I stepped closer and studied the bruised, scabbed bridge of his nose, chagrinned. The cut wasn’t long, but it was ugly. Danita would probably sic Molly on him with foundation and face powder.
“Sorry about that.” I unlocked my door and motioned him inside. “So I’ve been demoted, huh? Not living up to my maid of honor title?”
“Dani couldn’t have a better friend than you.” Samuel eyed my apartment, hands jammed into his pockets. “Can I interest you in a stroll to Pearl Street? We can grab dinner on the way, if you’re hungry.”
I kicked off my cursed heels and smoothed down my pencil skirt, debating whether I just wanted to put up my feet and veg. But it was a nice evening and a walk wouldn’t kill me.
“Um, sure. Give me a minute to change and we can take off. Make yourself at home, grab a drink, whatever.” I darted into my bedroom and my hand flew to my chest. Samuel was in my living room, seeing where I now lived. Yes, he’d already been here for his grand cricket prank, but this time, it seemed more real. Fricking monkey rump, now I’d have that image of him standing there, in that stupid floppy hat, burned into my mind.
“Where’s Caroline?” I called from my closet. I paused halfway through pulling a maroon sundress over my head, listening for his answer.
“Denver Airport. I dropped her off an hour ago.”
Yes! “Oh? Where’s she going?”
A pause, and a muffled answer. Stupid ear. I shrugged into a pair of sandals and pulled my hair into a ponytail, then changed my mind and let it tumble over my shoulders. Oh yeah. Hair was good today. “What was that?”
“Raleigh. Caro said she needed to take a few days to sort out some personal issues there before the wedding.”
“I take it she’s not happy with our book arrangement?”
“She’ll be fine. She’s just used to the two of us working on a book, that’s all. I don’t think she anticipated involving you, screening what she reads.” Yes. Oh freaking yes. I’d make sure that Caroline never again read a single thing about me. “That, and she’s concerned the longer this personal project takes, the longer it will be until I begin a publishable book.”
“Why do you even need her help if you aren’t publishing?” I touched up my light makeup and slicked ChapStick over my lips. What the heck. I pulled out a tube of dusty pink lipstick.
“Just because I’ve been successful doesn’t mean I should stop pushing my work to the next level. Caroline has a knack for asking tough questions and improving my writing. She usually sees angles I never considered.”
Leave it to Samuel to perfect a book that would never see the light of day. Still, he wouldn’t be Samuel if he didn’t. At least I could enjoy a few days without operating under Caroline’s hydra stares. Pouting my mouth in the mirror, I frowned and wiped off the pink lipstick. Lipstick was for dates and meetings, and this was a night with a friend. I grabbed my purse and waltzed into the living room, hound is gone, hound is gone dancing through my head.
Samuel studied one of my black and white framed photos on the wall. “This is gorgeous. Longs Peak?”
“It’s Molly’s. She gave it to me for Christmas several years ago. Ready to go?”
He stared at my beaded Elvis purse and chuckled. “Some things never change, do they?”
“Hey, if we’re going to do the buddies thing, we are going to do it right. Oh, and lose the hat. I refuse to be seen in public with you while you’re wearing it.”
He tossed the hat on my table, then messed his hair. “Aren’t you worried about having your photo taken with me?”
“We’re friends, right? Unless your plan is to make out in the middle of Pearl Street—then you might need the hat.”
Samuel’s eyes gleamed. “Behave, Trilby, or I won’t buy you any Cherry Garcia after dinner.” Yum. He had me. Darn that fat, bearded Deadhead and his tasty ice cream.
We sauntered through the neighborhood, enjoying the summer evening as we made our way to Pearl Street. Kids flew down sidewalks on bikes or threw footballs across yards. Two little girls in swimsuits blew up floaties as their father tested the water temperature in their wading pool. The pool toys deflated as quickly as he could blow air into them.
“I have a plan,” Samuel said as we turned onto the busier strip. He guided me toward a panini shop.
“Big surprise there,” I teased. “What is it?”
