by Ewens, Tracy
Peter laughed.
“Did you have a good time?”
“I had a great time. I always have a great time . . .”
He leaned in to kiss her, had to taste her. Peter touched the soft skin of her neck, and Sam felt like she was falling into a deep well. She knew he would catch her, knew he loved her, but what if he didn’t, couldn’t catch her? She pulled her legs off his lap and put her shoes back on.
“Sam, what’s wrong?”
“Nothing. I, I needed to sit up. My head was spinning and I was . . .”
“Happy?”
She tried to smile.
“Yes, of course I’m happy. I really need to be careful. We were going to take it slow, remember?”
“Sam, be happy. We will still be happy back in Pasadena. I’m not letting go. I promised.”
“I know, and it’s really not bothering me, it feels, it feels like we could just live this way forever, but . . .”
“Why can’t we? Haven’t we wasted enough time, Sam? This, this is so right.”
“It is, but it feels like a storm, too strong sometimes. I try to keep everything where I can control it. I like control these days, you know? I find myself needing you desperately and that’s hard to control.”
Peter took her hand.
“I need you too. It’s a good storm, Sam. Whatever is up ahead, we will be fine.”
Peter could feel her fear, see it when she didn’t think he was looking. It killed him every time, but all he could do was keep moving forward, show her their future.
When they arrived back at the apartment, Peter closed the door as she tossed her purse on the table. They were just like any other couple coming home after a night out.
Peter turned Sam in the entry and kissed her. It became more as he pulled the few pins out of her hair that held it slightly off her neck. He touched her shoulder, caressing her with only the tips of his fingers, and then found her lips again. They backed out of the entry, still tangled in touching, and hit a wall. Sam’s hands climbed into Peter’s hair. Peter pulled back from the kiss, looked deep into her eyes, and began to understand what Sam meant by a storm. He saw it in her face.
“Sam.”
“I . . . I need . . .” fell out of her mouth.
“I know.”
He ran his hands up her back and, as her dress hit the floor, Sam stood there in nothing but La Perla and Ferragamo. Peter touched the delicate lace of her bra. Slowly.
“You are so . . . oh, Christ.”
Sam knew the feeling. Peter lifted her gently, she wrapped him in her legs and the need. They simply drowned in the need.
Exhausted they collapsed down the wall. Sam laughed and Peter opened one eye.
“What? Are you seriously laughing after that? That was a world-rocking, heart racing, up against the wall explosion and you, you’re giggling?”
She covered her mouth.
“Sorry. I was just wondering if this tops the black dress I wore the night you rescued me from Harrison?”
His head fell back, still hoping for a full breath, and he tried to imagine seventeen-year-old Peter.
“Thank God you saved this for our adult life. I would have gone up in flames back then.”
Sam kissed him, still laughing, and then untangled herself.
“Are those shoes, by any chance, comfortable? Because it would be all right if you never took them off. You know like jeans and those shoes, sweatpants and the shoes, or hell, only those pieces of lace and the shoes, forever.”
“I think that would get old.”
She smiled and made sure to bend slowly when she reached for and slipped into his jacket.
“I don’t think it would get old. Ever.”
Peter zipped his pants, ran his hands over his face, and looked at Sam standing in his tuxedo jacket.
“That’s a great look too.”
“For that, I’m going to cook for you in the shoes. Follow me.”
She pulled on his pant loop having the very best time being the sexy siren. Sam felt powerful and so comfortable.
She made omelets that they ate in bed. Sam fell asleep curled into Peter as the sun began to peek over the skyline. As Peter watched her slide into sleep, he kissed her forehead and knew he would never see anything more beautiful for the rest of his life. She was it for him, and his heart felt as if it rolled in his chest.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Peter came out of the shower the next morning, and Sam was awake, but still in bed. She was looking around his room and smiling.
“Tell me something I don’t know,” she said.
“Oh God, I remember this game. Okay, give me a minute.”
Peter dropped his towel and climbed back into bed next to her warm body.
“Oh, here’s one, I eat the same breakfast now, every morning. Well, this morning and yesterday morning were a pleasant surprise, but every morning that I don’t begin making love to you . . . I eat the same breakfast.”
Sam turned to face him.
“Give it up, what’s the breakfast?”
“Raisin Bran, bananas, and strawberries.”
“Every morning?”
“Every morning.”
“What if you run out of bananas, or you forget to pick up Raisin Bran?”
“I don’t.”
She laughed right as Peter continued, “Tell me something I don’t know.”
“Hmm . . . I, I count in Italian during my spin class.”
“Excuse me?”
“Seriously, it takes my mind off the pain, and I can count to a hundred now. It’s like the ultimate multitask.”
Peter laughed and imagined her in spin class. She had never done that when he knew her. Then he started picturing her all hot and sweaty and counting in Italian, and he had to stop thinking or they would never get through the game.
“Tell me something I don’t know,” she said.
“I stole your sweatshirt when I left for New York. A little deranged, I’ll admit, but something you don’t know.”
“Which one?”
“You had so many I knew you wouldn’t miss it. It’s the UCLA one with the bear on the front, has a hood, royal blue.”
