If I can't stop overthinking, I can at least focus on choosing what to wear.
Maybe if I keep my hands busy, my brain will get the hint and give me a break.
The door swings open and Sam slides in like a cat who owns the place—hair in a messy bun, backpack still slung over one shoulder. She eyes the mountain of clothes on my bed and raises a brow.
"Somebody's excited," she teases, then flops ontoherbed with a dramatic groan.
I force a smile. "Maybe a little."
Sam sits up on her elbows, all business. "So—where's Zach taking you tonight? Please say it's somewhere fancy. Don't say 'pizza in a car.'"
I bite the inside of my cheek and shake my head. "I don't even know if the date's happening." My voice comes out thinner than I intended.
Sam's expression goes instant-alert. "What do you mean, 'you don't know'?"
"He hasn't really mentioned anything about the date the last few days..."
"What? For real?" Sam blurts.
"Yep." I sigh again. "I think he forgot... or—"
"Or what?"
"Or...something must have happened last Tuesday when he said he had to go somewhere and maybe he changed his mind." The ache creeps back into my chest, sharp and stupid. I want to scream at it to shut up.
I look at Sam. "Do you have any idea what's going on with your brother?"
Sam gives me an apologetic smile and shakes her head. "Afraid not, Care. Sorry."
She scoots off her bed and pads over, dropping onto the edge of my mattress like she's landed on purpose. Then she tries to flip the mood, nudging my knee with her elbow.
"Do you want me to call him—or go down to the pond and beat the living daylights out of my brother so he realizes he's being a jerk?"
"No—don't," I say, forcing a laugh that comes out more like a hiccup. "I'm probably just being paranoid. I'll get ready anyway—just in case he texts. If he doesn't, I'll go out with the girls. No big deal."
Saying it makes my chest sting all over again. The words are small and practical—very grown-up—but inside I'm bristling. I wanted this. I'd been counting down like it was some dumb holiday, and now I'm pretending I'm fine with plan B.
Sam gives me that sympathetic look, the one she uses when she wants to make something less awful. "Okay. But if he flakes, I will personally drag him out of whatever hole he's hiding in and make him explain himself."
"Promise?" I try to sound casual.
"Promise," she says, but she's smiling—only half convincing. It's not quite the laugh I need, but it helps a little.
Sam stretches, groaning as she gets up.
"Ugh, I need a shower. I swear, Florida's humidity is trying to kill me."
She tugs at the hem of her blouse, fanning herself—and that's when I notice it. My eyes narrow on a blotch on her lower back, a dark purplish bruise about the size of my palm, the edges faintly yellowing. It doesn't look fresh, but it's deep enough to make me wince just seeing it.
"Whoa, wait—how'd you get that?" I ask, pointing.
She twists awkwardly, trying to look over her shoulder. "What?"
"It's a bruise,"
"Really?" She turns halfway toward the mirror, but it's useless.
"Yeah." I get up and guide her closer to the mirror. "Here, turn around."