“Okay. I think we both agree our chat at Button Rock didn’t go well for either of us. You have struggles of which I wasn’t even aware. And I was prepared to discuss something entirely different, so you caught me off guard. Do you agree?”
“Yes. You called me dirt.”
Samuel ordered a sub crammed with mozzarella, spinach, and red peppers. I chose the same.
His lips quirked. “And you’re deliberately misinterpreting my symbiosis theory, Miss Trilby. But that’s beside the point. So, you know I have a tendency to hem and haw over decisions. Save the sarcasm.” I kept my mouth shut, swallowing the retort while he paid for our sandwiches. “And you have a tendency to make snap decisions. You do, don’t deny it.”
“Your point is?”
“We need to meet somewhere in the middle.”
“You mean compromise? What a foreign concept.” I tried to take a bite of my sub without the contents tumbling down my cotton dress as we wove through the crowded sidewalk, past shabby boutiques and restaurant patios draped with twinkling white lights.
“What was that I said about sarcasm?” Samuel nudged me. I nudged him back, just as he took a bite of his sandwich, dotting his chin with marinara. He wiped it off and gave me a patronizing glower. “Anyway, we both agree there are discussions that have to happen—‘answers,’ as you’ve put it. Here’s the thing, though. If we just dump our baggage on each other all at once, we’ll end up more confused, overwhelmed, and angrier than before.”
“You mean if we rashly fire questions at each other, we won’t have time to process?”
“Yes.”
“And if we overanalyze everything, we’ll never get a straight answer.”
“Right. So here’s my proposal. Each week, we both ask the other one question. You ask your question on one day, and I’ll ask mine the next day.”
“Just one question?”
“As a discussion prompt, yes. For as long as it takes, until we are both on the same page.”
“Have you spent time in therapy? This all sounds very shrink-like.” I squinted up at him, the setting sun casting his profile in silhouette.
“Is that your one question?”
“No. You think I’d waste it on a ‘Yes or No’ answer?”
“Of course not.” He wadded up his sandwich wrapper and tossed it in a trash can. Ahead, charming shop signs and striped canopies flanked either side of the road until it disappeared into the open blue of the sky.
“So, the questions…are you willing to give this a try?”
“Why just once a week? Is this a stall tactic?”
“Because, Kaye, we’ll need that week to ensure we really understand the implications of what we reveal to each other.”
“You must have some whopper secrets.” I only partly kidded. Spotting the ice cream parlor, I threw the rest of my sandwich away and grabbed Samuel’s hand, pulling him toward dessert. He chuckled.
“I see where your priorities are.”
“Can it, Cabral. You promised me Cherry Garcia and so help me, you better deliver. You can’t tease a girl like that.”
Once we purchased ice cream—mine in a waffle cone and Samuel’s in a neat little cup—we found a green space near the sculpture of a lovely girl on a front porch swing, her bronze tones warmed by an array of brightly hued tulips. We settled onto a park bench and ate our ice cream. An occasional pedestrian stopped to ask if Samuel was that Sirens author. He explained this was fairly typical, unless he was in New York. People tended to mind their own business in the city. They either didn’t know you, or didn’t care.
“So, do you have any more non-d
iscussion questions?” Samuel asked after he’d politely autographed the back of someone’s receipt and smiled into their camera phone.
“Yes. How is any of this going to work? In one week, you’ll board a plane to wherever you’re going for the book tour. You’ll be crazy busy. I get the whole email concept, believe me. Email convo will work just fine when I read your memoir, but…”
Samuel’s blue eyes gently read me as I broke off a piece of my waffle cone. “I promised you I’d do whatever it takes to mend this friendship and I intend to keep that promise. You have my cell phone number. I have yours. If you need to call me, you can, whatever the time. If you want me to fly back for a visit, I will.”
“And you’ll be back in two months for Rocky Mountain Folks?”
“Yes, pink banjo in tow.”
I smiled and offered him a chunk of waffle cone. He took it, even though I was certain he still didn’t like them.
“Do you want to ask first, or should I?”
