What the hell is Samdoingto me?
I'm so damn lost. I'm suddenly disconcerted by our entire relationship. I've only known him, what? Two months? Why does he comfort me so much, and yet make me so nervous at the same time? I thought that my jealous stirrings when Chelsea flirted with him were because I didn't likeher, but what if it's about him?
What if everything is about Sam?
"You heard her, Chel. If you have a problem going away with Rory, then Don't. Fucking. Come." Sam's voice is deceptively soft and vaguely threatening. Chelsea is clearly outraged by the way her long-time friend is talking to her, but I'm still reeling, and it has nothing to do with her.
My breath comes in short gasps and beads of cool sweat pepper my face and chest.
"Rory, are you okay?" Carl asks, concerned.
"Please let me out," I plead to Sam, whose angry gaze flips to worry as it meets mine.
Finally, he scoots out of the booth to let me pass. I sling my bag over my shoulder and march toward the back of the diner where the restrooms are located, but turn and head out the back door instead. I stop on the landing of the steps that lead down to the back of the parking lot. The rain has let up into a light mist, and I soak in the cool air of early spring.
Fuck Chelsea and her accusations. I can handle her. It's Sam who has me thrown.
I close my eyes and start counting, but my mind can't focus on numbers right now. I breathe in, and out, in and out. I can't believe I haven't realized it before - how easily I've pushed my feelings down every time they threatened to surface.
In two months, Sam has forced his way into my heart, and nothing good can come of it. He's my friend - one of myclosestfriends! And here I am, lusting after him.
There's no point in denying it - I want him. And not just physically either. I've only ever wanted one other person in my life, and I only realized it when it was too late. And now, with Sam, it'salreadytoo late. I'm damaged beyond repair, I know it, and he knows it too. And maybe that's why he was so clear about only wanting me as a friend from the beginning, or maybe he simply isn't attracted to me. The reason is irrelevant, and I know it should make all of this easier to repress... but there's only one forgone conclusion: I will get hurt.
I am so fucked up.
I drop my head into my hands and struggle to regulate my breathing. In, out... in and out.But instead of steadying, my breaths grow more shallow, until it feels as if my lungs are bound by bands of steel. I gasp in restricted gulps of air, but by now I'm covered in a fine sheen of cold sweat, the world spins around me, and I know I'm past the point of no return. Not without pharmaceutical assistance. I hastily yank open the the front pocket of my bag and grab my pill bottle.
It takes me too long to open the child-proof cap, and by the time I manage to get my hands on a pill, my vision is starting to blur. I swallow the pill dry, certain I won't make it inside for water before I hyperventilate and pass out.
I close my eyes and wait. Wait for the chemical magic to save me from my pathetic self. I count backwards from sixty, my eyes clenched tight against the dancing parking lot.
"Ror?"
It's Sam. Of course it is.I don't lift my head from my knees. I know Sam can see the pill bottle in my hand. I know I've let him down, and I also know he'll judge me for it. He'll know he was wrong. That I'm not stronger than I think I am - that I'm just as weak as I knew myself to be. And it serves him fucking right. He's not going to save me. No one is, and his unsolicited effort is just confusing me more. He keeps trying to be this good friend to me, and I don't understand why. He barely evenknowsme - just like Chelsea said. And I don't deserve him or his good will. Ihadsomeone. A boy I loved, who loved me. And I lost him, and it was all my fault.
Slowly, calm spreads through my veins as my damaged heart pumps my newly medicated blood through my body, scarred inside and out.
"Carl went to the bathroom to check on you, but she said you weren't in there..."
I still don't respond.
Sam sits beside me on the cold, damp concrete steps. "I just wanted to make sure you were alright," he murmurs softly.
"Fine," I whisper, finally lifting my head.
"You took a pill," he observes. A statement, not a question.
I shrug.So fucking what?They're my pills, and my doctor says I need them, so who the fuck is he to say that I don't? "Yeah, I did. I took a pill, Sam, because I needed it. And I needed it because I'm fucked up. And no amount of you tellin' me how I'm stronger than I think I am is gonna change that, okay?" I hiss in full southern drawl.I hate when I can't control my accent, and that aggravates me even more. I have no control. I have no control ofanything.
Sam winces. "You're not fucked up, Ror," he insists.
"Yes I fucking am! And if you weren't so damn busy tryin' to fix me, you'd fucking see it!" I snap. I stand and face him, eyes locked, needing to know he hears me.
Sam stands slowly, following my lead. "I'm not trying to fix you, Rory. I'm just trying to be your friend," he says cautiously. He's obviously trying to stay calm - surely for my benefit - but I can tell by his clenched jaw and the way he's gritting his teeth that I'm pissing him off.
Well,good.
"You can't let Chelsea get to you like-"
