Sing it, Sam

by Jennifer Ryder

  Carrying Sam won’t be a walk in the park, but I can do this. I’ll do anything to make this easy for him, so he can enjoy my piece of paradise. Even if he’s being a twit about getting there.

  “In a perfect world, I’d be piggybacking you. You’d whisper all kinds of sweet things in my ear,” Sam croons.

  “Yeah, well the tables are turned, my friend.”

  Sam chuckles. “Guess I’d better whisper all kinds of devilish things in your ear, then.”

  I negotiate a fallen tree branch at my feet, widening my step. Once over it, I pause to regain my balance and then find a rhythm in my step.

  “Hmm, get on me. Are those three words you’ve been dying to hear?” he asks.

  I bite down on my bottom lip, desperate not to burst into laughter. I need to move, and fast, before I lose momentum. Sam’s hands sweep around my collarbone, and then his fingers fumble over my chest before one hand grips his other wrist. Did he just intentionally grope me, or was it an accident?

  My nipples tighten with Sam’s low chuckle rumbling at my ear. “Now’s not the time to make me weak at the knees, Sam Marshall. I want us to make it to the bank in one piece.”

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  We reach a spot where the giant sheoak trees open up to the creek, allowing the sunshine to stream through to a green patch of ground big enough to fit a king-sized bed in. Perfect.

  I help Sam down and support him as he lowers himself onto the grass. When he’s settled, I rush back to the car for my jumbo backpack containing a picnic rug, beach towels, and snacks.

  When I return, Sam is captivated by the body of water. Although he’s sitting still, the slump of his shoulders tells me he’s beginning to relax and maybe even enjoy the serenity.

  “Hey,” I say, breaking his gaze. “Magic, huh?”

  Sam swings his head in my direction and gifts me a soft smile. “You know, when you stare at the walls all day, it’s hard to comprehend that there are places out there as breathtaking as this.” He sighs. “So beautiful.”

  I set down my bag and pull out the blanket, spreading it on the ground beside Sam as kookaburras garble overhead. We just got here, but already, I’m dreading having to leave.

  Sam wriggles his bum over to sit on the thick, checked material. He lies back, and one by one, places his hands behind his head. I reach behind me, roll up my empty backpack, and place it beneath his head and cross my legs next to him.

  “If you think this is magic, you should see it after it rains. The mist rolls down the falls, ripples over the water, and seeps into the trees. It’s like a scene from a movie.”

  Sam mumbles to himself and casts a heated gaze from my lips down over my chest and back up again.

  Biting down on a grin, I stand up and kick off my black ballet flats, and then unfasten the belt on my work dress and drop it from a height.

  Sam looks up as it lands in front of him. His jaw hangs loose.

  Toying with the zip at the back of my neck, I guide it down my back until it meets the curve of my butt. I take my time wiggling the dress off my shoulders, freeing each arm from its sleeve until it bunches at my waist, revealing my black triangular bikini top.

  “Janie?”

  I push my dress down little by little until it sits either side of the curve of my hips. I widen my eyes at him. “Sam,” I tease, trying to hold back a smirk. Truth be told, I feel like a bit of an idiot. Since when do I striptease?

  Hooking my fingers into the bunched fabric, I squirm the clothing down my legs until it rests at my feet. Unhooking the dress from my feet, I stare into his eyes. What I find causes my heart to thrash about in my chest.

  There’s no judgement in his gaze of the stretchmarks on my hips gifted to me care of puberty, or the extra padding around my middle that I can’t get rid of no matter how hard I try. All I see is Sam staring at me as if he’s been gifted the sight of something pure and beautiful, kind of how he was staring at the water before, except different. There’s a fierceness to his gaze I haven’t seen before. It’s as if a sexual side of Sam has been unleashed from its cage.

  My insides melt. Oh, how I’ve waited for someone to look at me like that. With Sam, I’ve found a certain comfort in myself, and my body.

  With each step, my inner thighs sweep against one another until I reach the water’s edge and then I turn, supermodel-like, and walk back towards him. “There you go. Strut complete. Now, time to get wet.”

