After lingering at Rosemary and Sage, we traversed several neighborhoods, stopping at every event we encountered. We detoured to Whole Foods for an expertly selected bunch of grapes and ended up back in Cambridge that night, drinking beer, eating those grapes, and watching fireworks on the roof of my building. We sat shoulder to shoulder, gazing at the sky.
Sam turned to me and drummed his fingertips against my arm. "What's your name mean?"
I waited, watching the reflection of the fireworks in his eyes and hoping his fingers wouldn't stop. He didn't stray far from my side today, but he never touched me without an invitation.
I'd yank him toward the fresh cannolis, then he'd slide his hand down my back.
I'd grab his hand and twirl around, then he'd grip my hips.
I'd lean against him in a crowd, then he'd shift toward me.
I couldn't tell whether he was waiting for me to spell out my attraction to him, or he was very polite and very tolerant of my grabby hands but wasn't into me at all. I just needed some direction from him, and I knew I was going to be rubbing all over him until he asked me to stop.
"My mother took the Greek name Theola—which means something like friendly with gods or divinity or whatever—and twisted the soul out of it until she was left with Tiel. She's quite skilled at twisting the soul out of most things, actually." I tipped my beer back and edged closer to Sam, my head pillowed against his shoulder. "Everyone in my family has a monstrously Greek name. Like, they couldn't possibly exist without putting it out there, a giant fucking sign that screams 'Everything about me is defined by my lineage and I can't possibly have an identity unless it explicitly ties me to my ancestors.' And it's fine if that's who you are, but it's not me. I'm still stuck with a horrendously strange name, I know—"
"It's not. I like it. It suits you." He shook his head. "You're pure wild. You're something I'd find on an obscure trail in the middle of an ancient forest, in a special pocket of nature, and that's…amazing."
It shouldn't have mattered so much that he said those words, that he could sweep all of my not-quite-this-but-not-quite-that-either away. It gave me the odd sense that I wasn't a complete outlier and I might belong somewhere.
But that didn't mean Sam belonged with me. I wasn't sure where he belonged—aside from a Ralph Lauren ad—and it didn't seem like he knew either. "What's your story, Freckle Twin?"
He took a sip of his beer and eyed me over the bottle. "I'm fond of vegetables," he said. "You already know my gin preferences. I bought an old firehouse, and I spend most of my time fixing it up. I draw things and call it architecture. And I enjoy camping."
"How does one come to live in a firehouse?"
He reached for another bottle from the six pack, and popped it open with a churchkey. There was something to be said for a man who kept one of those on his key ring. "One sees the state refusing to add a two-hundred-year-old landmark to its historical sites, which basically opens it up for demolition. One then throws down some cash, moves in, and starts restoring it."
I wasn't sure what sparked more questions: the idea of living in a firehouse, the process of restoring that firehouse, or tossing money around. "Does it have a pole?"
"Of course," he said. "We've been renovating for almost four years now, and we haven't had the heart to remove the pole. I can't see why we would."
"'We'?"
"My brother Riley moved in about two years ago," Sam said. "The original agreement was that he'd only stay the summer, but he's handy and he likes projects. I keep him busy."
"So you have family around all the time?" My words came out too sharp and Sam shrugged, giving me a wary glance. "And camping? Like, outdoors? On the ground? Isn't that unpleasant?"
"I don't consider it unpleasant," he said. "I go to Maine a lot. Vermont, too. My sister, Erin, and I went up there last May. It's good to be alone, get away from things."
"So you're close with your sister."
I didn't intend for my tone to be so severe, nor did I intend my words to snap like an accusation, but they sprang from a sore spot.
"Not really. It was the first time I'd seen her in years. I don't hear from her much," he said. "She lives in Europe now. She's researching volcanoes, and it seems there are a number of them in Europe. I doubt she'll ever come back permanently."
"Wait, so…if your sister lives in Europe, you work with a different sister?" He murmured in agreement. "You're one of six?"