“I loved that one.”
“You didn’t even know it was gone.”
“Did too. I assumed I lost it.”
Sam sat up, holding the sheets to her chest.
“You left it in my car and I took it with me. Now I’ll get super creepy.”
Peter folded his arms behind his head and looked at her sitting in his bed all rumpled and was sure he was smiling like an idiot.
“It smelled like you for a while, and when I missed you, which was often, at least I had the sweatshirt.”
“Peter.”
Her heart swelled.
“Yeah, well it doesn’t smell like you anymore.”
“We can remedy that. Where is it?”
“Top shelf in the closet, left side.”
Sam got out of bed completely naked and walked to the closet. Found the sweatshirt and put it on.
“It’s much better with you in it, especially like that. Please get back over here.”
She crawled back on the bed and kissed him, her lover, the slow lazy kiss of two people connected. Peter rolled over until she was beneath him and wrapped in his arms.
“Tell me something I don’t know.”
“You could’ve had me in the sweatshirt all along. After that night, after we were together, I would have gone to the end of the earth with you.”
“You say that now, but at the time, we were young and you had . . .”
“That’s why the game is Tell Me Something I Don’t Know. You didn’t see it, or you didn’t look, but I’m telling you now that no matter what you thought, no matter where you needed to go, I would have. Not easy for me to admit, considering how it played out, but I was so in love with you.”
“Sam.”
“You don’t need to say anything. I’m only playing the game.”
“But I do, I’m sorry. I couldn’t find a way to be with you. I needed to be more, I needed out, so I could find myself. I took a piece of you with me first, and that wasn’t fair. But you are rooted in home, you would have missed your family. And even though I put us both through hell, look what we have now.”
“Maybe it’s easier for you now. You’ve enjoyed being home, admit it.”
“I have. It’s been great working in the Playhouse, but mostly it’s been great being with you. Even when we were fighting, it was better than nothing.”
“Have you dated a lot of women?”
“Whoa, left field.”
They both laughed.
“Should we be naked when we have this conversation?”
She wasn’t letting him out of it, so he answered truthfully.
“Yes, I’ve dated and had women in my life.”
Sam said nothing, so he added, “And you clearly have had men. A firefighter no less. I will say that Brian was a surprise and not the kind of guy I expected you to date.”
“See how you did that? Moved right off my questions about the women you’ve dated and on to Brain.”
She said pointing a finger at him.
“Well, Brain is pretty hard to forget. What do you think that guy benches?”
She laughed.
“He’s lovely, and not only because of his body, although that’s lovely too.”
“Really? I’m naked here.”
Sam crawled on top of him.
“Awe, is someone feeling threatened, do you need me tell you how much I love your body, Peter?”
Peter’s breath caught as her hands moved down his chest.
“I, well, if something comes to mind. I have all afternoon. I mean I should finish this damn play, and we do have a flight to catch at some point, but maybe . . . you do what you need to do.”
“Should I start at your feet or the top of your head? I was thinking I would do a running narrative?”
She kissed his neck, and Peter no longer cared where she started, as long as she kept going. She stopped right above his navel, covers draping her head, looking so damn adorable, he almost burst.
“Hey, Peter.”
“Yeah, Sam,” he managed as her hands grabbed the sheets.
“Probably best that we don’t talk about those other women. I don’t need to know.”
Peter laughed as her head went back under the covers.
“What other women? I can’t remember a single one of them.”
And just like that she undid him once again.
They arrived back in Pasadena late that night, and they both needed to be at the theater the next morning. Peter dropped Sam off at her house. After spending three nights in Peter’s bed, Sam felt odd sleeping alone, and it bothered her. She was already attached. She told herself to stop whining as her body begged for some much-needed sleep. Sam closed her eyes and allowed herself to be happy. What’s that saying that used to hang in her grandmother’s house? With Love, All Things Are Possible. Sam sure hoped so.
Peter floated back to his mother’s house and deflated once he walked through the door. The weight was immediate and all he wanted to do was get back on that plane with Sam. Go back to his apartment, back into her arms, but it was time to start figuring this out, meshing the two worlds. There was no going back now. He loved her to desperation and he would make it work. Peter checked to make sure his mother had made it to her room and went to bed.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Sam had spent only a couple of days at the theater since getting back from New York. The rest of the week she had been in the office working on promotional materials and press releases for Looking In. The graphic designer they were working with really understood Peter’s play and Sam was hoping the proof would be in before they left for Cynthia’s wedding. She and Peter had gone to dinner with Sam’s parents. They held hands, and her mother and father moved past cautiously optimistic to thrilled that Sam and Peter had finally figured it out.
Peter told his mother they were dating, but he wasn’t sure how much actually registered through her drunken fog. He spent most nights at Sam’s house, and they had gone on a couple of actual dates. They drove into the city over the weekend and saw a play they had both wanted to see at a small local house. Peter was amazed that even in Pasadena they were the same couple they’d been in New York, but their lifetime of friendship and memories made it even better. It was and felt wonderful. Sam told herself the lingering feeling that all of this was temporary was only negative thinking. They even went out for drinks with Grady and one of his Barbie Dolls the night before. They had fun together. The three of them, all grown up: life seemed to finally be moving forward.
