by Jessica Park
“You’ll be into oysters on the half shell soon enough, I bet,” he says happily.
While we eat, I ask Sam about working at his parents’ inn, and he tells me he loves when he gets to demolish a bathroom and redo it and when he replaced the roof last fall.
“Nothing better than walking on top of a three-story building.”
“Yeah, if you have a death wish.”
He holds back a smile, which I find confusing. “I don’t have a death wish. Trust me.”
“Okay.” I study him for a moment. “You didn’t go to college then?”
He makes a clamshell arc perfectly, and it lands in the center of the trash. “I did. I was at Colby for a few years.”
“You dropped out?”
“Yeah. What about you? Did you go to college?”
I nod. “I also dropped out. About a day before I showed up here. Why did you leave?”
He shrugs nonchalantly, and I can tell he’s trying not to make a big deal out of it, but a cloud of darkness washes over him. “I just…I don’t know. I wasn’t in a good place.”
“Were you failing out or something?”
He laughs. “Actually, I was doing very well. There was…just…other stuff going on. Can we leave it at that?” The timer that he set on his phone goes off. “Lobsters are ready.”
Sam walks me step-by-step through the process of cracking open lobster shells and pulling out the meat, leaning over the bowl to my left but staying close. The way he talks and moves is soothing, comforting. I notice how crystal clear everything is tonight—the colors, the sounds, the smells. There’s sharpness to my world.
“Everyone is always crazy about the tail meat,” he says, “but if you ask me, the best flavor is in these knuckles and the claws.” He twists a red arm from the body and breaks it open. “Not only is the meat better, but there’s all the liquid that you can’t miss.” Sam is inches from me when he brings a claw shell to my lips. “Drink.”
I tip my head back a bit and let him pour hot liquid into my mouth. It’s the richest, purest taste I’ve ever experienced. When he takes the shell away, I rub my lips together and smile. “More,” I whisper.
So, he feeds me juice from the other claw. A rumble of thunder echoes just as I finish. I didn’t even notice that a storm might be brewing, but I can feel the change in the air, the tingle on my skin. Sam’s a bit distracting though. He steps in even closer, his waist moving between my legs. My eyes travel down the length of his muscular arm, to his hand that moves to rest on my thigh.
“More?” he asks softly.
“Yes,” I breathe.
“You sure, more?” His voice is soft and teasing.
Now, I take in his broad shoulders, the way his shirt fits snugly and shows the shape of his chest, and mostly, the way our closeness, our sudden intimacy, radiates around us. Our draw to each other is palpable, yet this is much more than just sexual. I’m momentarily shaken by the inexplicable perfection of us being together. We hardly know each other, so my certainty about this should feel off. But it doesn’t.
His hand gently cups my waist, and he moves his head in a bit. It only takes lifting my mouth a few inches before his lips come to mine. There is no hesitation and no tentative light kiss to feel our way around. Immediately, we have rhythm and instinct as though we’ve done this forever. He moves his mouth and tongue with an exquisite balance of confidence and tenderness, and I respond easily and naturally.
I touch my hands to his chest and admire his strength and solidity. His arm wraps behind me and pulls me in, so I slip my hands up to the back of his neck and let him bring us closer together. Each time his tongue slides against mine, a rush of adrenaline courses through me. I realize that I have been waiting for this since the exact minute when our last kiss ended all those years ago.
Right now, while burning heat and a certain level of aggressiveness come from both of us, it is also clear to me that this is not the precursor to sex. He’s not going to clear off the counter and fuck me without care as if I mean nothing. And there is safety and security in his reserve. This is a kiss with meaning and feeling and not just an obligatory step before getting laid.
I know what that feels like, and this isn’t it.
Even with my eyes closed, I sense the burst of lightning that flashes just before the thunder hits again.
Sam slows our kiss until his lips are barely brushing against me. “Food’s getting cold.”
He rubs his nose against mine, and I feel him smile.
“Okay.”
“We can’t let your first real lobster dinner go to waste.”
“No,” I agree.