  Sam chuckles and stares down at his lap, drawing my gaze. Both hands are covering his crotch.

  “Come on,” I taunt, rolling my eyes for effect. We don’t want to waste the time we have here.

  “Just, um, give me a sec,” he says and winks. “Private Marshall is standing to attention.”

  My eyes dart to the apex of his thighs. My hand rushes to my mouth. “I did that?”

  “You do that, Janie. Often.”

  My mouth forms an O. “Well…” I say and nod, trying to portray a bit of sass. I extend my arm and make a circular motion directed at his crotch. “You sort that out, and then we’re going swimming.”

  After about a minute of exchanging smirks, Sam nods and takes off his sunnies. He tosses them onto the rug in faked annoyance. “Not havin’ any success. I’m thinking the cool water will do the trick.”

  He moves onto all fours and pants. Is he in pain? I move closer, offer both my hands, and help to bring him to his feet. He stumbles into me. I plant my feet and prepare to hold him up.

  He rises. The stiff soldier grazes my hip. My breath catches.

  “Whoops,” he says. Sam’s grin extends to a mega-watt smile. He’s a pro in the art of knee-weakening.

  “You wanna lose the shirt?” I offer, tugging at the hem and taking a small step back to create some distance.

  Sam bites his lower lip. Ever so slowly, he raises his arms, his brow wrinkling. I oblige him and lift the fabric over his head.

  His skin is somewhat pale, but smooth and lean. A solitary line of dark grey cursive ink hugs his left rib. I drop his shirt and squint. It’s not easy to make out the letters. A treble clef and a zigzag line resembling a heartbeat pattern sit above some words.

  “It says ‘when words fail, music speaks’,” Sam says in a quiet voice.

  I smooth my finger over the ink. Sam’s body shudders. “I love it,” I whisper.

  The unveiling of the tattoo, tells me there’s so much more to know about Sam. Whilst I can appreciate how the saying might resonate with him, I want to know the whos, the whats, the wheres, and the hows of Sam’s life before he was here. I want to know everything.

  “Got it the day I turned eighteen,” he says, breaking my train of thought.

  I snuggle into his side and turn my body so we’re both facing the water. Sam kicks off his thongs and drapes his arm over my shoulder. We shuffle down to the bank. With each step, we move deeper into the creek. It’s cool, calm, and invigorating.

  “Were you wasted when you got it?” I ask as the refreshing water licks at our thighs. Sand from the creek bottom invades the spaces between my toes. “I hear it can sting like nothing else.”

  A chuckle rumbles up his throat. “Babe, I wish I was drunk. You repeat this to anyone, I will hunt you down, but it didn’t go well. Passed out from the pain.” Sam lets go of my hand and lowers himself into the water.

  “You okay?” I ask.

  He leans back on straightened arms and frees his legs, which float out in front of him. “Golden,” he says, and lets out a groan.

  I wade out a couple of metres farther, which brings the water up to my chest thanks to the steep drop-off.

  “Passed out, huh? I thought you were tough,” I tease.

  Sam chuckles and moves to float on his back. “Only on the outside.”

  Heart = melting.

  For the next while, we talk about our childhoods and stupid stuff we did as kids. I listen intently as Sam talks about owning his first guitar at the age of nine, and how he used to stay in class at school lunchtim
es to play in the music room. My chest tightens when he talks about how he strummed until callouses formed on his small hands.

  Before long, I fall in love with the nine-year-old version of Sam. If we had gone to the same school, I doubt we would have seen each other. I was too busy with my head buried in books. He was too pre-occupied learning to play guitar.

  Floating on his back da Vinci-style, Sam smiles at the sky like it’s an old friend. “You don’t know how good this feels,” Sam says.

  “How does it feel?” I ask, ever curious.

  “It’s like the water is drawing out the ache in my bones. The tingling seems to fade from my fingers and toes. It’s soothing. Kind of like being cocooned in a soft bubble.”

  After a long pause, Sam submerges himself under the water. Seconds go by.

  Five … six … seven…

  Is he okay?

