Okay

by Danielle Pearl

  The ocean doesn't care about my problems; its tidal currents will continue its ageless movement whether Robin is free or imprisoned, or whether I choose to give into my issues or choose strength—to keep going. Because it is a choice. It always has been. And no one can make it but me.

  I look over at Sam, watch him watch me like he does—like I'm the most captivating thing in the universe. It took this beautiful boy to make me understand not only that it was my choice, but that I had the strength to make it after all.

  His midnight blues shimmer in the afternoon light, one side of his mouth curled up into a half-smile, his dimple peeking out. I love the way he looks at me. I love the way he looks period. Especially when he seems so content. It mirrors my sentiment, the one he elicits, and though I'm not sure I deserve it, not sure I deserve him, I'm past being able to give him up.

  I know we're not perfect, because I'm not. But I finally feel like I'm heading in the right direction.

  I talked to Dr. Schall about Cam on Wednesday. I told him how Sam said his accident wasn't my fault. How he accused me of feeling like I should have been the one who died that morning in his place. Dr. Schall didn't say anything for a full minute, just sat there with a small, knowing smile, confirming my suspicion—that Sam was right.

  He was so pleased I'd finally opened up about Cam that he didn't even push me to make up the sessions I missed while I was in Miami. But I didn't tell him everything. I didn't tell him about the kiss I shared with Cam that last night. Didn't get into my confusion over what might have been, and the guilt I feel for wondering. I don't want him to think it means I wish I was with him instead of Sam. Because I don't. I don't want to be with anyone else, for the rest of my life. But I do wish Cam was alive. I'll never stop wishing that.

  So we may never be perfect, because I know I never will be. But Sam, maybe he can be perfect enough for the both of us. Or at least, perfect for me.

  For dinner Sam takes me out to The Shell Shack, a beachy cafe right on the water, full of families cracking crab shells with hammers and laughing exuberantly. He pulls me to the deck in the back, and we eat outdoors overlooking the beach.

  We have a long, lazy meal and it's already late when we head home. I fall asleep on him in the back of the town car and don't awaken until he's carrying me to my front porch, his scent overwhelming my senses, and I press my face to his skin, inhaling deeply. I brush my lips over the soft day-old stubble just under his jaw. I love when he goes a day without shaving. I love the feel of it against my skin.

  "Mmm, baby. Don't get me worked up right now, yeah?"

  I climb out of his arms with a yawn and fish through my purse for my house keys. The driver places our overnight bags on my porch and Sam thanks him before he drives off. He picks up my bag to carry it inside, but he doesn't touch his own.

  "You're not staying?" I ask, sounding far too disappointed.

  "Do you want me to?"

  I blink at him. Where would he get the idea that I wouldn't?

  He runs his fingers through his hair. "I’ve barely slept home in weeks. I thought maybe you could use a break," he says uncertainly.

  I don't want a break from him. Does he want one from me?

  "If that's what you want," I murmur, desperately trying to feign nonchalance. I turn to head into the house before my lip biting gives me away, but Sam grabs my arm, looking like he's wrestling with something profound. It unsettles me.

  "It's not." Another hand through his hair. "It's not what I want, Ror. What I want is to spend every night with you. What I want is to beg you to move into my place instead of your dorm. I just…shit, Ror. I'm scared. I don't want to fuck this up. I don't want you to get sick of me."

  I want to laugh, the thought is ridiculous, but his sincerity overwhelms me.

  "God, Sam, you still don't get it, do you?"

  His lack of response tells me he really doesn't.

  "I don't want a break from you. I'm not gonna get sick of you. I don't want to sleep without you. I'm not even sure I can anymore." Not that I really got much sleep without him before, either. "I don't want to fuck this up either. But… I also don't want you to leave."

  Sam looks at once relieved and full of awe.

  "Just… just please come inside."

