Patrick:Yep
Shannon:We don’t have time to pander to this. Move on.
“All right,” Patrick murmured. “Let’s get back on track here. Sam’s alive. Shannon can’t manage her appointments. Moving on.”
It was Patrick’s favorite long-running quip: I could manage everything except my own schedule, and that was amusing because a thread of truth ran through it. I’d dedicated years to coordinating everyone else and forcing them to use a consistent, office-wide calendar system, and it was perfect for the nature of their work. Mine, not so much. Few were the days when I wasn’t overscheduled to the point of neurosis, but I made it work. I was everywhere, all the time, but something was always falling off.
While the boys talked properties, I paged through my calendar until I came to November. Thinking about another weekend with Will was reckless. I was tempting fate as far as ridiculous incidents involving Sam were concerned, and Lauren would hear about this soon enough, which was a bundle of awkward if I’d ever seen one.
And I had an event that weekend. Or, more precisely,Samhad an event that weekend. He was arguably one of the most talented, sought-after young architects in the region, and he was in constant demand for speaking engagements and conference appearances, not to mention the awards that came his way. But he hated it. He did everything to wiggle out of attending, and when he did, it was because I was dragging him.
Maybe this was a good time to change that routine.
“Sam…” I searched my notebook for the Architecture Society of New England’s invitation. I couldn’t remember whether it was black tie, and if I was bailing on him, I was at least going to remind him to get his tux pressed. “I can’t go with you to the ASNE event in November.”
Patrick:When you said ‘move on’ I thought that meant we were moving on
Patrick:Didn’t realize we’d be kicking hornets’ nests…
Shannon:Shut up
“And where will you be?” Sam asked.
I murmured, “It’s personal. If you need me to find someone to go and hold your hand, I will, but don’t pout over it.”
Patrick:I needed him to work on a flow issue with the Castavechia restoration
Patrick:Now he’s going to spend the day being petulant
Patrick:Well done.
Sam snapped his laptop shut and stood, and his chair crashed into the brick wall at his back. “You’re being a dick, Shannon,” he called.
We listened as he stormed down the stairs, and the table was silent until Riley burst out laughing. “He’s such a fucked-up diva,” Riley said.
Matt leaned back in his chair, one arm crossed over his chest. “What are we doing about this? I think it’s obvious that he’s not doing well, and I don’t think we can sit here and watch it get worse.”
“We can’t drop him off at a psychiatric hospital. As much as I’d like to,” Patrick added under his breath. “Until he’s willing to admit he needs some help, all we can do is keep the boat from rocking.” He glanced over at me. “And not blow off appointments with him.”
“He shouldn’t have flipped out like that,” Riley said. “Sam blows off everyone else and gets away with it because he’s a tortured soul and creative genius. That elevator was coming down regardless of whether Shannon was in it with him. I want to hear more about the rest of his weekend. It sounded like a great time, and it’s fucking weird because he doesn’t do shit like that.”
“Exactly,” Patrick said.
“Go right ahead,” I said. “Report back.”
“I think it’s my turn to check on him,” Matt grumbled. “I’m giving him five minutes to get over his shit.”
“No, no,” I sighed. “I’ll deal with him. He wants to be pissed at me, so let him be pissed at me. And,” I continued, tapping Patrick’s arm, “I’m going to talk to him about that project. The restoration and remodel for the musician’s house. If that doesn’t blow his skirt up, I don’t know what will.”
“All right,” Patrick said, nodding, “everyone get back to work.”
There was a time when Sam was my best friend. We were inseparable, and when we weren’t together, we called and texted constantly. There wasn’t a thought that drifted through his mind that he didn’t share with me. He appointed himself my chief stylist and online dating coordinator, and was my primary brunch-and-open-house companion. He even invited himself to pedicures with Lauren and me on occasion.
But then Angus died last winter, and though it should have alleviated the pressure on Sam, it made everything worse. He pulled back, curling in on himself, and pushed everyone away by small degrees. He cut me off slowly, and at first, I didn’t think much of his absence at pedicure night or the shortage of text messages bitching about temperamental clients who deigned to challenge his ideas. Drinking and meaningless sex were his solutions to everything, and he plastered on a smirk that dared anyone to question his happiness. There were days like today when I was certain he wanted someone to pick a fight with him just so he could unleash some of the emotions building up inside him.
The thing about Sam was that he only understood through experience. No one could tell him how to grapple with his issues; he had to live them. And I was starting to suspect he needed to feel the cold stone of rock bottom before he’d be able to take a step forward.
That scared the shit out of me. Sam always required so muchmore. He was born premature, and struggled from his first breath. The universe wasn’t kind to him, hitting him with diabetes, immature lungs, digestive issues, plus the challenge of arriving too early, too small. Nearly four months passed between his birth and his first day outside the hospital. For the first years of his life, he spent nearly as much time in the hospital as he did at home, always fighting off infections or learning to control blood sugar spikes or evaluating his slow growth.
