Okay

by Danielle Pearl

  I'm worried that she'll be embarrassed after last night. I know her, and I know she's probably freaking out over the thought of seeing me at school today. The thought makes my chest ache even more. I fucking hate the idea of her wanting to avoid me. And that's exactly what I did to her. I am such a fucking dick.

  Chapter Thirteen

  I almost didn't come to school today. I can't believe I actually said those things. I can't believe I actually called a strange girl a slut to her face! But I'm not sure I wouldn't do it again, even if I were sober. Every time the memory pushes it's way through my mind—them flirting, the thought of where it might have led had I not interrupted them with my drunken outburst—it makes my stomach roll.

  Despite my mortification, my outburst isn't what haunted me all night. Nor was it Sam's fight with Drunk Stranger Asshole. Honestly, the guy had it coming. He was incredibly forward, and he grabbed my wrist—I almost panicked.

  A large part of me is upset—and not at Sam, at myself—because he has, once again, put himself at risk over me. And that is what I don't want. Sam in trouble because of me.

  But what I couldn't stop thinking about was Sam believing I flinched because I was afraid of him. Because I thought he might hit me. That I see him as some kind of brutal monster, because he's been violent before, and because he defended me last night, again. But I'm not mad at him for being violent. The truth is I can't help but be grateful that he'd helped me. Because I had been frightened. But not of Sam.

  And so I came to school in the end. I still haven't seen him, even though the last period of the day just ended.

  I slip my boots back on after I change out of my sneakers. They're the only thing I still change for phys-ed, since after the incident with Chelsea I started wearing yoga pants or sweats on gym days. I pull my hair out of the loose braid I'd tied it in for gym and head out of the girl's room.

  "Ror."

  He's there when I turn around, and somehow my heart races and my breath slows at the same time.

  "I owe you an apology," Sam's low timbre affects me as much as his words shock me. "Several, in fact."

  I hear his words, love his words, and at the same time I can't get past the ones flying around my own head. I try to interrupt, desperate to get my point made first. It's too important to wait, no matter how badly I want to hear what he has to say.

  "Sam, I—" But he interrupts.

  "For losing my cool, for my drunken tantrum, but… for pushing you away. It was selfish, and you deserve better—"

  "That's not how I see you." I can interrupt too, and I can't let him keep talking until I tell him this. Sam's brow furrows, confused, which is understandable since I've just carried on our conversation from last night as if there were no break. But there hasn't been a break for me, I haven't stopped thinking about it. "You think I think you're like them because you've fought?" My narrowed eyes widen with emotion. "But every time, Sam, you were fighting for me," I remind him.

  Sam blinks at me and I know he's having trouble accepting my words, understanding the significant distinction between violence alone and violence in defense of another, but it doesn't make them any less true.

  "That's how I see you. That's what you do. You protect me… No one's ever been there for me like you, Sam. Even my own father did the opposite. And…" I trail off, thinking about Cam, and how unfair it is for me to resent his abandoning me when he had no choice in the matter—when he lost his life. But the truth is I do feel that way. All I wanted was his comfort, but he risked everything, driving out in that precarious storm to go after Robin his way. Even if he had succeeded, he could have ended up in jail, and that would have been my fault too. Either way, I end up alone.

  Sam chooses differently. Every time. He respects my wishes, honors my choices. When we argued over Robin's Facebook photo, about Sam's intentions, he promised he wouldn't go after Robin, even if he admitted he wanted to. Sam only ever acted rashly when he thought me to be in immediate danger. And how could I begrudge him that? Especially when I'd be lying to say I hadn't always desperately wanted that kind of support, the sense of security it invokes.

  "That's how I see you. As the man who saved my life in that alley. Who I can count on. No one can take that away from you," I promise.

  No one can take that away from me.

  God, he said those exact words when he was being all smug over giving me my first—and second, and third—orgasms. There's so much Sam will always be to me that no one can take away from him. Not even me

  And that's when it hits me.

