He’s not at all like I imagined. I’m not talking about the wiry strength evident in those long, lanky limbs, or the unruliness of his mop of blond hair. I’m talking abouthim.
Night after night, his voice has dominated my intentions, coaxed forth my reluctant but absolute surrender. Somehow, I expected the man to be… not arrogant necessarily, but self-assured. Comfortable with himself, if not with me.
Alice tried to warn me of his temperament. She used the word shy, but I’m not sure I agree.
Sam doesn’t strike me as shy. Instead, he seems… displaced. I recognise the look because I saw it play out on Walter’s face every day for nearly a year. It’s the look of a man who knows he doesn’t mesh with his surroundings the way he’s supposed to and spends his life trying desperately to disguise his own conspicuous nature. Walter’s disguise hinged on being the loudest, most obvious person in the room.
Sam has his quiet.
I’m not fooled by it, any more than I was fooled by Walter’s noise. It’s a surface layer, a basic defence system. I’m more interested in the man hiding beneath. The one who’s spent the past week and a half leading me around by the balls. He’s the reason I’m here. Somehow, I have to find a way to draw him out.
“Sam,” I say, quietly.
His gaze lurches back to mine, but the undercurrent of frenetic energy is still there, coiled tight inside every muscle. One wrong word, and I’ll lose him.
“I apologise for my abruptness. My insomnia is not something I talk about easily, or often.”
Watching me closely, Sam licks his lips, drawing my attention to his mouth. “How long ha—” The words die half-formed in his throat and he takes a sip of tea. “How long have you had trouble sleeping?” The grim set of his mouth tells me this question isn’t optional. If I want him to share, I’ll have to do the same.
I’d hoped to get more information than I gave, but if it will keep him in the chair a while longer, I can give a little.
“About eight years, I suppose. It’s hard to say.”Seven years, eight months, three weeks.Not so hard. “How long have you had your studio?”
There’s a brief hesitation, and then… “Eighteen months.”
I release the breath I’ve been holding. This is good. We’re making progress.
Sam must think so too because he settles deeper in his chair. “You’ve seen a doctor?”
“Many doctors. And yes, I’ve tried everything. Exercise, sleep hygiene, other meditation apps, acupuncture. I even gave up caffeine for a year,” I add with a grimace. “Nothing ever made much of a difference—until I tried your app.”
A tiny smile twitches the corners of his mouth and his cheeks flush. I try not to stare. “It works that well?”
“Since I started using it, I’ve slept for at least six hours every single night.”
His blue eyes narrow. “Six hours is still minimal.”
I huff out a laugh at the show of indignation. “It’s a lot for me.”
Sitting forwards, he brings his forearms up in front of him on the table and inhales. “I inherited the house when my mother passed away two years ago. There was just enough money to turn the bottom floor into a studio. I wanted to work from home, so that’s what I did.”
I try not to show surprise at the sudden increase in his wordage. Sam obviously takes his quid pro quo seriously.
“She would have liked it,” he says, quietly. I see the sadness in him, still close to the surface.
“I’m sorry to hear of your mother’s passing.” It’s a platitude. The simple something we say to acknowledge a kind of pain we all experience from time to time. I still think it’s important to say it, before the conversation moves on and the opportunity is lost.
“Thank you.” Our eyes meet and then his expression flickers with something like concern. I look away, wondering how much of my own sadness has revealed itself in response to his. “Your parents, are they…”
“No,” I say quickly, shaking my head. “They’re both here with me.”
He gives a slow nod, but the unasked question lingers.Who’s missing?
Taking a gulp of my coffee, I flip the conversation back in his direction. “Did you do the renovations yourself?”
“Mostly. Mr Nguyen knew a builder who removed some walls for me.” He indicates the older man working behind the counter. “The rest was me… and YouTube,” he adds with a small laugh.
It’s the first time I’ve heard him laugh, seen his smile widen to something bigger than a reluctant glimpse of pleasure. Captivated, I mentally catalogue every sight and sound. I don’t want to think of it as filling my spank bank, but a rose by any other name is still destined to inspire a happy ending.
