Reilly crouches down in front of the sink. “It’s different than I thought it would be, but it’s fine.”
“Different, how? Bad?”
He shakes his head. “Sort of therapeutic in a way, I guess.”
Therapeutic or not, it can’t be easy for him to dive back into his past like this. I can’t help but feel sad for him, that he has to do it all alone. “Well, I know you’ve got a lot of it done already, but if you need help, someone you don’t have to pay, I’d be happy to help you. I could help you landscape or maybe paint something. And I’m good at mending fences.”
Reilly smiles, though it’s small and probably more out of politeness, and pulls open the bottom drawer of the cabinet. “Thanks, I’ll let you know.”
“I’m sorry I haven’t offered until now.” I hadn’t wanted to try to be friends, had been too embarrassed, too bitter, but now I’m just tired of fighting it.
“It’s fine,” he says. “You’ve got a lot going on at your place. I won’t hold it against you.” He shows me a giant bottle of anti-inflammatories.
“Wow, that’s a big bottle of pills.”
Unscrewing the cap, he motions for my hand. I offer him my flattened palm and he taps three pills into it. “I’m finding out that the more you renovate the more your body tends to ache,” he says. “That, or it could be old age. Either way, you can never have too much ibuprofen, which you already know.”
Surprised by his joke and reference to our reunion in Jack’s Save Mart, I smile. “You’re funny.”
A crooked smile curves his mouth.
Feeling the awkward closeness of our proximity settle in, I shuffle back out into the living room for my water glass. “How long was I asleep for, anyway?”
“Probably twenty minutes,” he says as he heads into the kitchen. He opens the fridge. “Are you hungry at all? I didn’t get the impression you ate much at dinner.”
“Oh, I had some bread, but no, nothing substantial. What about you?”
Reilly shakes his head. “I’ve been pretty busy.”
“Well,” I hedge. “Are you offering?” I try not to get too excited, but my stomach gurgles and I realize that I do need to eat something.
Reilly nods and crouches down so I can’t see him behind the refrigerator door.
“Lucky me, I guess. Whatcha thinkin’?” Feebly, I walk toward the kitchen, leaning against the fridge as he peers inside, appraising its contents.
“Breakfast?”
It’s like I’m floating back to Sunday mornings with Papa cooking in the kitchen at home with bacon sizzling on the stove. I can’t help but smile. “That sounds perfect.”
Looking satisfied, Reilly pulls out an onion, then a small square of cheese and half a pound of bacon.
My stomach growls just imagining it all piled on a plate in front of me. “What can I do to help?”
“There’s a basket of potatoes under the sink. Grab a few of them, would you?”
“Fried potatoes? Yummy. You sure know the way to a girl’s heart,” I say absently, then clarify, “I mean, stomach, or . . . whatever.”
“How many eggs do you want? One?” He straightens when I don’t answer and looks at me over his shoulder.
Flashing him a sickly sweet smile and fluttering my eyelashes, I ask, “Would it be too gluttonous of me to request two eggs with my fourth meal, or . . .”
With a smirk, Reilly pulls out a carton of eggs and sets it on the old Formica countertop. “Two eggs it is.”
He insists I elevate my foot while he warms the skillet for the potatoes. So I sit on the counter, out of his way, prop my foot on the back of the only hardback chair in the house, and start chopping, first a couple potatoes, which I hand over to him for the skillet, then the onions.
“I haven’t cooked breakfast since before Papa died,” I say, a little bit wistful, though I’m not sure why I’m compelled to say anything at all. “I’m not sure the burnt bacon on our camping trip counts.”
Reilly looks at me, listening.
“It was sort of his thing, you know?” I wipe the onion-induced-tears dripping down my cheeks. “It’s the one thing I haven’t even thought about making at home. Why do you think that is?”
Reilly stirs the potatoes in the frying pan and sprinkles some salt and pepper over them before he turns the heat down. “Honestly?” He pivots to face me.
I eye him a moment, choosing my words carefully. I don’t want any more unsaid things between us, whatever us is. “Yes, honestly.”
“Because it’s like you’ve been ignoring everything that happened, the things that are painful. That’s why you run from everything.”
I bite the inside of my cheek, trying not to be angry with him. He has no idea how much I’ve been trying to embrace the way things are, how hard I’m trying to make it all work now. “Really? And you think I’m ignoring everything because . . .”
Reilly crosses his arms over his chest, assessing me. “You run from your feelings, from taking any chances that don’t have a predictable outcome, you ignore your relationship with Alison . . .”
Each example is a jab, and an unfair one at that. “I take chances,” I say. “I try. I jumped off that cliff, I went out on that horrible date tonight . . .”
He nods. “But neither of them are tied to your past, there’s no emotional risk. You’re closed-off and stuck—”
I hold up my hand. “Let me get this straight,” I say, my voice a little thready. I drop the knife in my hand onto the countertop. “You think, after everything that’s happened, that I should risk more than I already have? I guess I should still be the same Sam then, too, huh? Still act the way I did three years ago—the naïve little Sam—after everything I’ve done? After everything that’s changed?”
Reilly’s brow furrows. “Everything you’ve done?”