  What am I doing? What the hell is wrong with me?

  Sam isn't Robin. His love doesn't come with conditions, like obedience and submission, or even being in a relationship. I ended things with Sam to keep him safe from any danger my past—or apparently my present—might cause. But it hasn't done that. Sam was never going to stop looking out for me just because we're not together. He would always protect me. I know it in my heart. Because last night in the bar I didn't flinch because I was afraid of what he might do. I flinched because I am so in tune with Sam, trust him and his reactions so implicitly, that his anger made me think there was something else to fear. Because why would he be angry if all was well?

  Sam is my anchor. And I threw him away.

  Only, Sam still didn't abandon me. He kept his promises about protecting me and keeping me safe, even though I tried to take that right away from him. But I couldn't.

  "Shit, Ror. You're making me feel even worse than I already did. I was looking for you to apologize." He rakes his hand through his hair "I'm supposed to be your friend and I fucking abandoned you just because it didn't work out with, you know, us."

  The way he's acting terrifies me. He's hurt me plenty in the past couple of weeks, but he always had that hopeful longing in his eyes when he looked at me, when he talked to me. But now, it's dulled somehow. Like there's something new clouding it… Acceptance.

  "Do you… do you think it's too late?" My voice almost doesn't come out at all. It's nothing more than a tremulous whisper, but I know he hears.

  His entire demeanor changes immediately. It morphs before my eyes. Like he's instantly on edge.

  But I see it disappear—vanish like it never really wanted to be there in the first place—the acceptance. And it gives me courage.

  "Rory."

  My name comes out an admonishment. And also a warning. But there's also something else, barely there, but there nonetheless—hope.

  And it gives me even more courage.

  "I miss you," I confess.

  "I know, Ror." Sam watches me carefully. "I haven't been a very good friend to you lately, and I'm sorry for that. And I've missed you, too," he admits. "It won't happen again, Ror. I'll be here for you. Things will go back to how they were. It'll be okay," he assures me.

  "How will it?" I ask.

  His brow furrows, making my heart twist in my chest.

  "How could anything be okay when just hearing you sweet talk some girl sends me into a jealous fit?" I ask him earnestly. "How is it okay that I've been missin' you so bad it hurts? Sam, I… I—"

  But he stops my words with his sudden steps, and I'm backed against the wall.

  "Don't." Sam's voice is a low, gravelly rumble, and for a moment I'm absolutely terrified that he's rejecting me and I nearly regret my words. I look down at my boots, trying to re-gather my waning courage.

  "But—"

  "Don't," he repeats more firmly, his hands coming up to press against the wall on either side of me, caging me in.

  His proximity completely enraptures me, his scent intoxicating my senses, and the intensity in his gaze prevents me from forming any more words.

  "No more of this wishy-washy bullshit, Ror," he says softly, and I frown. "Don't go there again, okay? Not unless you're sure."

  "But I—"

  "I mean it." Sam shakes his head. "I can't go through that again." He exhales sharply, and I subtly breathe in his breath. "You want to be something more th
an friends again? You need to be sure. I… I can't go through that again," he repeats.

  And he's right. Of course he's right. Neither of us can handle such heartache again. Because as painful as this all is, I can only imagine how exponentially worse it would feel to have hope again—real hope—and have it yanked away when it all falls apart all over again.

  I nod in response, and look back down. Because the thing is, every time I meet his eyes, I am sure.

  Sam's fingers brush under my chin, and lift it to look at him again.

  "I am not rejecting you," he clarifies, but it sure feels like he is.

  I nod uncertainly, but our eyes are locked, and right now, I can't imagine anything other than wanting to be with him for fucking ever.

  "You serious about this?" he asks, and I can sense him wavering. That he's really considering giving us another shot, and my pulse races with a heady mixture of excitement and hope.

  I never break our gaze. "Yes," I breathe.