But this is already the best meal I’ve ever had.
We get through the rest of dinner without me cramming my tongue down his throat, but it does take effort. I want to maintain the innocence in this night even though I know that it would be so easy for both of us to let it go further. I actually crack and shell the second lobster all on my own, and I feel a rather inflated sense of accomplishment that I know is inflated but that I nonetheless allow. We taste-test, dipping the meat in melted butter. He feeds me a chunk seasoned with a squeeze of lemon, and when he coats a piece in hot sauce, it sends me grabbing for bread.
I am drunk on flavor and drunk on Sam.
When we’re done, he refuses to let me help clean and insists that I sit exactly where I am on the counter. “You just stay there and drink wine and look all kinds of cute in my clothes.”
In between swipes at the counter with a dish towel, he leans in and gives me quick kisses, and it’s all I can do not to wrap my legs around him and lock him against me. This all feels right—inexplicably, indescribably right—and he looks as giddy as I feel.
The wall that was between us has collapsed.
After everything is put away, my heart sinks when he helps me down onto the floor.
“I have to go. Early morning at the inn.”
“Yeah. Of course.”
“Stop by if you want. I’m going to be painting one of the guest rooms. My parents have a ton of furniture and stuff stored there, all different kinds of styles. Come pick out whatever you like, and I’ll bring everything home in my truck.”
“Really? That would be great. Thank you.” I shiver as he strokes a hand up and down my arm. “And, uh…do you know where I can get my hair…fixed?”
“It doesn’t need fixing. But my sister, Kelly, has a little salon in town on East Street. Tell her I sent you.” When we’re at my front door, he stops after he opens it. “Stella? I’m sorry things were so bad that you had to leave home. You’ve been through a lot.”
I don’t tell him that my mother’s voice haunts me at every turn or that Amy’s frightening drug-induced laughter keeps me awake at night or that my father’s absence still hurts as much today as it did when he first left. Instead, I lift up on my toes and kiss him, very slowly, until I run out of breath, and my heels drop back to the floor.
“Wait here for a minute?” From the bag of clothing that I’ve discarded, I retrieve a shirt and bring it out to him. “Don’t laugh, but I need you to tell me something.” The fabric twists in my hands while I work up the stupid amount of courage it takes to ask him this. “What color is this? I need you to tell me. I need to hear it from you.”
He doesn’t laugh or act as though I’m completely crazy. Sam can tell that I’m not joking. “It’s green, Stella.”
I want to weep. I was right. It is green. “My mother insisted this shirt is purple. She spent her entire life trying to trick me and make me doubt myself so that I couldn’t trust anything. Most of all, myself. This shirt thing was minor really. But who does that, right? She wasn’t being funny or playing around. My mother…” I take a big breath. “My mother stripped me of being anything but a pawn in her game. But this shirt is green. And I am going to find myself.”
“Stella…oh God.”
Sam puts a hand on my face, and I lean into his palm just as I did in the hospital stairwell. Again,
I am comforted and grounded.
He kisses my forehead. “I’m so sorry. I get why you left. You are very brave, and you deserve to find yourself.”
“You deserve that, too, Sam. I don’t know why, but you’re so sad, aren’t you?”
“Sometimes.” The little smile he gives me breaks my heart. “But not today.” He turns to leave and then stops and faces me again. “Oh, and Stella…I do remember that day at the hospital with you. Of course I do. And I remember the kiss. It was windy and freezing out. The lights barely cut through the snow, but I could still see you. I think I would have seen you anywhere. You ran to me, right into my arms, as if you’d done it a thousand times. I hadn’t kissed a lot of girls, and I didn’t really know what I was doing, but you made it easy. It felt crazy and unexplainable and perfect. Even though I was only sixteen, I knew enough to understand that it was one of the most important and most powerful moments I would ever have.”
He pauses for a moment, and I can barely breathe.
“You were not just some unhappy beautiful girl in a stairwell. You were more. You are more.”
Thunder roars, and lightning cracks sharply. Sam disappears into the dark, but what he’s given me tonight stays firmly in my soul.