He released a dry, humorless laugh. "Yeah, we're the last of a dying breed of homegrown Irish-Catholic basketball teams."
"I didn't realize you were one of them."
He smiled, set his bottle down, and brushed his knuckles over my knee. "Indeed. My mother was from a little town in County Antrim. Northern Ireland, near Belfast. She wanted a huge family. She had a dining room table built to seat twenty, and I think she expected to fill half of it with kids."
"Six is damn close," I said. "Do your parents live around here?"
"My mother passed away when I was young," he said. "My father died last December."
"I'm so sorry," I said, the words rushing out in a gasp. I'd wanted to know whether he was beholden to a Sunday dinner routine, or often found himself with a list of chores, or was secretly a nice boy who took his mother to church every weekend. I never expected this. "Sam, I…I don't know what to say."
"There's nothing to say. It's a point of fact."
"That doesn't mean I'm not still sorry about your losses," I said. He shook his head, scowling as if it was ridiculous to express my sympathies. "Are you tight with your other sister?"
The way he rolled his eyes was so extraordinary, so exaggerated, so epic that I worried his eyeballs were going to pop out of their sockets. It came with a full body sneer that was positively adolescent, and he said, "Usually, yes. She stepped in and raised us when my mother died, and she's always been my biggest supporter. But Shannon and I aren't on the best terms right now."
Grabbing the keychain from his pocket—my hand found reasons to get in his pocket with frequency—I flipped open another beer. "You can't say that without expecting me to ask why," I said. "You're just baiting me."
"There's something going on with her," he said. "I think she's unhappy with herself and taking it out on the people around her, primarily me. Lauren—my brother's wife—is far too sweet to abuse. Andy—my oldest brother's girlfriend—won't put up with anyone's shit. Shannon hasn't spoken to Erin in years, and that issue is simply asinine. So all her angst is fired at me right now."
"Oh," I said, trying and failing to manage my reactions. "So there are a lot of women in your life."
"That's one way to interpret it," he said, frowning. "I'm not exactly hanging out in the women's shoe section at Nordstrom or getting advice on eye shadow, if that's what you're thinking. I mean, not usually."
I shook my head, attempting to brush aside Sam's response but I couldn't ignore the dread building in my chest. I didn't get along with families.
The fireworks eventually ended but we stayed there, watching the city lights. I couldn't usually manage this kind of quiet, but today had been the enjoyable type of draining. Yawning, I felt the humidity sapping the last of my energy.
"All right," he said. He pushed to his feet and collected the empty bottles and caps. "I should go."
"Do you like movies?"
Sam glanced at me, his brow furrowed as if it was a ridiculous question. "Yeah. Don't most people?"
"Some don't," I said. My ex-husband hated movies. If it wasn't performed live and on stage, he wasn't interested, and it was unbelievably comical how a fifteen-minute marriage was still dominating my thought process nine years later. "Stay. Watch a movie with me."
He squinted at me, repressing a smile. "Is that what friends would do?"
There was an opening and an out in that question, but neither were quite right. Friends didn't kiss in alleys and wake up together, half-naked, but more than friends didn't exist for Sam. He was crystal clear about it last night,
and I didn't need to hear that story twice.
But while I still didn't understand it, I was the magnet to his metal and I was opting for something over nothing.
"Friends do whatever the hell they want," I said. "Obviously, you need a friend to guide you and teach you some of the non-rules. You're very lucky to have me."
"As a friend?"
"Of course," I said, my voice overly cheerful to hide my lie. "What else would we be?"
He gazed down at me, pausing as he considered this. There were any number of things we could be together: tennis partners, duet singers, international jewel thieves, the top-ranked music reviewers for The Phoenix, but I didn't suggest any of that. It was too easy to slip lovers into that list.
He extended his hand, and when my palm connected with his, he pulled me tight to his chest. "All right, my friend. You pick the film."