  I reach out my hand into the dark water where small bubbles pop on the surface. My hand is gripped and then Sam emerges, swiping his wet hair back with his free hand. He takes in a deep breath, and takes my other hand, pulling me close to his chest.

  “They don’t get it,” he finally says.

  I slide my hands to the back of his neck. “Who? And get what exactly?”

  The small lines across his forehead deepen. “Kids. People. It might make me sound like an old man, but GBS has changed the way I look at everything. People have their heads buried in their phones. It’s all about who did what on social media, and having the latest technologies and apps to make stupid pics or play Candy Crush until they go cross-eyed. If they looked up from their screens every once in a while, and became walking, talking, and interactive human beings, they’d get it.”

  “It’s like that in the city?” Because it certainly isn’t around here. I was never allowed to bring a phone to the table while growing up. Hell, my parents only let me get one when I was eighteen and I could pay for it myself.

  “Almost every person you pass has a pair of headphones on, or they’re talking on the phone, or sitting at a café across from their partner, both heads buried in their devices. They fail to realise the simple gift they have to be able to walk, to run. Things can turn in the blink of an eye. They have no appreciation for what they have. Hence, they don’t fuckin’ get it.”

  He’s so right.

  “It’s not so bad here, though. Probably because the phone reception is shit.”

  “Maybe, but country life is different. It’s grass roots. There’s more time spent talking to one another, more community spirit. That’s non-existent in Sydney—at least in my experience.”

  “That’s kinda sad,” I say and pout. “I don’t think I could ever live in a big city.”

  “No?” he asks, a frown marring his forehead.

  I shrug. “When my parents finally get over the travelling bug, they’ll be back. I’d like to think that I’ll be there for them when they grow old.”

  “You’re devoted to your family. I get it, but—”

  “I just can’t see life taking me to the big smoke.” End of story.

  A shiver runs through me, my skin pebbling with bumps. I take a look at my fingertips, not surprised to find them waterlogged. Sam’s lips are a slight tinge of blue. Yeah, it’s time to get out.

  “Come on, let’s dry off. I’m all pruny,” I say, and hold out my hands.

  I help Sam over to the rug where the afternoon sun continues to beam down. The moment the rays hit my skin, I start to warm up. I drape a fluffy beach towel over Sam’s shoulders and rub either side of his arms.

  “You want the shirt back on?” I ask, holding it up.

  “Nah, might catch some rays. It’s been a while.”

  “Cool.” I get to gawk at you some more. Bonus. I wrap the towel underneath my arms, and tuck the corner of it between my boobs.

  Once Sam is comfortable on his side, I take out a jar of salsa and pop open a packet of cheesy corn chips. We dive into the snacks, the crunch in our mouths battling against the chirping of the birds above.

  “You say you can’t see yourself in the city,” Sam asks. “So where do you want life to take you?”

  Well, isn’t that the question of all questions? Whilst my answer might disappoint him, I can only be honest. “I’m still trying to work it out. Standing on my own two feet has been a challenge.”

  “Ain’t that the truth,” he says, and shuffles his legs a little.

  “Shit, sorry.” I flash him a soft smile. “You know what I mean.”

  “Yeah, I do. Just givin’ you a hard time.”

  “I’m taking it as it comes, working it out along the way.” I let out a slow breath and take another corn chip from the packet. “What about you? I mean why did you leave the city?”

  He sighs. “It got too much.”

  “Yeah?”

  “I thought I was livin’ the dream, but one morning I crashed hard and ended up in hospital with chest pains.”

  “Shit,” I mutter under my breath. Someone of his age with chest pains? That’s serious. “What happened? Was that the start of GBS?”

  “Nah, not GBS. I’d just pushed myself too far. The alcohol. Stuff. I’d get caught up sometimes. Everyone wants to drink with the band. You’d drink and laugh, but they’d all be so drunk. For whatever reason, I decided to join them. I’d get on the rum, get into rounds of shouts, but the people I drank with were never true friends. The locals, they loved hearing me sing my new stuff, but the blow-ins, the tourists, they just wanted their favourite songs. They wanted a jukebox who they could boss around and treat like shit.”