I hear him do his two-foot hop down each step.
He’s right. Today is definitely not a day to be sad.
NOW THAT SAM AND I ARE SPEAKING—well, and kissing and being all heated or whatever—I feel like an asshole while walking around town in his clothes. But the fabric of his old T-shirt is soft and worn, and it’s shaped to fit him, so I like the way it feels on me. But after I stop in to see him, I’m going to make the rather long drive to a mall to buy myself more clothes. Girl clothes—not clothes borrowed from a smokin’ hot neighbor boy who fed me seafood last night and then kissed me until I thought I might scream.
I’m energized and alert in an entirely new way today. My body is aware of every move I make, my skin reacting to air and touch with renewed sensitivity, and my mood is undeniably positive. Now, I just need to adjust my outward appearance to match.
The temperature is in the high sixties today, and the sky is a flawless blue. It’s perfect weather for this seaside town. The traffic in Watermark is slowly picking up, exactly as Sam told me it would, as the town heads into true tourist season. It’s strange to be back down at the inn again. The last time I was here was very different, but I’m no longer freaked out from having fled Chicago.
The Coastal Inn looks like the epitome of New England, and I take in the magnitude of the business Sam’s parents must do. I don’t know how many rooms it has, but it is quite the sizable building. Sam must stay busy. I’m not sure where to find him, so I start at the front desk. Felicia is just walking into the lobby when I get there, and she brightens so much at the sight of me that I relax any worries about my appearance.
“Stella!” Felicia has a clipboard in her hand, but she holds out her other arm and beckons me in. Her hug lingers for a second, and she quickly rubs my shoulder before pulling back to assess me. “It’s so nice to see you. Things are settling in okay for you? You and Sam are…getting along?” She’s clearly trying not to smile too broadly.
I’m standing in her son’s clothing, so I can’t really pretend otherwise. “Um…Sam just let me borrow some things.” I clear my throat. “That’s all.”
“Mmhmm.” She makes what I’m sure is an imaginary note on her paper. “Did you stop by to see him? He’s working in room three twelve.”
“I did come by to see Sam but also you.” I feel shy now, unused to speaking to a maternal figure who hasn’t so far shown herself to be mentally unstable. “That night I was here? You were very kind. I don’t know how to thank you.”
“You can thank me by being happy. That’s all.” Felicia pulls the glasses down from her head and checks me out again, wrinkling her nose at my hair. “And maybe by going to see my daughter.”
“Kelly, right?” I laugh. “Sam told me. I’m on my way there this afternoon. Clothes shopping first.”
“Enjoy your day, kiddo. I’ve got to get back to work, but you and Sam should come by for dinner on Monday night. It’s usually quieter then, and we do a big family meal out on the deck. We’d love to have you.”
“I’d really like that.” I’ve never been invited on my own to a dinner party. “Thank you.”
She directs me to find Sam, and my stomach is in knots while I make my way up the staircase to the second floor and then the third. What if last night was a fluke? What if Sam is a cold, angry silent boy again? What if he was just burning off steam with that kiss, with the way he let his hands hold my waist as his tongue and lips explored my taste and my feel and—
I’ll just have to find out. A room down the long wooden hallway is open, and sunlight pours out. Before I am even through the threshold, Sam answers all of my unspoken questions. He drops the paintbrush onto a tray and is across the room in a flash, grabbing me by the hand and backing me up so that our bodies slam the door shut. I can’t even get out a greeting because his lips are brushing over my neck. Hands entwine in mine, and he pulls them around his waist. Forming words is impossible because I am too engulfed in his touch to think clearly. His lips are so soft, and he trails them up higher until he kisses my cheek. He wraps his arms around me as he eases me in and hugs me, tightly squeezing me. I hug him back, struck by the security I feel. It’s embarrassing how little experience I have with hugging, but he makes it easy.
After he finally relaxes his hold, Sam steps back, and I can see how bubbly he really is today.