He was on the sofa, his limbs tangled with mine, and asleep within the first half hour of Stepbrothers. I laid there, listening to the movie and feeling every inch of his beautiful body pressed against me and narrating every filthy fantasy I could imagine as his chest rose and fell.
What if I snuggled into him, my bum tucking against his shorts and the form-fitting boxers just beneath? Would he pull my hips tighter against him, grind into me, harden on contact?
What if I reached out and stroked him? Or traced his tattoos again, following the dark lines down the path of his body? Would he melt into my touch, or pull away?
Friends could kiss and friends could have mostly-clothed sleepovers, but friends couldn't grab dicks.
As I fell asleep, I nestled into his chest and laced my fingers with his.
Just like friends.
We did it all over again the next day. This time, we broke past the city limits and headed west to Lenox and the Tanglewood Jazz Festival. The event was paired with a gourmet food and wine tasting, and I was happily astonished to see Sam talking with chefs and sampling the goods.
Late in the afternoon, the wine was getting to my head and it was still hot and cloyingly humid, and we went in search of a quiet patch of lawn to relax. I'd always loved lying on the cool grass and listening to the earth. It was almost as if I could hear a rhythm, a heartbeat, that quiet symphony for those who chose to listen.
"So what kind of porn do you watch?"
I turned my head to glare at him, not amused by his interruption to my earth-music listening. "Rude and pervy, Sam."
"We've established that," he said, his fingers smoothing my tangled necklaces and coming awfully fucking close to my boobs. "What do you watch? Or is that not something friends talk about?"
He'd been doing that all damn day. Every comment circled back to friends, as if he was hammering home a crisp reminder. Even though we woke up wrapped around each other, it was obvious he wasn't interested in anything more than slick comments about my best features, pointing out opportunities for me to blow him, and casual touches. Plus a few sweet kisses.
And I was fine with it.
Maybe fine wasn't the right word because I wasn't completely fine.
"I don't watch much porn," I said, turning my face to the sun with a long exhale. I was clammy and tired, and the early pinches of a too-many-types-of-wine-in-one-day headache were crawling along my skull. "Although I'm certain you'll be telling me all about your preferences any minute and I can't wait to hear that."
"Of course you watch porn. Everyone does," he said. His fingers connected with mine, curling together.
I rolled to my side, leaning on my elbow to meet his eyes. "I don't, though. It's way too creepy to be sexy. I truly dislike all the hairless guys with their shaved balls. You have to agree that's weird, like some bald, plasticized version of perfection that has no actual connection to the way people have sex. There's just no….hmm. I don't know what I'm trying to say," I said. "I need it to feel significant, and I want it to be real and flawed."
Sam smirked, and I knew there was a dirty, sarcastic quip ready on his tongue, but he dropped his gaze to my tangerine sundress and the boobs that were most definitely hanging out at this angle. "Why?" he asked.
"Because it should," I said, and that was the logic I preferred. "Even when it's casual it should mean something. Life is too short to waste on things that aren't important enough to be real."
Sam's hand slipped through my hair and settled on the nape of my neck, and he stared at me, his eyes crinkled as if he was processing something complex. He pulled me toward him and I flattened my palm on his chest, registering the steady beat of his heart before our lips connected.
It was light and quick, passing before his flavor seeped into my senses, and I wanted a little more.
Sam was like that song you couldn't get out of your head. That beat you kept on repeat because it awakened your cells and sent rhythm rippling through your muscles as if it were the only song you were ever intended to hear.
The one written with only you in mind.
I could close my eyes and move with the music, but I wasn't going to let myself believe I was the only one enjoying the song.
Even if I wanted a lot more.
5
Sam
I came to a stop on the empty lane, and stared out the window at the sunny knoll for a few minutes before leaving my Range Rover. With a heavy sigh, I climbed out of the car and collected the chrysanthemums and gardening supplies from the trunk.