It was Saturday morning. At this point in rehearsals, Sam was there to help with just about anything. Yesterday, Gordon had asked her to stand on certain marks for about an hour while he adjusted angles and made some last-minute changes to his lighting design. This morning, Carmen gave Sam a few pages of dialogue and asked her to sit in the balcony and follow along. They needed to make sure that all props were created and onstage during the scene. If anything was missing, Sam would circle it, and they would figure it out later. She walked through the house seats. It was early. The smell of coffee and sounds of low grumbling voices were soothing. Peter and Spencer were seated in their usual spots discussing something about the color of a door. Sam walked past them and Peter smiled mid-sentence. It was as if they coursed through one another, like a beautiful, much-needed storm. Sam climbed the stairs and sat at the edge of the balcony. She was alone. There were no house lights, only the glow of lighting directed at the stage. Sam loved the theater, this theater. She looked at the pages Carmen had given her as the actors came on the stage.
“Good morning, all,” Spencer said, throwing his glasses on the table and walking toward the stage.
“Thank you for being on time this morning. We’re in for a long day, so I need a lot of energy. We’re going to circle back to Act I, Scene 4 for about an hour. We need to rework some of the blocking. Please see my additional notes from last night’s rehearsal.”
With that, he handed pages to each of the actors.
“This is a huge scene. Yeah, I know I say that about all of them, but this is where the audience sees Phillip break. We need to show the tenderness and still keep the humor that runs throughout the play. We don’t want this to be too depressing, but we are talking about a young man who lost his father to suicide.”
Hearing Peter’s life discussed in such literal terms was bizarre. Step here, look this way, and cry because your father killed himself. It was strange listening to his life, or a piece of it, discussed in terms of lighting and stage presence. It had to be weird for him, or maybe it wasn’t. Maybe he liked it this way, removed and distant. From the balcony Sam couldn’t see Peter—probably just as well. Spencer jumped off the stage, the actors took their places, and she read along.
(Sally enters SL. She is a seventeen-year-old girl, hair in a ponytail, wearing shorts and a sweatshirt. She looks around and sits in the first row of the balcony seats of the quiet theater. It’s Monday, the theater is dark. Sally crosses her legs, breathes deeply and closes her eyes. Phillip enters from the audience. He is a seventeen-year-old boy. He’s wearing jeans and a sweatshirt. Phillip runs up the house stairs, SR of the actual stage. Stops center stage, which would put him in the house seats of the theater depicted onstage. He does not see Sally. He hunches over halfway down the center aisle, hands on knees, and begins to cry.
Sally hears something, sits up, looks over the balcony railing, and sees Phillip lit by the dim house lights. Phillip falls to the ground in a ball. He is sobbing. Sally leaves the balcony and runs to him.)
Sally: Phillip? (Sally calls to him as she approaches from behind. Phillip is startled, jumps to his feet, and quickly wipes his eyes. Tears still stream down his face.)
Phillip: Sally, Jesus . . . you scared me. I was . . . I needed to . . . why are you here?
&nb
sp; Sally: (Sally crosses SL to Phillip.) Are you all right? I mean I know you’re not all right, but . . . did something happen? Is your mom . . .
Phillip: (looking uncomfortable) She’s fine. I really needed to get out of there. My aunt is over and they’re going through my dad’s things and I . . . (Phillip begins to sob again. Sally puts her arms around him.)
Sally: It’s all right. Phillip, you need to be sad. It’s okay. (Phillip holds her tight and cries.) You know, I was worried when you didn’t cry at the funeral last week. I guess this is it. I’m so sorry. I know how close you were and . . .
(Phillip continues to hug her and then pulls back to see Sally’s face. She wipes the tears from his eyes, he brushes her bangs off her face, and they linger, looking at each other for several beats.)
Phillip: You didn’t tell me why you’re here.
Sally: Oh, well it sounds stupid compared to what you’re going through, but I needed to get away too. Mrs. Mason is over for lunch, and we are playing the “Let’s Dress Sally for Cotillion” game. I mean with everything that’s gone on with your family? We need to be discussing ruffles, really? This dance is still going on? It’s so weird. When they brought out the one that looks like a pink cake, I bolted. I needed some fresh air.(Phillip laughs, and they both sit in the theater seats onstage, heads back, looking up at the ceiling.) But who cares about that? You, your dad . . . do you miss him? Is that why you were crying?
Phillip: I, well, of course I miss him, but I couldn’t sit there and watch them comb through his things. I don’t know, I just feel like she killed him sometimes. You know with all her cars and clothes. I know he liked to prance around and brag too, but I think it all killed him and . . . it makes me sick sometimes. I know I’m part of it, but the man hasn’t even been dead a week. He shot himself for Christ’s sake, and you’re already checking out his desk drawers? What’s left of him? As if she didn’t suck the life out of him while he was alive, now let’s rummage through his shit. I’m sorry, sometimes I . . .
Sally: Don’t be sorry. I’m sure your mom’s probably trying. She’s . . .
Phillip: Putting her affairs in order so she can get ready to snag another rich husband?