam's socially inept cousin.
But I'd do it all over again. Go through that awful brunch, socialize with fucking Chelsea Printze, even nearly panic, because it got me my best friend back. Not just this hands-off version of himself that Sam's been ever since Miami, but the old Sam.
I don't know what made him hold me. Maybe it was just because I was so upset. Maybe he would have hugged anyone like that if they were practically breaking down on his doorstep. After all, he does have superhero tendencies. But either way, I don't care.
All I care about is that when we got our calculus quizzes back on Monday, he high-fived my ninety. That he elbowed me when I teased him about something or other at lunch on Tuesday. That he put his hand on the small of my back to lead me out of the diner at lunch today.
I know it doesn't mean anything. That we're still just friends, and that I asked for it to be this way. But it's like I've gotten something back. Something I'd lost. Some level of comfort that I desperately needed for my own sanity.
And now that I have it back—that crucial inherent support—I feel different.
Don't get me wrong, I don't feel better. I'm still miserable and lonely. I still miss Cam with every fiber of my being, and miss being with Sam. Miss belonging to him. I still feel perpetually unsettled, as if something is always wrong, everything is always wrong, and there's no way to make it right.
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