He wasn’t answering the question. Sam couldn’treallylove her. He might love her now, but what about in the future when he had all these other responsibilities? Would he love her then, or would she just be another responsibility he had to take care of? No. Maya wasn’t going to let her child be something on a checklist. Menwereunreliable. With this realization, she wiped away her tears.
“Maya.” His voice was tender. “I love you and I—”
“Sam Hutcherson, are you out of your mind?” She shrieked at him, vaguely registering the hurt and surprise in his eyes. She turned on her heel and ran full tilt back to her car. He was calling to her, running after her. She couldn’t listen. She fumbled with her keys, then finally got in her car. Sam was outside her window, saying something, but she couldn’t hear him for all her sobbing. The car screeched as she pulled out and raced home.
It was close to impossible to see through her tears. She couldn’t tell him about the baby. She just couldn’t. He wasn’t ready to be a father. He was just a boy. Her stomach hurt. She couldn’t breathe. He would leave her, just like her father left—just like her mother had said. Well, he wouldn’t get the chance. She’d leave him first.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
SAM
New York, 2012
SAMFOUNDHISway to the back entrance of the coffee shop that led to Maya’s apartment, and rang the bell. He’d told Paige he had a meeting, and he’d promised to meet her and his parents later so they could go to the appointment with the cake decorator together.
First, he needed answers from Maya. He was getting them today. Right now.
Sam missed a beat before speaking when Maya opened the door. Her hair was down, one rogue piece falling to the side of her face. He used to wonder how it was that whether her hair was up or down, that one piece always wanted to lie on the side of her face. His hand moved as if from muscle memory to tuck that strand back behind her ear, like he had done so many times before. Instead, he pushed his hand deep into his pocket. She was dressed simply in leggings and a sweatshirt, but he’d never seen a more beautiful woman.
“Hi.” She tucked the hair back as she stepped aside, avoiding his eyes.
“Hi.” Sam stepped in and followed her up the steps, doing his best to ignore the traces of honeysuckle that floated back to him. “How’s Samantha doing?”
She opened another door, and the honeysuckle was replaced by the warm scent of that orange coffee he remembered so well. “Oh, she’s fine. She’s resilient.” Maya ducked into the kitchen as he stepped in and automatically slipped off his shoes. “I made coffee—this is the only coffee I had. Don’t read too much into it.”
Sam looked around the apartment. Samantha—his daughter!—was growing up here. Maya had grown up here, too. A sectional sofa took up much of the small space, along with an easy chair and some lamps.
A coffee table in the middle was piled with photo albums. The walls were covered with pictures of Samantha and her many awards. Framed newspaper clippings about the bakery were scattered here and there. Closer inspection revealed how the bakery had evolved to include the gourmet coffee roastery it had today. An open doorway behind him led to the kitchen, and a short hallway to his left led to the bedrooms.
Sam tossed his overcoat and suit jacket on the armchair and glanced down that hallway. The door to the master was partway open, which left Maya’s unmade bed visible. Sam quickly looked away and occupied himself with the nearest framed picture of his daughter. She was very young in the photo, but he could see himself in her even then. His heart grew heavy.
Maya came up behind him. “She’s about fifteen months here.”
His pressed his lips together, unable to even force a smile. “Yeah.”
She handed him a mug of coffee and moved to the sofa. “Come sit.” She set her coffee on the table and motioned for Sam to join her.
Sam set his jaw and sat beside Maya on the sofa. He put his coffee down without taking a sip. Maya looked at him sideways, and then reached across him for one of the albums. His body stiffened. She smelled of honeysuckle and cinnamon and something he remembered as distinctlyMaya. She opened an album and handed it to Sam.
“I thought you might want to see some of Samantha’s baby pictures or videos.” Maya glowed and began flipping through the pages.
“This is the day she was born.” The scene was in a hospital room: a ragged and spent Maya holding an infant Samantha.
The fresh-faced young girl in the photo was the Maya from his youth. Sam closed his eyes against the memory of this girl defiantly proclaiming that she had never loved him.
Sam nodded, tightening his lips as he returned to the past. Maya and her mother had documented Samantha’s upbringing well. Each page was colorful, painstakingly arranged with clever captions and important date stamps.
Maya turned the page and continued to narrate. “Maya.” He cut her off. “Could I just look through them?” He didn’t even bother to keep his tone gentle.
She appeared a bit taken aback. “Oh, sure.” She fidgeted for a moment, before handing the album to Sam. “Of course.” He sat back in the sofa, crossed one ankle over the other knee and returned his attention to the album.
Samantha was two in the next few photos. Curly dark hair, light brown skin, her smile all chubby cheeks and scrunchy nose, Sam grinned at the wonder she was, even then. A few pages later she was five, her first day of kindergarten in a school uniform, her dark brown eyes alight with excitement. Sam skipped a page or two and suddenly she was seven, in a soccer uniform. Her curly, dark hair was tied up in a bushy ponytail. She was wearing a keeper jersey. Sam’s agitation grew.
“She played soccer since she was this little?” Sam’s voice was abrupt. “Is it true, why she’s not playing? That she’s too busy to play?”
“Um, no.” Maya flushed. “She started at this new high school.” She hesitated, but then met his gaze. “She’s on partial scholarship there, but still, the tuition—” she put one hand out, palm up “—versus the soccer fees—” she did the same with the other hand and moved them up and down, as if weighing them. “I, well—I couldn’t do both.” She picked up her coffee and appeared to be very interested in drinking it.
Sam narrowed his eyes at her and returned to the albums. Now Samantha was ten, her hair in two braids as she accepted a ribbon at a school science fair. Her mischief-filled eyes reached across the years to him in the next photo, as she was caught eating batter from the big mixer in the bakery.