“You mean we’re starting with the questions right now?” I asked.
“Sure, if you want. No time like the present.”
Shoot. I had to give this some thought. What could I possibly ask him first? Samuel, were you really that unhappy with me? Were you doing drugs in Boulder? Why did you leave? Why didn’t you come back? Did you love me as a friend or as a lover?
“Geez, there are so many questions—this is like having to choose from a dessert tray. Well, a really crappy, ingestion-inducing dessert tray. Why don’t you go instead? I’ll give you time to come up with one.”
“I already know what I want to ask.”
“Oh! Fire away, then.” I nervously crumbled the rest of my waffle cone, bracing myself for the New York question. I sorted out all of the ways I could tell him what happened that night without crying in public. But he didn’t ask.
“Other than the fact that you’ve been wonderfully successful and enjoy taking ridiculous risks—” he smiled when I bristled, teasing me “—I know very little about what you’ve been up to for almost seven years. And I want to know, very badly. So my first question is, why extreme sports?”
I blinked. “Seriously? That’s it?” Hmmm, that was easy. “Okay…what do you want to know about them?”
“Anything. Everything. Why don’t you start by telling me how you became a certified skydiver?”
Skydiving. That was a safe place to begin. I explained how the Paddler boys wanted to become certified as part of their adventure guide careers, and I tagged along. I talked about whitewater rafting, expounding on the difference between a hydraulic and a wave. We talked about TrilbyJones and some of my crazier client requests like the ski shop who wanted to unload merchandise and simultaneously promote the Green movement—buy a thousand dollars’ worth of ski equipment, get a free goat to replace your lawn mower. He listened while I spilled my story, my hands waving enthusiastically over things like ice rappelling or backcountry skiing in Vail. He cringed as I flung my dangerous stunts in his face, but he wisely didn’t comment until I finished.
“Why do you do the ice rappelling, the backcountry skiing, the rafting, all of these risky things?”
“Didn’t I just answer that?”
“No, you told me what you like about them. Not why you do them. There’s a difference.”
“Oh. Well, I live in Colorado, so they’re in my backyard.”
“What else?”
“I guess I do them because they’re thrilling. I’m addicted to the adrenaline rush.”
“And?”
I shrugged. “What other reason would there be?”
“So you like risking your life simply because you get a temporary adrenaline rush.”
“Look, you asked and I answered. If you believe there’s more to it, then why don’t you come right out and tell me what it is?”
“That’s not the way this works, Kaye. I can’t ask a question and then answer it for you.”
“Well obviously you know the answer better than I do. But that’s nothing new, is it?”
Samuel ground his jaw, and I thought for a moment he would argue with me and demand that I tell him what I really meant by that. He didn’t. Instead, he offered me a contrite smile.
“I’m sorry. You know your own mind and I shouldn’t argue otherwise.”
The playful charm of the evening had all but deflated. The sun sank below the row of brick storefronts and would soon be gone, leaving us in a world of violet. Throwing away our trash from the ice cream, we left the green space and wandered up Pearl Street, gazes bouncing over the mountains that shadowed the city.
Soon, Boulder would be decorated in its red, white, and blue regalia for its Independence Day celebration. Our group of friends usually made an evening of it, listened to live music and hung around until ten o’clock for fireworks. Colored fire would fill the sky and drift down as Sousa marches pounded from loud speakers. For a fleeting moment, I thought about inviting Sam—he’d enjoy the music and the company.
“I miss this in New York—how everything catches on fire before sunset. The mountains, particularly.” He gestured over his shoulder to the starless mounds blackened by the extinguished sun.
I studied the faint circles under his eyes. “You look tired, Samuel.”
“It’s been a long weekend.”
We watched a thin, haggard man shuffle past us, his hair gray and skin weathered and rough like canyon crags. A black garbage bag was slung over his shoulder and clanked with bottles and cans. I leaned my head against Samuel’s warm shoulder. His arm came around me.
“Sometimes it’s strange to me, seeing homeless people wandering around Boulder, not like it is in Denver. And I bet it’s an everyday occurrence for you in New York.”
