Finally, he speaks. "Sam. What's this really about?"
I stand up and walk to the window instead, looking out at the street below. A cab rolls past. Someone walks a dog. The city moves, indifferent.
"Maybe I needed the full five minutes."
Tom laughs quietly behind me.
I press my fingertips against the glass. It's cool under my skin. "When I was fourteen, my dad left. Just—walked out. Businessfailed, marriage failed, and he decided the solution was Phoenix. A fresh start. Without us."
I've never said this out loud. Never.
"My mom fell apart. She didn't actually leave, but she disappeared into work and exhaustion. She was there, but she wasn't—present. Even my mom, in a way, left."
I hear the couch shift. Footsteps. Tom doesn't say anything, but I can feel him close now, standing just behind me.
His hands find mine first. Warm palms slide over my knuckles, fingers threading through mine. Then his arms wrap around me from behind, still holding my hands, crossing them over my chest.
He pulls me back flush against his chest, his chin resting near my temple. His chest rises and falls against my spine. I exhale. My shoulders drop. I lean back into him, and let his chest take some of my weight.
His lips press against the side of my head, just behind my temple. The kiss is soft, unhurried. He doesn't speak. Just stays there, breathing with me.
The street below blurs slightly. I blink and it clears.
After a long moment, he speaks.
"I am not your dad."
I turn in his arms—slowly, his grip loosening just enough to let me pivot. When I'm facing him, I look up and say, "I know."
Then I rest my head against his chest.
Tom's arms come around me fully now, one hand flat between my shoulder blades, the other cradling the back of my head. He kisses the top of my head in complete silence.
He’s not saying he'll never leave.
He’s not making guarantees about the future.
He just holds me. I close my eyes and stop bracing for the moment when the person holding me decides I'm too much work.
I let him hold me until my breathing syncs with his.
When I finally pull back, just enough to look up at him, Tom doesn't let go. His hands anchor at my waist.
"I'm sorry," I say quietly. "For spiraling."
"Don't." His thumb brushes my hip. "You get to feel what you feel."
I nod. Swallow. "The pad thai's cold."
"Probably inedible by now."
"I can reheat mine."
"I'll make popcorn."
The corner of my mouth lifts. "You have popcorn?"
"I have kernels and a pot. Same thing."