The walk was short, and it was one I'd be able to do blindfolded.
My first task was always raking. Leaves from the ancient oak tree nearby were already tinted with red and gold, and I'd have much more to rake in the coming weeks.
Then I turned to pruning the pale pink rosebushes. I never felt ready to speak until things were neat and tended.
With several deep breaths to slow the pounding in my veins, I dropped to my knees and arranged the chrysanthemums around the tombstone.
"Hi, Mom," I said. "It's a beautiful day. Sunny, with a nice breeze. I brought you some new flowers for the fall. I can't believe summer is almost over. I don't even know where the time goes anymore."
I brushed some dust from the engraving that read Abigael Ailis Walsh and continued. "I went to some festivals and concerts, and I know, I don't usually go to things like that, but…it was different for me. It was good."
I uncapped my water bottle and wet my handkerchief, then wiped dust from the second engraving on the stone: Kerry Aibhlinn Walsh. A single date was attached to her name, a beginning and an end within itself, and for as many times as I visited this cemetery, I couldn't help but relive the day they died.
I was lucky today. The memory didn't have me choking back vomit or steal the breath from my lungs; it only left me with the sense that my skin was two sizes too small.
Sometimes I wondered whether the memories were real. I was five years old when I held my mother's hand as she died, and though it all seemed blindingly vivid, it only came back to me in jagged clips of high-speed film. I remembered the screaming and the blood and the icy cold of her hand in mine, and I remembered nodding when she said, "You're going to be all right, Samuel. You're going to be all right without me."
There was more, I was sure of it. I knew Patrick or Matthew would be able to fill in the holes, but even after twenty-three years, I could barely manage these memories.
"I met someone. A girl—Tiel." I looked to the ground, the trees, the tombstones, the sky, hoping to locate the words I needed because I couldn't find them within myself. "I think I'm a little lost, Mom. I knew it before I met Tiel, but it really hit me this weekend. Tiel loves everything. Everything. She loves music and food and people, and I'm not sure I love anything. I don't think I know how to."
Packing up my supplies, I glanced at the tombstone again. "I've never wanted to love anything. I'm not sure that I can. But I was with her, touching her and feeling happy—or something that felt close enough to happy—and I wanted to feel that way all the time."
I readjusted the chrysanthemums and stood. "Same time next w
eek, Mom." I ran my hand over the curved top of the stone, not yet prepared to say goodbye. "You'd like her," I said. "There's something about her that feels…I don't know. It's ridiculous, but it's like I'm okay—for once in my life—when I'm around her. I don't know how, and maybe I'm hallucinating, but she does something to me."
"It is bizarre to be doing this on a Tuesday," Shannon said as she settled into her seat at the conference room table, cell phone, latte, and laptop in hand.
"It would be less bizarre if you were on time," Patrick muttered.
"I'm five minutes late. Does that warrant a debate?" Shannon asked. "Or are we going to start the meeting?"
He rolled his eyes and exchanged an impatient expression with Matt. "All right, people. Shannon's here, so we can start."
"Thank you, Patrick," she said. "How was everyone's long weekends?"
And this was how it went every Monday. The six of us—Shannon, Patrick, Matt, Riley, me, and our newest addition, Andy Asani—hiked up to the attic conference room, shared updates on our work, and argued about everything. It was the loudest portion of my week. We were genetically incapable of having a discussion without yelling; every conversation existed on the same level as a barroom brawl.
"We went to a seafood festival in New Hampshire," Andy said, nodding toward Patrick.
It had been over three months since we realized they'd been seeing each other all winter, and I still didn't understand their relationship. I couldn't date a woman and work with her all day.
Then again, I didn't know the first thing about dating women.
"You went to a seafood festival?" Riley asked.
"He ate the fish," she said, jerking her thumb at Patrick. "I drank the beer."
They exchanged a quick high-five before he said, "I was bartending down in Rhody. Newport kicks ass on long weekends."
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