  He does. He grabs his bag and follows me up the stairs. The house is quiet, my mother asleep, and for the first time we don't take turns washing up. We brush our teeth side by side and it's remarkably domestic. But the strangest part is how comfortable it all feels. I sense a shadow of my future, and it whispers that I could really have this—him—forever.

  If I don't screw it all up.

  ****

  The sun blares through my open drapes making it impossible to sleep any longer. I yawn and stretch my back. Sam tightens his arms around my waist from behind me, telling me he's not ready for me to get up yet. I feel him hard against my hip, telling me he is ready for something else. I wiggle against him in encouragement and he groans.

  He's definitely awake now.

  Sam's lips find that spot on my neck just below my ear and I sigh, increasing my pressure as I push back harder against him. He groans again before pulling back away from me and giving me some slack in his arms. I don't want it.

  I turn around so I'm facing him and slide my leg over his hip. His features screw up as if he's in pain, but he presses himself against me anyway. "You're killing me, baby," he rasps. "I promised your mom I'd be respectful, remember?"

  He must not have realized how late we've slept. "It's nearly nine, Sam. My mother left for work hours ago."

  His eyes widen and he glances at my clock as if he needs confirmation.

  "Well in that case…"

  And just like that I'm on my back and Sam is exactly where I want him.

  He holds me afterwards and whispers to me about his plans for moving into his new apartment. Since he's going to start working with his uncle in two weeks, he's going to move into the city before then. He wants me to come with him. If not to move in officially, at least to spend most nights. He wants me to come see the apartment this week. He wants me to feel comfortable there. He'll even stay here some nights if it makes it easier, he says. And then we can go to the Hamptons any weekend I want.

  He whispers all of this softly into my ear, painting a picture of our summer that almost seems far too wonderful to be real. He may as well be reciting poetry for the effect he's having on me. I sigh in pleasure, but don't say anything, I just let him keep talking.

  Eventually he trails off, but his fingers continue their trademark exploration of my skin, lingering on their favorite spots—my shoulder, my collarbone, my hip bones—and I break out in goose bumps.

  I can't believe we're really here, really getting ready to begin our future. Really free of Robin.

  Not forever though.

  "Seven years," I breathe without even thinking.

  I both hear and feel Sam's sharp intake of air. I shouldn't have brought up Robin. I didn't even mean to do it. But now he’s here, in this room, taking up more space than he deserves.

  "Yeah," Sam whispers.

  "It's a long time… but…"

  "Not long enough. I know, baby." His tone makes me think that this is a thought he's had before. "But a lot can happen in seven years. And it will be ten unless he behaves, which I doubt he's even capable of." He keeps his voice soft and soothing. But he's not just trying to placate me, he really believes this. That everything will work out. And so I try and let myself believe it too.

  Sam's right. Anything can happen within the next seven years. Except Robin getting out of prison, and it's a comforting thought. Maybe by then he'll forget about me.

  "We'll be twenty five," I murmur. It's hard to imagine myself that age. But easier now than it would have been a few months ago. The picture that floats through my mind is the one Sam painted of me. Of the tough lawyer helping girls who have been through the kinds of things I have. It's an inspiring thought.

  "Yep," Sam replie
s.

  "Do you think I'll still be your girlfriend seven years from now?" It's an insecure thing to ask. But I want to know. I want to know if he thinks we are forever or if he's just living in the moment. Because the more I picture my future, the more I can't picture it without him, and it's scary to think he might not.

  When Sam doesn't respond right away my nerves grow tenfold. I lean up to look at him and his furrowed brow and contemplative expression give me pause. It worries me that he has to think about it.

  "In seven years? When we're twenty five?"

  I don't know if he's really considering his answer or if he's just buying time to come up with something that won't upset me. Either possibility sends small fissures fracturing through my heart. I don't respond, since I'm pretty sure his question was rhetorical.

  "Nah," he says finally, and I stop breathing, terrified that if I try to take another breath, I will only choke on it.

  The worst part is he's looking off in the distance, as if he's really considering his answer—as if it's what he really believes.