Samuel shifted so he could see my face. “It depends on the part of the city. But yes, most people get used to it. I don’t, though.”
“I wonder what happens in a person’s life to drive them to the streets? How does someone go from having a family and a home, and a school, to picking up cans for a living and sleeping in a doorway?”
“I suppose a number of different factors. Addictions. Mental illness. Physical disabilities. Criminal record. Natural disasters. Maybe all of the above. Most of the time, only a single twist of events separates their lives from ours, you know? Seeing them reminds me that if it weren’t for certain people, I could have been one of them.”
His arm tightened around my shoulders as he became lost in thought. I let him have his silence while my mind drifted to his troubles in New York. I’d have to ask him about it, soon, but it would be on my terms. Already, a million questions formed. By the time Samuel’s grip on my shoulder loosened and he pulled me from the bench, I’d decided what I would ask him next time we talked.
At last, the sun was gone. Stretching our limbs, we made our way back to TrilbyJones, past the colorfully-lit boutique displays packed with sporting gear and artwork. We moved quickly this time, stopping occasionally to peer at something in the windows.
“So, I’ve been curious but never wanted to ask. Why aren’t you Angel’s best man? At first I thought it was because you never see each other, but rumor has it you still keep in touch. He’s closer to you than he is to Santiago or Hector.”
“Angel and I talk to each other once a month. Don’t worry, we never discuss you,” he rushed on. “Usually Danita hands the phone over to him after she chews me out for not coming home more often.”
“You deserve it, after the coercing Sofia has to do to get you to come back to Lyons, even for holidays. But you didn’t answer my question.”
“Angel did ask me to be his best man. I declined.”
I halted. “Why on earth did you do that?”
Samuel rubbed the back of his neck. “In retrospect, I probably shouldn’t have. But when he asked me, I wasn’t sure I’d be able to manage the requirements.”
“You mean planning the bachelor party and renting a tux? Wow, those are hard.”
Samuel began walking
again. “You know what I mean, Kaye.”
I sighed. “Yeah, I know. Jaunting down the aisle together in the church where we got married. Talk about déjà vu. I have to admit, I stressed about it, too. But, Samuel, I think you should have told him yes. It would have meant a lot to him, and you’d have managed just fine. Me, however…you know what a nostalgic sap I can be.”
Samuel kindly pulled me around to face him. “Having a sensitive heart does not make you a sap, Kaye. Please don’t degrade it. You have such a bent for caring about people and you don’t even realize it.”
“Oh yes. Downtrodden guinea pigs are singing my praises across all of Los Angeles. Kaye Trilby: friend of furry rodents.”
“Well, undeserving as I am, I’m grateful to call you my friend again.” He lightly touched a finger to my cheek.
“Me too.”
Samuel walked me to my front door. He leaned against the frame, his arms crossed over his chest.
“Can I see you tomorrow, Trilby? Don’t forget—you have to ask me a question.”
“Ugh, tomorrow’s crazy.” I flew through everything I had to do to get ready for the wedding. “And I have to help my dad’s girlfriend and Molly put together eighty welcome baskets for out-of-town wedding guests at The Garden Market, then distribute them to hotels. You may not have a lot of extended family, but the Valdez’s—flippin’ stapler, that family is huge!”
“Most of ’em are Roman Catholic.” Samuel grinned. “I have a feeling the Valdez family’s descent upon Lyons will be the biggest party the town’s ever seen. Anyway, I can help with the bags. Let me drive you around—we can talk, then.”
“How can I possibly refuse extra help?”
He pulled me in for his customary hug and head kiss. “Goodnight, Kaye.”
“Don’t forget Cassady’s floppy hat.”
That night, I couldn’t sleep. I considered finishing the last few chapters of The Last Other, but that would probably cause my brain to floor the gas pedal and peel out. Instead, I made myself a mug of hot chocolate, put on The Twiggies, and relaxed in my comfy leather chair. The music smoothed the rough edges from my thoughts until I could fall into the pile and not be cut.
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