I glare at him.
“Sam, I don’t expect you to be the same—no one could be—but you should be healing—”
“—Who says that, Mac? Nick?”
“No, I am. It’s the way things are supposed to work. The way they have to . . . You should be trying to move on with your life, at least attempting to, and you’re not.”
“Move on? What, like move away and leave the ranch behind? Leave Alison? You think I should have forgotten everything by now, and I should be married with kids or . . . what? Everyone has an opinion, so please tell me, Josh, what’s yours?” I jump down from the counter, ignoring the pain in my ankle. “Tell me what I should be doing with my life, because guess what, I have no idea how to do it any other way.”
Although the look in his eyes is wary, it’s determined and severe and it frightens me. “Sam, I don’t pretend to know what it’s like to have gone through what you have, but I do know that you’re not dealing with it in a healthy way. That”—he points to my hip—“and your relationship with Alison is not healthy.”
My teeth ache as my jaw clenches. I’m not sure if I’m still trying to control my anger or something more dangerous. He doesn’t know me. He doesn’t know anything, and I’m tired of everyone thinking that they do.
Reilly steps closer until he’s towering over me. “I’m not trying to hurt you, Sam,” he says, his voice softer. “I’m trying to be honest with you, to help you.”
I ignore his concern, the pain in his eyes. He knows nothing about pain. “You’re right, you don’t have any idea what you’re talking about. I might not be dealing with things the right way, but I’m doing the best I can.” I push past him, into the living room. “I’m so tired of everyone judging me—”
“I’m not going to tiptoe around your feelings like Nick and Mac do. You’re not okay, Sam. You and Alison, you need help. You need to talk to someone.”
I wheel around. “Talk to who? Mac, who has enough on her plate taking care of her own broken family? Nick, who’s done more than enough for us already? Or should I be talking to you? Your family was just as fucked up as mine is, so how can you help me?”
“No, not me
. You need to talk to someone you’ll actually listen to—someone who will help you with all this guilt.” He shuts off the stove.
I need to get out of here. I need to breathe. I grab my clutch off the coffee table, fumbling as I grab my heels. “I’ve talked to Alison, she doesn’t want to go to therapy. What do you people want from me?”
“What about you?” He’s right behind me and his concern, the pity in his voice, makes me want to disappear. “You can get help for you.”
Brushing past him, I reach for the door handle.
“Sam.” His voice is an unspoken command to stop.
I teeter in place and close my eyes.
“Don’t go. Don’t run. Stay here with me.”
I can’t. I want to melt into a puddle and disappear through the floor. The closer his footsteps are, the more my chin trembles and my throat clenches as I try to keep the memories and unwanted emotions bound and buried deep inside me. I don’t want to feel this. I don’t want him to see me crumble.
The air shifts behind me, Reilly’s body only a hairsbreadth away. “Please. It’s just me, Sam. Stay.”
I shake my head. “Why?” I whisper. What good could it possibly do?
Reilly entwines his fingers with mine; his touch almost hurts. “So that you don’t have to be alone.”
It’s like a barbed wire wraps and twists and tightens around my heart. “After everything . . . Why do you still care so much?”
“You know why.” Gently, he tugs me around, and I close my eyes. I can’t bring myself to look at him, I’m too scared—to see him and myself reflected back in his expression. I know there will be no coming back once I do. I’ll give him whatever he wants, no matter the consequences.
Taking my chin in his hand, Reilly tilts my face up and I squeeze my eyes shut tighter. I force my lips into a tight, thin line as I try to squash the surmounting emotions. I breathe in through my nose and out. In and out, willing the pain and anguish away with each breath. But every stroke of his finger against my skin, every lingering moment hurts until I can’t contain it anymore.
“Sam,” Reilly breathes, his thumb brushing over my quivering lips. His whisper holds a thousand jagged unsaid words, too much of my past. “Sam,” he says again. “Look at me.”
Something in his voice finally breaks me. I give in, maybe because it seems easier, and pry my eyes open, forcing myself to look at him. And like I can see hope in his ever-searching eyes, a light in the ever-present, suffocating darkness, a heaviness lifts from my chest and shoulders, escaping on the tears that inundate me, over the brim, heavy on my lashes. Tears are on my cheeks before I register the sound of my choked sobs and my knees give out beneath me.
I’m crying muffled, barely contained sounds that give way to gut-wrenching, body-wracking sobs more imposing and consuming than I can ever remember, the kind that make your throat burn and your body strain to the point of pain. The kind that make you think you might die from lack of air. It hurts to think, to breathe. I’ve never wanted to disappear more than I do as I’m held against Reilly’s chest, his arms wrapped around me, comforting me in the only way he can, and I vaguely wonder how I’ve gone this long without him.
I cry what feels like a lifetime of tears and let out my burden, the torment I’ve been trying to keep inside for far too long. I can feel my body letting go, like it’s awake, breathing for the first time in years.
I cry harder. I don’t bother opening my eyes because everything is blurred and I don’t need to see, I can feel. I can feel my heart pounding, can feel my body shaking and my insides twisting. It’s all I know.