  “That’s unfair.” I can’t imagine anyone around here being like that towards a musician. Yes, karaoke night at the Commercial Hotel on Main Street can get out of control sometimes, but that’s mainly because it only comes to town every couple of months. People get a little overexcited, but they’d never do anything to upset Sarah, the karaoke lady.

  “Yeah, but I let them. When I hit a low, I did shit I’m not proud of. I forgot who I was and turned into that guy who just lived for the moment—never thinking so much about tomorrow, or about the future. Until one morning, I took a good, hard look at myself in the mirror. After one big night too many, I looked like I’d been hit by a Mack truck. My eyes were yellowed, my skin was breaking out from eating junk food, and I hadn’t exercised for months, which was something that was such a big part of my life. My voice was starting to suffer, and then the chest pains … it was the sign I needed to get out.”

  I take a good look at Sam, wondering what that version of him might’ve looked like. The Sam before me—his skin is smooth, his eyes clear, and although I know he doesn’t get the exercise he might have once had, he looks trim, healthy. Hot.

  “I had to leave before the darkness of the city swallowed me. I didn’t want to be that pub singer who didn’t go anywhere. I wanted more than that. I wanted to be all that my mother said I could be, what she harped on about all those years—going all the way with the talent that God gave me. So that’s how I ended up here. I couldn’t go back to Logan, but I’d heard about Willow Creek. Coming to this town was the change I needed to focus on my music. It’s just a shame I only got to enjoy the fresh air and solitude for a few weeks before everything turned to shit.”

  “Yeah, but look at you now,” I say with a shrug. I wave my hand at our surroundings. “Back with the fresh air and all.”

  “Yeah, look at me.” Sarcasm drips from each word.

  I playfully poke him in the arm. “Don’t be so hard on yourself. So, when you moved out here, did you come alone?”

  “I came with Flick ... Felicity. Deep down, I knew she wasn’t a hundred percent committed to the move. I got the feeling she thought it wouldn’t be long before I’d be on my way to stardom, straight back into the arms of the city. While I was prepared to travel, I needed a place to stay grounded.”

  I offer Sam an open bottle of water. He skulls down a mouthful and hands it back to me.

  “When I came off the incubator
in hospital, she was distant. The doctors told me that I was possibly in for years of recovery, and then she told me she didn’t love me anymore. It was kind of earth-crushing.”

  I reach out and cup Sam’s face in my hand. “I can’t imagine.”

  “Yeah, well, that’s life, I guess.” Sam reaches for his sunnies and slips them over his eyes. He hooks both arms behind his head, his naked chest bared to the sunshine. “Tell me more ’bout your family?”

  I’m grateful for the change in subject. “My dad took over the orchard when his dad died. My parents gave it everything and made a success of it. Two years ago, they sold up and retired. They were determined to see Australia before they got too old.”

  “Cool. And what about your nan? The author?”

  My heart swells with family pride. “Violet Rhynehart is the reason Willow Creek has a library.”

  “Impressive,” he says and hums.

  “And after she died, the mayor renamed one of the rooms ‘The Violet Wing’ in her honour.”

  “That’s pretty cool.”

  As Sam relaxes in the sun, I continue to tell him all about Nan and how she is an inspiration to me. It still astounds me to this day that she gave up her spare time to teach English to some Italian families who’d moved into the area, and how she lobbied with the local council for funds to enrich our town with a library and facilities for students after school.

  After a while of no response from Sam, I crouch up on my knees and lean closer to him. He doesn’t move. Is he still listening or have I bored him to death?

  “Sam?” I whisper.

  No response.

  I reach out and peel back his glasses, resting them on his forehead. His eyes are shut, his long lashes sitting atop his light pink cheeks. I probably should have brought some sunscreen.

  “Perfect,” I mumble.

  A light rumble emanates from the back of his throat. I nudge his shoulder. Nothing.

  I pull my phone from my bag and check the time. We’ve been two hours already?

  I dial Kathleen’s number. The call connects after the second ring.

  “Everything okay?” she asks, trepidation in her voice.