"God, Ror, I'm so sorry."
My eyes shoot to his. "Why?Why are you sorry? All you did was help me. All youeverdo is help me! And I've been nothing but a bitch to you...I'm so fucked up," I sob defeatedly, unable to control my words as they flood my lips.
Sam's arms are back around me as I sob into his tee shirt. I release my hold on his other shirt, the one I'm wearing, to grasp the one he's wearing, just desperately needing to hold onto something. Some lifeline. And once again, that's Sam.
His hands soothes up and down my back, the other stroking my hair in comfort. And comfort me it does, and in that moment I realize I'm too far gone. I can't let him go. I need Sam. I need him like air to breathe, and if his friendship is all I can ever have, then I'll cling to it, like I cling to his shirt.
"You're not," he murmurs into my hair. Again.
I let out an snort.
"You'renot," he repeats more insistently.
I pull away and meet his gaze, riveted by the fervor in his eyes. I know the shirt I wear has fallen open, but I can do nothing to remedy it, I just stare at him, dumbfounded that he still defends me.
"We're all fucked up, Rory. I've got problems too, and youknowthat. You know that better than anyone. Chelsea is the one who sneaks into bathrooms to photograph girls while they're changing, and you thinkyou'rethe one who's fucked up?" He pauses and takes a deep breath, and I bite my bottom lip to keep it from trembling. "You just have deeper scars, maybe. Or maybe they're just more visible. But you're notfucked up,Rory. Not any more than the rest of us, okay?" He reaches out to brush my tears from my cheek, and I shiver as warmth spreads from the point of contact. I turn into his touch, I can't help myself, and close my eyes.
He's right. We're all fucked up. Sam confided to me what his father did, and why he left, and what his sister tried to do. I don't need Sam to tell me these aren't things he tells many people, if anyone at all. I should treasure his confidence, and instead, today, I sought out to hurt him. I hurt him because ofmystupid crush. I'm no better than Chelsea.
"I'm so sorry," I whisper, and open my eyes to see Sam's brow furrow in confusion. "For what I said before. I didn't mean it. Not all of it anyway. I just... I don't know what I'm doing," I admit. "I don't understand why you're so good to me. Or why you stand up for me. And it scares me, because... Icareabout you, and I've just... I've been hurt or abandoned by every man I'veevercared about. My boyfriend, my father, my best friend... and some of it, it was my own fault... Maybe everyone else is fucked up too, but I'm fucked upmore, and I... I don't know what I'm doing," I say again.
Sam rubs his face and rests his hand on the back of his neck. "I'm not gonna lie to you, Rory. That hurt. What you said at lunch." He blows out a deep breath and sighs. "But look, you were right."
I blink at him.
"I still think you're stronger than you realize, but... I shouldn't try to tell you what to do. I shouldn't have said you don't need your medication. I don't want you to think I'm judging you, I just... I think you're the one judging yourself. And way too harshly. The way you talk about yourself - that you're fucked up, that you're broken...
“I know you've been hurt, and I don't pretend to know the details. But you're just you, Rory, and there's nothing wrong with you. You're fucking perfect, okay? The way you are."
"Why?Why do you say these things to me? Why do you defend me? Why did you tell me about your dad, about your sister?" I hold his gaze, emboldened, desperate for some explanation for this connection we seem to share.
"You know why."
I just blink at him. I have no idea why. And I have no idea why he thinks otherwise.
Sam sighs again. "Come on, Rory. We're kindred, aren't we? I don't know why, but we are - you and me. The first day I saw you have that panic attack, I was just drawn to you. At first maybe I thought you reminded me of Bits, but it took only a second to see that wasn't the case. That you were nothing like her. I love my sister, I'd kill for her, but she's fragile, meek.
"You... you always insist you're fine because you always are, even when you're not. You're tough. You protect yourself when you feel threatened, you beat triggers. You even beat a full blown panic attack without taking a pill. I was there. I saw it, remember? And you just kicked Chelsea's ass when she accused you of hiding something that wouldn't be anyone's damn business even if it were true, which it isn't."
I glare at him, defiant, and I don't know why. I'm so used to feeling like a victim that him describing how I'm surviving, it throws me. "How do you know? How do you know I'm not exactly what she says - some slut who had a baby in high school and moved away to hide it? How do you know I haven't been lying to you since the day we met?"
Sam takes the half step that puts him right in front of me. My heart races, but not from panic, just from his proximity and... desire. A feeling so alien to me it took me this long to recognize it. I swallow nervously, but suppress the instinct to retreat. I'm afraid, but only of myself.
"Because, Rory, even it were true, it wouldn't make you aslut.And not telling me something personal doesn't make you aliar. But the thing is, Rory...this," his fingertips gently graze the top of my scar, and I gasp as the surrounding skin breaks out in goose bumps. I didn't even realize it was visible. No one has ever touched me there. Not since the bandage came off. It's ugly and disgusting and I hate that Sam's seen it, hate that he's touching it. But I don't step back, don't push him away. "Thisis not a C-section scar."
"Oh yeah? Seen a lot of Cesarean scars, have you?" My voice is a hoarse whisper, betraying my nerves despite my bravado.
Sam smiles faintly. "Just the one. And only when my mother wears that skimpy swimsuit I hate. Because it's hidden by all the others. Because it's tiny - her scar. Much smaller than yours. And the thing is... it's here." His fingers move about an inch toward my middle and down over my waistband. Just another inch lower and he'd be in dangerous territory. But just as quickly as they moved, his fingers trail back to my scar, and he strokes it gently with his thumb, as if it doesn't repulse him. "So, Rory, unless you managed to grow a baby in your hip, and then had some quack cut it out of you with a jagged kitchen knife, something else gave you that scar."
I stare up at him. I'm stunned.
"Someone cut you?" he asks, and I know despite his veil of confidence, he's nervous to ask. I look down, but nod. Sam grits his teeth. "Is this the person your father didn't protect you from?"
I nod again. Sam places his index finger under my chin to point my gaze back to his, and when he removes it he notices there's a little blood. His brow furrows in concern, and despite everything I can't help but once again think how adorable he looks when he does that.
"She scratched me. Chelsea," I explain about the blood. It's really just a little scratch.
I've had worse. Much worse.