  "I mean, I hope not," he adds, still not looking at me, and it's a good thing too—I can only imagine my own expression right now.

  But why would he hope not? What a strange thing to say to your girlfriend. That he hopes we break up by the time we're twenty-five?

  Sam sighs then. "By then I hope you're my wife. Or at least fiancé."

  It takes me a moment to process. I have to remind myself of my choice of words. And then I shove him in the shoulder.

  "I hate you," I mutter under my breath before curling back into his side.

  "What?" He's all innocence and confusion.

  Asshole. My heart is still beating so fast it might combust.

  "Does that scare you?" he asks cautiously.

  I shove him again. "No, you jerk. You scared me." I'm only vaguely aware that the thought of marrying Sam has the opposite effect than the one of marrying Robin did, even before things got really bad between us. In fact, it's a monumental relief.

  "What?" Sam still has no idea what he just put me through.

  "Never mind."

  But he won't accept that. I know it even before he rolls me onto my back and hovers over me so I can't escape his gaze. He doesn't even have to ask again, his eyes do it for him.

  This is so embarrassing. "When you said no I thought..."

  I don't finish the sentence but Sam's eyes go wide and he finishes it for me anyway.

  "That I meant we wouldn't be together?" He says it like it's completely unfathomable, and it dissolves the last of my anxiety about this whole exchange. "God, Ror, you're the one who doesn't get it." He shakes his head in admonishment, but doesn't say another word.

  He kisses me instead, and his kiss is a reminder. A promise. It is joy and hope, present and future.

  "Let me take you to breakfast," he murmurs once he pulls away. "That is if you're still not sick of me." His lip twists up into a smug smirk.

  I want to think of some witty response, but I've got nothing. "I can't think of anything I'd rather do right now." My stomach grumbles on cue, confirming my words, and Sam chuckles.

  "Let's get you fed, baby girl."

  We get dressed quickly and I pile my hair into a messy bun. We're about to head downstairs when my doorbell rings. I look to Sam, but he doesn't have any ideas of who it could be either. Carl or Tina surely would have called or texted if they wanted to come by.

  Sam follows me down the steps, but he makes his way in front of me before I even reach the door. He looks through the peephole and his entire body stiffens. Suddenly he's radiating such protective intensity that it sets me on edge.

  "Sam?" I say trepidatiously.

  He takes a moment before he even turns around to face me, like he needs it to compose himself, but when he does, he's utterly conflicted. He licks his lips. "Ror, it's… your dad."

  I gasp. Out loud. Like an overdramatic movie character.

  It doesn't seem possible. My father belongs in Linton. Not New York. It's as if another character, from a different movie set in another time and place, jumped out of a screen and found his way into the wrong story. It just doesn't fit. He's been to Port Woodmere before, of course. He used to visit my Grandma Mimi with us. But he was a different man then. I was a different girl then.

  Everything was different then.

  The bell rings again, but I'm still frozen.

  "I could tell him to leave," Sam offers, but he's obviously waiting for me to give him some direction.

  Part of me wants Sam to tell him to leave. Who am I kidding? Most of me does.

  But it's the coward part. The one I promised myself I wouldn't let rule my life anymore.

  "No. I want to see what he wants," I tell him.

  Sam nods, his gaze full of support, of fierce protectiveness, giving me the strength I need to open the door.

  My father stands there looking like himself in khakis and a golf shirt, but also not like himself. He looks almost haggard. His hair, usually perfectly combed in place, is a bit unkempt, and dark circles underline his familiar dark eyes. I don't even think he shaved today. I don't remember him ever going a single day without shaving.

  He startles when he sees me, even though he's the one who came to my doorstep. He must know my mother would be at work at ten o'clock on a Monday morning. He must be here to see me.

  But why?

  Sam is at my side, his muscles tense and ready to act.

  My father's eyes jump from me to Sam and take in his stance. I expect a sneer, or at least something resembling the unadulterated hostility he cast Sam's way the other two times they met, but there's only a vague sense of disapproval.

  "Aurora," he greets.

