Shannon:Ha
Shannon:That is NOT happening
Will:Peanut. Please. I know I was off the grid longer than expected and I’m sorry. That seems to be the theme around here right now. I can get away tomorrow night but I have to be back on base the next afternoon.
Will:Need to see you.
Shannon:Believe me when I say I’m finished coming when you call
Will:Last I checked, you enjoyed the coming
Shannon:Further evidence why this is ridiculous and out of control and over
A moment later, the distant image of a surfer standing at the water’s edge—the single token of our weekend in Montauk, and intentionally unrecognizable to anyone but me—appeared on my screen. I wanted to ignore his call because I couldn’t manage another disaster right now, but…I didn’t.
“This is over,” I said, bypassing all pleasantries and introductions.
“Mmhmm,” Will said. “I haven’t slept in three days and I don’t have time for bullshit games today, Shannon. What’s really going on?”
“Nothing,” I said. “We had our fun, I got some frequent flyer miles out of the deal, and now it’s over. Nothing more to discuss.”
The line was silent save for the wind gusting through Will’s end. I could imagine him scowling at me, his eyes narrowed, his jaw locked. “Right,” he murmured. “We’ll see about that.”
“There’s nothing tosee about,” I said, exasperated.
I was mentally and physically exhausted, and I needed him to accept this as our last conversation. There were no more secret weekends for me, and I didn’t have the emotional muscle to be anything more than brusque and flippant at the moment. I couldn’t even think about Will without my thoughts seizing back to Sam, and how I wasn’t there when he needed me most.
“I’m finished with this.”
I knew what was coming next, and I didn’t want to hear. I couldn’t.
I hung up, blocked his number, and drummed my fingers on the table while I waited. Glancing up, I spotted a beautiful, dark-haired woman, and she had to be Tiel. There weren’t that many boho chicks toting violin cases around Boston, and even fewer walking into this coffee shop at the exact time I requested we meet.
“Are you Tiel?” Or, as I was calling her, The Girl Who Broke Sam.
It didn’t take much to find her. Tom pulled the activity on Sam’s mobile phone, and I knew he wasn’t calling and texting the same client forty times each day. She was something of an Internet celebrity, with millions of views on her YouTube strings performances, and a college professor, but looked like neither. Nearly-black hair brushed her shoulders, and beneath her burgundy coat, she wore simple black pants with a gray cardigan. The cardigan was misbuttoned, and I wasn’t certain, but it looked as if she was wearing a Dark Side of the Moon t-shirt underneath.
She stared at me, her eyes roaming over my hair, my Theory suit, my Louboutin heels. Her gaze was contemptuous, as if she decided long ago that she didn’t like me and this moment only served to confirm it for her.
“Yes,” she said slowly.
This was risky. Digging up her number, getting her to meet me, figuring out what the fuck she did to my brother: all very risky. But this girlbrokeSam. She didn’t dither over commitment like Lauren or meltdown over power dynamics like Andy—and believe me, I was ready to start handing out the ass-kickings when those girls sent my brothers into tailspins—but shedestroyedSam.
He nearly drank himself into a diabetic coma, and when that was all said and done, he decided that late February was prime time for an outdoor adventure. His credit card activity placed him in northern Maine, and that was the extent of information I had on the situation. I didn’t know why he ran away, how long he’d be gone, or what he was doing.
“I’m Shannon Walsh.” I extended my hand, but she didn’t notice or she didn’t care. I let it drop to my side, and then gestured to the table. “Thank you for meeting me. Can we talk?”
She wanted to say no. It was hanging on the tip of her tongue as she rolled her eyes and shifted her violin case from one hand to another. “Can you just tell me what happened with Sam? Is he all right?”
“Can we sit? Just for a few minutes?”
I didn’t wait for a response. Instead, I returned to my table and caught the barista’s attention. I ordered the first thing that came to mind, but I knew I couldn’t eat much. I’d been a wreck since returning from Washington. Terrorizing my brothers and best friends for information about Sam, spending most nights sorting and resorting my mother’s things, hoping he’d call, hating myself for letting a guy tell me I shouldn’t look after my family. It’d left me tired, over-caffeinated, and too anxious for food.
“Is Sam all right?”
I focused on the sugar cookie waiting in front of me, first snapping it in half and then tearing each piece until it stopped being a cookie and became a buttery pile of crumbs. That was exactly how I felt: too broken to qualify as whole. I couldn’t press them back together. The structure and integrity were gone, and nothing could unbreak it.
“No, he really isn’t okay,” I said.
