He doesn't look at me.Heshoves his fingers through his hair, still mussed from our recentactivities, in obvious frustration, before shaking his head vaguelyto himself.
"I'll never understandyou, Rory," he murmurs, his voice a gutting mix of exasperation andsorrow, and then he makes his way to the door.
"Sam," I say desperately,but I have no follow-up, nothing to stop him from leaving.I don'tknow what to do, I feel trapped in a hell of my own making, andit's killing me that I seem to have hurt Sam, the person I love themost, all over again.
He pauses by the door, butwhen I don't say anything more, he stalks out, closes the doorbehind him, and I sit there, naked in my bed, utterly stunned.
I don't understand what'sjust happened.
I still feel the heat ofhis skin all over my body.I still feel the wetness of his kisses.My own lips are swollen from everywhere I kissed him, my hair atousled mess, my bed completely undone.His scent clings to thethick air in the suddenly claustrophobically empty room.Ithappened too fast.One moment he was hovering over me, caressing mycheek after our passionate coupling, and the next, I've managed topiss him off with no effort at all.
The remnants of Sam'srelease still lingers in me, running down my thighs, a physicalreminder of what I've just had, and lost.Again.But it nevershould have been mine in the first place.All I've done is makethis whole thing harder on the both of us.
Sam's absence is a living,breathing thing, stealing my breath, screaming at me that this ismy fault.That Sam is once again upset because of me.That I am acliché—a stupid teenage girl who let her hormones make herdecisions.And as usual, I've brought him nothing more than ashort, fleeting sense of pleasure that couldn't possibly have beenworth the anger and pain that inexorably follows.
I feel shameful and dirty.Like I've just used him in the worst way, even if I hadn't plannedto, or meant to.I chose a brief physical thrill over what reallymatters, and now I feel suffocated by guilt.
I loathed seeing that lookon his face.The confused furrow of his brow, the indignation atthe offending word,friend, and lastly, the resentment.It hurts having it targeted in my direction.I've only experiencedit once before, when he'd questioned me about Cam in Miami.Ishudder at the memory.I think of all the times I've seen Sam'sresentment, or disgust, or rage, or any other ill feelings,directed at others—many times even in defense of me.I hate beingon the other side of that.
It's still in this room,his resentment, swirling and sweeping through the stale air, butnot disippating in the least.It stamps out what's left of theafterglow of our passion and binds itself to the perpetual achealive in my chest, amplifying and expanding it until it branchesand twists its way through my entire body, forcing its bramblesinto my gut and salty tears from my eyes.It conjures up a feelingI'm all too familiar with—the sad, pitiful, resigned cousin ofhope: regret.
I never wanted to hurtSam.I don't want him to hate me.
But maybe he needsto.
I'm starting to realizethat despite my internal professions of being selfless by givinghim up, I've been doing it completely half-assed.It was beyondwishful thinking to believe that we could go from friends to loversand back again all in a matter of fewer than forty-eight hours.That we could leave all these unresolved emotions just shootingthrough space, without any outlet for any of it.
Because I needed hisfriendship.That was the whole point, wasn't it?Giving him up sothat I don't end up losing him.But maybe even that was selfish.Maybe what he needs right now is not to be my friend.Maybe heneeds to be angry with me.To resolve whatever feelings he has leftfor me, good or bad, in whatever way he wants.
Maybe this needed tohappen.Maybe Sam needed a reason to be angry with me.He needs tomove on.It's the only way we can truly go back to our friendship.Eventually he'll get over whatever it is he still feels, and I canonly hope that when that happens he can forgive me like he didChelsea.
But then I feel my pulserace as I nearly succumb to a surge of insecurity.I don't have thelifetime of friendship and family connection that Chelsea does, andSam could easily choose to forget me instead of forgive me.Afterall, high school will be over in a matter of weeks, and New York isan enormous city full of people who can offer friendships a hell ofa lot more appealing than I ever could.People without panicattacks and overreactions, violent stalkers and manipulativefathers.
I remind myself that Samnot forgiving me is not the worse case scenario.Because at leastthen he would be safe.And though I won't give up my hope for ourfriendship—Ican't—I accept that it's Sam's choice to make, and I'll let him.Whatever he decides, I will find a way to live with it.I haveto.
Chapter Eight
Mymother arrives home just beforenine, and we have a silent, somber dinner, both accepting theexcuse of our mutual exhaustion, before we both head upstairs toour respective bedrooms.She seems drained, and I can't help butfeel responsible for my role in her weariness.
Once back in my room, Istare blankly at my calculus textbook for about twenty minutes.Samand I missed our tutoring session today, obviously preoccupied withother activities, and I suspect that after how they ended he won'tbe tutoring me anymore.The truth is I'm pretty up to date with thematerial, and with the final next week, there would have been noreal reason to continue my tutoring anyway.But I'm sad to lose theexcuse to have one on one time with him.Though he's probablyrelieved, after today.
I slam the book closed andrub my eyes.My room feels strange and unfamiliar—completelytransformed by the events of the afternoon.Truthfully it neverreally felt likemyroom, more like some temporary lodging—anextended stop on my way to college.My childhood bedroom willalways bemy room, but this place, it was neutral territory.Butnow…
Now, despite the fact thatI've changed the sheets, all I see is Sam's naked, heated bodycurled behind mine.The echoes of his soft, whispered wicked wordsstill fill the room, and I swear the scent of his aftershave stillclings to my skin, even after my shower.But it's the memory of thetinge of hurt around his eyes, the resignation in his last murmuredwords, that haunt me, and it's a damn good thing he made me getthat nap in, because I know tonight will yield no rest.
I power my phone on,pitifully allowing myself hope that maybe Sam tried reaching out,but deep down I know, before I even skim through the four missedtexts, that Sam is not looking to speak to me.That this time, he'sreally pissed, and I don't even blame him for it.
I sigh and open Carl'stexts.
You okay?Tuck said youweren't feeling well and Cap drove you home?
Then there are twoquestion marks, each spaced out about an hour after the previoustext.I knew I'd have to give her an explanation, so I'm more orless prepared for this particular line of questioning.
I'm fine.Was justexhausted.Haven't been sleeping.
She knows this already ofcourse.My perpetual exhaustion isn't exactly a secret, after all,it's practically written on my face—in the circles under my eyesand my constant yawning—and Carl is one of the few people who knowsa little bit about my issues and how nightmares play intothem.
Hope you got a nap in.Tuck was over earlier.Ran out of here a couple hours ago.Something about having to pick up Cap.Said he sounded prettyupset...