  Rory, I almost automatically correct him. But I stop myself. I can be Aurora. It is my name after all. But not the Sleeping Beauty version. No, I can be the Aurora Sam told me about—the goddess of the dawn, the one who renews herself.

  "What are you doing here?" My voice comes out firm. Far stronger than I actually feel.

  He pats his hair as if he's only just realized it's all out of place. "I was hopin' to talk to you."

  I stare at him. Okay, then talk.

  "Maybe we could have a few minutes?" he's asking me but he's looking at Sam. Strangely enough, the disapproval is gone. He looks at him almost beseechingly.

  I can tell Sam wants to refuse. But he looks to me instead, waiting for me to decide what I want him to do. I nod, telling him it's okay. My father may have betrayed me, but he wouldn't hurt me. Not physically.

  Sam's not happy. He doesn't want to leave me alone, but he will.

  "I'll be right inside, okay?" he says purposefully.

  I nod. I know he will.

  Then he turns back to my father. "You keep your goddamned hands to yourself," he says in warning.

  I'm suddenly hit with a strange sense of deja vu. Of Robin on Cam's front porch the morning after I heard he'd been cheating on me. It's eerie and unsettling and I do my best to shake it off.

  Sam presses a chaste kiss to my temple, something about it equally possessive and challenging, before he goes back inside the house.

  My father watches him leave and then stares at the door. "He sleep here?" he asks.

  I resent the question. He had no problem letting me sleep at Robin's when we were dating. In fact, he was the one who insisted on it. But even so, that was then. This man has no right to disapprove of anything I do.

  "Yes."

  "Your mom's fine with that? That boy sleepin' over?"

  Him judging my mother's parenting is just crossing the damn line. "She is. And I'm eighteen now, remember? I make my own choices. And that boy would kill for me. Unlike the one you were fine with me sleepin' with. You know, the one who would've killed me if not for that boy," I practically growl.

  My father glares at me, but it's not hostile. In fact, I can't get a good read on it at all.

  "You wanted to talk," I prompt. "So, talk." If he says one negative th
ing about Sam or my mom, this conversation is over.

  He startles at my gall. He doesn't know this stronger version of me. I'd say he should get used to it, but I doubt he'll be around long enough to get used to anything about me.

  I don't know what I expect of him. I know he probably thinks he came to my rescue by agreeing to testify against Robin, but I don't feel like he did me any favors. All he did was tell the truth, and that was after a year of calling me a liar. Does that warrant gratitude? Perhaps some. But certainly not forgiveness.

  "I'm sure by now you know that I'm the reason he knew you'd be in Miami," my father begins.

  I nod.

  "I wasn't even thinkin', Rory. We were all havin' dinner, and I just mentioned it in passing. I never thought for a second Robbie would follow you down there, and that if he did he would try to hurt you."

  I listen to him call Robin by the affectionate nickname. I listen to him defend himself by telling me about his cozy dinner with the family that destroyed my life and his cluelessness over Robin's behavior. But he has no right to it. None.

  "He didn't try to hurt me. He did hurt me," I correct him.

  He shakes his head vaguely. "I never thought—"

  "Well that's just it, isn't it?" I cut him off.

  My father's brow furrows.

  "You never thought for a second. But you should have. You should have believed me the first time I told you what he'd been doing. You shouldn't have even been there!" I take deep breaths, trying to calm myself. The last thing I want is to become hysterical—to be the crazy girl he saw me as for the past year. And I also don't want Sam coming back out to intervene, and if he thinks I might work myself into a panic, that's exactly what he'll do.

  "You shouldn't have been having dinner with... with my rapist." I say the word I once avoided at all costs. The word that made it seem too real. But I know now that it was real, that no softer word could ever soften the reality of it. "With the people who helped him get away with it, who harassed me, who made it impossible to live in my own hometown. You should have thought for a second about what Robin might do with that information. You had no excuse not to," I tell him, months worth of training my accent away abandoning me in seconds.