  Sam deflates, all the determination of a moment before vanishing like it was never real in the first place. "I've told you, Ror. There's no half way with us. It can't just be a spur of the moment decision because I've been acting like a dick or because you were jealous last night. You need to be sure."

  I feel the heat of my blush color my cheeks and spread downward at the memory of my embarrassing display, but there's a warmth in Sam's expression, in his tone, that tells me he wasn't angered by it. That perhaps he's even a bit pleased.

  "And if I am?" I ask, increasingly sure that this isn't a hypothetical—that I was wrong to end it in the first place. That if the choice is up to me, I'm getting him back, one way or another.

  Sam's eyes close briefly. As if he wasn't expecting my reply, as if he isn't quite sure how to respond, but when they reopen they are intent, sure.

  "I can't go through that again," he says again, and my heart stops beating for a moment. "Think it over, Ror, okay? Take the weekend. Really think about what you want. We can talk about it on Monday, okay?"

  I don't reply, I only stare at his hypnotizing midnight blues.

  "If you change your mind again… it could really break us. Even our friendship, for good, you know? If you decide you want to give this another shot, then you need to be completely sure first, is that fair?"

  I nod. "Yeah."

  "Think about it. We'll talk about it on Monday. No pressure either way. I mean it. Just be honest with me about how you feel—be honest with yourself."

  "Okay." What he's asking is fair.

  "I really am sorry about how I've been acting," Sam says contritely.

  I nod. "Me, too," I reply. "Last night—"

  "Don't apologize for last night." It's a good thing he interrupts because I have no idea what my explanation was going to be. Even an apology wouldn't have been genuine, because if my drunken rant stopped Sam from hooking up with that girl, well then I certainly can't regret it. But Sam doesn't elaborate. Instead, he changes the subject.

  "You coming to the city tomorrow night?" he asks.

  "Yep," I answer about our group's plans to go to some extraordinarily expensive restaurant and some supposedly hot new club in Manhattan to celebrate our last weekend in high school.

  Sam nods his approval and smiles his incredible smile. "So I'll see you there, then. I'll be driving, so I'm not drinking," he adds.

  I smile then, "I'm not driving, but I don't think I'll be drinking anyway. Not for a while, after the fool I made of myself last night," I admit.

  Sam shakes his head, but his smile widens even more, "Don't be ridiculous," he says matter-of-factly, sounding more like the Sam I used to know, before I ruined everything between us.

  "See you, Pine," he murmurs, before cupping my jaw and brushing his thumb over my cheek. A shiver runs through me from the point of contact.

  And then he's backing up and turning away, and my eyes drop back to my boots, completely dazed as he walks away.

  So I don't see him change his mind and turn back, reaching me again in barely a couple long strides. My face is held and tilted to an expedient angle, impatient fingers thrusting firmly into my hair as Sam's lips crash against mine.

  My senses are on overload, all of them assaulted with their favorite damned thing all at the same time—Sam. His beauty, his scent, his incredible taste, the feel of his lips, of his light stubble rubbing softly against my skin, the sound of his encouraging soft huffs—they light me on fire at once. My fingers dig into the skin of his bicep, anchoring myself to him—anchoring myself to my anchor.

  He steps forward again even though we're already against the wall, and presses further against me. His arm comes around my waist, pillowing my back from the cinder block wall, and holding us flush together. His tongue reclaims my mouth in a possessive kiss and I revel in the feeling.

  It has been so long since I got to be close to him like this, since I got to feel this. Weeks that have felt like an eternity. And I'd feared I'd never get to experience it again. My hands slide up into his hair until I grip the thick locks at his nape, clutching him desperately to me.

  I am lost to him.

  I never want to be found.

  I whimper in both pleasure and desperation for more. And for a second it feels as if maybe he will give me more, even here and now.

  And then his mouth rips from mine. He presses his forehead to mine for a split second, gasps a deep breath, and then he disappears. Gone. Just like that.