“C’mon! Let’s go down to the storeroom and see about hooking you up with some stuff for the apartment, okay? You’re going to love it.”
The storage area in the basement of the inn is massive, and it’s also the area used for deliveries, as indicated by the large garage doors on tracks.
A man lifts a floor lamp from the back of a furniture pile and tries to make his way out.
“Dad! You’re going to fall. Pass the lamp over.” Sam frowns and shakes his head.
“I’m not going to fall. Stop acting like I’m three hundred years old.” The man winks at me.
Of course this is Sam’s father, I think.
His height and build, not to mention his sharp cheekbones, are the same. Gray colors his hairline, blending into the dark brown, and he moves with the same decisiveness as his son.
He emerges from behind a dresser and holds out a hand. “I’m Micah, Sam’s father. You must be Stella.” His smile and charm are irresistible.
“It’s so nice to meet you.”
“I hear you’re coming to dinner on Monday, yes?”
“You are?” Sam asks.
“She is,” Micah says, wiping dusty hands on his jeans. “Your mom just texted me that promise. And so are you, Sam. I can’t remember the last time you came to a family dinner. It’s been at least a year. This pretty girl is our excuse to get you there.”
My face heats a bit.
Sam sounds agreeable enough when he says, “We’ll come. Maybe we should do a clambake? Stella’s probably never been to one.” His palm touches my lower back. “Have you?”
“I haven’t, but I don’t want you to go to any trouble just for—”
“Nonsense.” Micah waves a hand. “We’d love it. It’s a great idea.” He points to the lamp. “Interested? I know it’s kind of old, but it’s nice enough, especially if you clean up the iron and replace the shade.”
“It’s lovely.” The long spiraled iron stand has small branches with metal leaves that lift up around the base and travel to where the bulbs belong. “It’d be perfect in the living room, I think.”
Sam’s fingers rub my back. “There. You just picked out the first thing for your place.”
I laugh. “I did. Maybe I know what I like after all.”
Sam’s chest presses against my back, and he whispers into my ear, “I certainly hope so, or I’m in big trouble.”
I smile.
Micah playfully rolls his eyes and moves past us, slapping Sam on the shoulder. “Show her around, Sam, and I’ll help you bring everything to the house later. Stella, lovely to meet you. Take whatever you want, okay? Lord knows, we’ve collected enough over the years. Please save us!” He waves while he walks and laughs.
I’m beginning to think that Sam just might have the perfect family—another thing I know nothing about.
For the next half an hour, Sam encourages me to browse through the collection of furniture and other decor. I’m uncomfortable asking for or saying yes to anything, but he pushes and pushes until I’ve agreed to a few things, including a gorgeous oversized plush lounge chair. It will be the perfect place to sit with my laptop and work.
He walks me out through one of the open garage doors. “I’ve got to get back to painting. My parents are slave drivers.”
“Yes, they both seem like ruthless, awful people,” I say, laughing.
When he has my face in his hands, Sam looks at me so intently that I fear my knees might buckle.
Then, he says, “I’ll see you at home, yeah?”
Home. I have a home. Or we have a home because he says this as though the house on the hill is ours. That doesn’t even scare me because I’m connecting with someone so easily and fluidly, and it’s beautiful. It feels totally unexplainable, almost magical.
Fuck, I think. I am so crazy about this boy who I don’t know at all yet also know completely. Maybe that’s what the world is all about though—living with dichotomies.
I’ll take this one.
Finally, I nod. “Yes, Bishop. I’ll see you back at home tonight.”
The kiss we share goes on for so long that my hands start pulling at his shirt, lifting the fabric so that my touch can slip under and feel the soft skin of his lower back. Sam’s hips press against me, and his hands are in my hair. His mouth tastes of heat and passion. The humidity has soared, and we are doused by a heavy sun shower that waters our skin and seeps through our clothes. Neither of us runs for cover though. I have never kissed anyone like this, and I can’t stop. I don’t want to. Jay’s kisses felt invasive and made me sick, but Sam’s does the opposite, and I know I could stand here with him until nightfall.
