“Ha.”
She laughed. “Okay, you mope a little. But your whining has gotten much better.”
“Thanks, pal. But weren’t you going to talk to your parents about the teaching job tonight?”
“That’s the plan. Sure you don’t want to come? You can be my emotional support if my mother decides to play the Indian guilt card.”
“You know I’ll come if you want me. But you’ve got this.” I grinned. “You lion, you.”
She rolled her eyes. But in the end, she decided that she and Vir could tackle her parents without me.
Which is how I found myself alone the night before graduation, walking in the dusk across the bridge to Clery’s Newsagents.
—
Sam’s not here,” Fiadh said.
“Oh.” I shifted my feet on the black-and-white tile, wondering what I’d expected. Wondering why I’d come.
“I can give you his address, if you want.”
“I don’t want to be a bother.”
“No bother at all.” She scribbled on the pad beside the register.
I glanced down at the piece of paper she slid across the counter. Up at her sympathetic face. “Um. Do you think he’ll be home?”Alone?
She shrugged. “It’s early yet. If he goes out, it’s usually later.”
I walked past the iron railings and dustbins and trudged up the steps of his building. Sam and I didn’t have the kind of relationship where we showed up at each other’s apartments. Would he be pleased to see me? Surprised?
My palms were sweating. I wiped them on my jeans and mashed the buzzer.
“Boots.” Sam answered the door. Definitely surprised. His crumpled shirt was unbuttoned over faded jeans, revealing some kind of medal on a silver chain.
“I came to say good-bye,” I blurted.
He lifted an eyebrow. “Where’s the rugger bugger, then?”
“Tim? We broke up.”
He gave me a long look from his sea-colored eyes. “You better come in, then.”
His apartment was small and dark, like a hermit’s lair or your typical graduate student’s housing. Lumps of furniture loomed between shelves constructed of planks and cement blocks. I stepped closer to read the spines on the shelf, picking out the authors I recognized—James Joyce and Kevin Barry, Oscar Wilde and Sally Rooney.
“You look like you could use a drink.”
I turned. Sam stood in the doorway, barefoot. His toes were long and straight. I jerked my gaze back to his face. “Oh, I—”
“I could use a drink.” He crossed to the tiny galley kitchen and unscrewed a bottle of whiskey. He poured two glasses and handed me one. Between the plackets of his shirt, his chest was narrow, shadowed with soft hair where Tim was puckered and scarred. “We should celebrate.”
“Absolutely.” I sniffed cautiously at the drink. “What are we celebrating?”
“My admission to Trinity.”
The whiskey caught the back of my throat. I coughed and coughed.
Sam brought me a glass of water. “Shocked you, did I?” he asked, grinning.