  I am still lost, and by the time I've managed to open my eyes, he's already turning to walk away. I watch, dazed, as he saunters off, full of some new determination, and I wonder about it.

  I sigh. The bell to end the last period of the day will ring any second now and the hallway will be swarming with students making their way out of the building. I need to pull myself the hell together.

  But before I can pry myself from the wall, I look to my right and see Chelsea watching me, obviously captivated. I know immediately that she saw what just went down between Sam and me, and a wave of anxiety rolls through me. But then she smiles, and though it's an obviously forced, insincere smile, I know how hard it must be for her to even fake it. We both know she didn't get over her "crush" in the past couple of weeks. I guess I should appreciate the effort, and I smile hesitantly and faintly, back at her.

  Chapter Fourteen

  I toss the key to the valet at the twenty-four hour garage. I won't make the same mistake I made that time I parked in the one that closed at midnight and had to take a train back to the city at dawn to retrieve my car. Marshall is right behind me, Tina and Chelsea each a couple cars back, all of us with full cars.

  We trek the three blocks to Philippe, one of my favorite restaurants, and the maître d' leads our group past the bar, down the back stairs, and through the kitchen into the wine cellar. There are only a few tables down here and most people don't even know they exist. Another benefit of having an uncle who knows everyone in hospitality.

  The manager is there a second later, shaking my hand and telling me to send his regards to Uncle Kelly. If there was some girl here I was trying to impress, I suspect this treatment would be very effective. But the only girl I give a damn about is far from some girl, and she's barely even aware of the special treatment as she makes herself comfortable in the leather upholstered bench and orders a ginger ale from our overly attentive server.

  In the end, I resent the manager's greeting since it hordes my attention while our group takes their seats, and I find myself unable to position myself next to Rory. As it is I'm barely even sitting across from her, two seats down.

  Half of the group talks about Prom, which I still have no date for, still hoping there's a chance I can take Rory, which is ridiculous since it's two weeks away and everyone's had arrangements made for months. But there's room in our limo, so if by God's good grace Monday rolls around and she still wants to give us another chance, maybe I can convince her to come with me.

  The event itself will be cheesy, but we're all h
eading to Thea's family's rental in the Hamptons afterwards and at least that should be fun. But I know the chances are slim, and though I try not to get my hopes up—not sure I can handle the disappointment of her confirmation that yesterday's conversation was, as I suspected, a result of my terrible behavior and her consequential jealousy—I can't help but hope. And it's a dangerous thing—hope. The kind of thing that lets me set myself up for the worst kind of hurt, one I never knew existed a few months ago, but that now I'm painfully familiar with.

  It took everything I had not to let myself get sucked into her words. Not to jump on the chance to get her back. But I needed her to be sure. Need her to be sure.

  Even if I couldn't stop myself from taking one taste of her.

  I almost didn't. Almost made myself walk away. But then I realized that it's likely that Monday will come and she'll reiterate that she can't handle a relationship, that we're still just friends, and that it could be my last chance to ever get a taste of her.

  It was the best and worst decision of my life. God, kissing her is like nothing else. It's like consuming her, and begging her to consume me in return. And she fucking did.

  I sigh, shaking my head free of these obsessive thoughts. For tonight at least, we're still just friends, and I'm determined for us to have a good night, considering the disaster of the last night we were out together just forty-eight hours ago.

  Those who aren't chatting about Prom are talking about Live, the club we're off to later, or texting on their phones. Chelsea texts excitedly, presumably to some guy, maybe the one she's bringing to prom, or her college roommate that's also planning on meeting us at Live, apparently in town for the weekend. Fortunately, Chelsea relinquished the idea of being my date to prom, deciding to take some guy from some other school she knew from summer camp, so I'm off the hook there. Not that I ever really considered taking her.

  I never thought I'd be going stag, but that's what the odds are leaning toward. But the truth is, if Rory doesn't go, I'd rather just focus on chilling with my boys than entertaining some girl who will only get the wrong idea.