“Is that Emma or Sam talking?”
“You are so good,” I laughed. “It’s both of us. Josh didn’t touch my heart. My ego and expectations, yes, but not my heart, not my soul. I walked away whole. I liked the idea of a boyfriend more than I ever liked Josh . . . Maybe boyfriends are better in books.”
Now Alex threw me a scowl.
“No, seriously, most of my notions come from books, not reality.”Did I admit that?
“Why is that?”
I had ventured as far as I could. I didn’t want to lie, but I also couldn’t break down, and possibly ruin, this moment and this friendship.
“My childhood wasn’t easy. I buried myself in books. I guess I’m a recovering book addict.”
“I wish you wouldn’t do that.”
“What?”
“Deflect. Make light of something painful. And I know, by your tone and your expression right now, that it is.”
I watched the road. “Alex, sometimes the real answers are too hard.”
“To share with a friend?”
“Is that what we are?”Did I ask that?
“We may be many things, Sam, but we are at least that.”
“Good to know. What else will we do today, friend?” I lightened my voice in hopes the subject change wouldn’t appear too abrupt.
Alex pushed two strides ahead. I surged to keep up. “Sam, I’m irritated with you right now. I want to stop running. I want to take you by the shoulders, shake you, and tell you that I care. I don’t want you to deflect with me, and I certainly don’t want you to change the subject when we start to get real.” He glanced at me, but I refused to pull my head or my gaze from the road.
“But clearly you’re not ready for that. Maybe neither of us is. So I’m going to run even faster out of sheer frustration.” And he picked up the pace another notch.
I was speechless. I can’t tell you what I thought because I couldn’t think. Another four miles and I was exhausted. We ended up laughing, because neither of us backed down, and somehow we ended okay.
Alex didn’t press me again as we headed back to the Belden Stratford to change our clothes. I was still pondering his comment—and still am. I think more was said than what he actually said. But it’s like smoke; I can’t catch it.
We ended our perfect day with pizza, ice cream, and a walk around Old Town—then back to the professor’s car, still safely parked on North Avenue. I drove home singing. Now I should sleep. Needless to say, after eighteen miles, I’m exhausted. But, Mr. Knightley . . . Alex cares. I’m not sure what that means and I promise not to dwell on it . . . too much.
Sweet dreams,
Sam
AUGUST 2
Dear Mr. Knightley,
Cara was taken to the Cook County Hospital emergency room yesterday with broken bones and internal bleeding. She actually gave Father John’s name and number as next of kin—and he called me.
Oddly, I was looking at an old picture of us at that very moment. I found one last week and have been using it as a bookmark, hoping it would help me figure out my next step with Cara. I had apologized, but still felt we weren’t done. Closure? Forgiveness? Something more flickered out there.
So I grabbed my bag, asked McDermott if I could leave an hour early, and headed the few blocks to the hospital. Father John was alone in the waiting room. He stood when he noticed me and pulled me into a hug. He whispered, “She’ll be fine, Sam.”
“What happened?” I stepped back and looked into his sad, tired eyes.
“Ric pushed her down the stairs. She’s got a concussion, two broken ribs, some internal bleeding, a shattered wrist, and bruising. She’s pretty beat up.” He looked like he was going to cry, but I was angry.
“Where’s Ric now?” I wasn’t a six-year-old anymore, and I wanted a fight.
