He shrugs again.
“So,” I say.
“So what?”
“What’s it all about?”
“What do you mean?”
“What do you think I mean?”
He seems like he’s considering the question.He returns the slice of pizza to the box and wipes his hand with a napkin.He’s intent on this, his attention on cleaning each finger, when he speaks, and his voice is low.“I did some stupid stuff when I started here.”
“Yeah, I remember.”
His body gets a little tighter.His voice too.“I don’t like that guy.Who I was, I mean.I spent a lot of my life doing stupid stuff so other people would like me.I don’t want to be that way anymore.”
Sometimes you can see someone.You canreallysee them, I mean, and it’s like looking through a door they left open or forgot to shut.You see them in a way they’ve probably never even seen themselves.And what I almost say—almost—is, And now you want to be John-Henry.
But instead, I say, “So, you’re RoboCop.Okay.I guess you could have picked something worse.Is that why you’ve got such a hard-on to become a detective?”
He shrugs.
“This is question-and-answer time, Sammy.”
“Why don’t you eat?”
It takes me a minute to recognize, in the question, the deal he’s offering.And it takes me a few more seconds to decide not to call it right here, right now, and get out of the truck.Because I need him, I tell myself.I still need him.For a few more weeks.
“I forget.”
“BS.”
“Uh oh.That’s pretty close to a bad word.”
“Bullshit,” Sam says, and he looks out at me from under dark lashes.
“Whoa there.”
But he keeps looking at me.
“I do forget,” I say, and I do this little laugh that’s mostly jangled nerves because all of a sudden—well,because.“It’s like—it’s like you said.I didn’t like this person I was.I used to be.So, I’m trying to be someone else.And it’s, like, easier, if I focus on one thing and not let myself get distracted.It’s not like I never eat.But I get busy, and there’s always shit to do.”I grin.“I make up for it in beer.”
Sam goes back to looking out the window.The crumpled napkins are still in his hand, and he doesn’t seem to know how tightly he’s holding them.When he speaks, his voice is soft again.“I guess I think if I’m a detective, that’s proof, you know?That I’m not that guy anymore.”
And I don’t know if he knows he’s left that door wide open again, or if it’s because of what I said, or if it’s some therapy shit I’m trying to say to myself, but what I want to tell him is nobody can make you feel like you’re worth something.You can only do that for yourself.
I don’t, though.
Neither of us says anything for a while.Something has changed.Proof—if I needed any—that I’m definitely not dating material anymore; give me five minutes alone with a guy, and I can effectively murder any—any what?Any vibes, I guess.Any chill.Or whatever this was.
“I didn’t stay tonight because I wanted to ask you what I could do better,” Sam says.The words are a little stiff, and it makes me think of how his voice tightened earlier, that hint of defensiveness.“Not only that, anyway.Something seemed off.”
“Huh?”
“With you.Something seemed off.At that DV.”
“What was off?”