Reilly pulls me up into his arms, and I’m aware that we’re moving, that I’m being lifted off the ground, and I cling to him more tightly. I don’t want him to ever let go of me. I need him, I need him more than I’ve ever needed anyone in all my life, and the fact that he’s here with me, that he’s holding me in his arms, makes me want to cry even harder. But I can’t. I can’t do anything but just be whatever it is that I am.
Twenty-Eight
Sam
Reilly’s chest slowly rises and falls against my back and his arm is comforting and protective around my middle, holding me tight as his fingers play with the ends of my tear-dampened hair, soothing me.
I’ve wanted to run, wanted to hide, wanted to float away and fight and release the anger inside me—to feel physical pain—all in the span of however many breaths, however many minutes have passed that I’ve been lying in Reilly’s arms. I’m trampled, beaten, and bloodied by a melee of wants, shoulds, and have-tos that have been battling for voice and action for years. I know what I must look like to him, how I must seem, and mortification worms its way in as my mind begins to still. But I’m too tired to be embarrassed right now. It’s like all that I’ve been holding onto, everything coiled and cruel and churning inside me, is settled—at least for now—and I just want to be.
Eventually, I open my eyes again. The room, it seems, has darkened. Reilly’s bedroom is lit only by a dim glow that emanates from the bathroom and the moonlight outside his partially draped window.
My cheeks feel like gritty sandpaper when I wipe the dampness from them.
“You thirsty?” Reilly whispers, his hold on me tightening. His breath is warm against my ear and the side of my face, and it hits me that this is the most intimate I’ve ever been with someone, the most exposed, and I’m grateful and happy it’s with him.
With a slight nod, I move to sit up. “Please.”
Reilly reaches behind him, to the side table, and grabs a tissue box. I don’t look at him as he hands it to me, not yet. I can’t.
“How about that breakfast?” he asks.
That actually sounds amazing, and I can’t help the grin that spreads across my face, making my cheeks ache, but I welcome it. “That would be nice. Thank you.”
“Give me a few minutes, and I’ll heat everything back up.” He’s already out of the bedroom door when I finally find the nerve to peer back at him.
He had stayed with me, had held me. I stare down at his indention on the comforter. I promise myself I’m going to eat breakfast and not worry about what just happened between us and what it means. It happened. It just is.
Glancing at the clock, I see that it’s nearly one in the morning, and I briefly wonder if I shouldn’t have at least texted Alison. But after I remind myself that she’s passed out and probably doesn’t care anyway, I decide it doesn’t matter.
Plucking a tissue from the box, I blow my nose. Once, twice for good measure, and I decide I should probably wash my face. Flinging my legs over the bed, I get to my feet, pulling my bunched dress down as far it will go, to mid-thigh, and I hobble into the bathroom. My ankle throbs, but so does my head and my heart, so I pay little attention to it.
The moment I switch the bathroom light on, I’m blinking in the glaring brightness and horrified by my reflection. “Good God.”
Reilly chuckles in the kitchen—the perks of a small house, I guess. “I’m sure it’s not that bad,” he says, loud enough so I can hear him.
“Um, I wouldn’t be so sure,” I murmur. Swollen red eyes, smeared mascara and eyeliner, a pink nose, mussed hair . . . I’m suddenly grateful it was so dark in the room and Reilly couldn’t see me like this. I run my fingers through blonde stray tangles of hair, hoping to tame some of the strands that are more crimped and knotted than curled now.
“On a scale of one to ten, how hungry are you?” Reilly calls from the kitchen. “Ten being that you just have to have bacon and one being toast, fried potatoes, and eggs is sufficient.”
My stomach feels aerated, like it’s oxidizing it’s so empty. “Though it pains me to say this, I could live without the bacon,” I say, knowing it would be another twenty minutes before we ate otherwise.
With thoughts of toast smothered in runny egg, I turn the faucet on and splash cold water on my face. It’s enlivening and makes me feel better, even though exhaustion still feels like an invisible weighted blanket. Dabb
ing my face dry, I give myself a final once-over in the mirror, resigned to the fact that there’s not much more I can do about my appearance, and I flick the light off and make my way through the bedroom and into the kitchen.
Reilly pops two pieces of toast out of the toaster.
“Is there anything I can do to help?” I ask, scanning the somewhat organized mess in the kitchen. Everything pre-meltdown is still strewn around—the cutting board and knife are still on the counter, onion skin scattered about, and my impromptu chair foot-riser is pushed up against the edge of the counter, out of Reilly’s way.
Reilly’s quick in the kitchen, like he’s cooked breakfast in here hundreds of times—like he’d never left.
“You can pour yourself something to drink and take a seat.” He nods toward the living room couch. “Sorry there’s no table to sit at. I haven’t gotten that far yet.”
“It’s not like you were expecting company,” I say easily. Stepping behind him, I reach for two glasses from one of the shelves. “What would you like to drink?” I say, wondering if he has any milk in the fridge.
“Uh, milk, please. There should be a fresh half gallon in there.”
Smiling, I pull out the carton of milk, taking note that other than a few beers, a couple sodas, bottles of water, bacon, a few condiments, and a package of sliced cheese and meat, there isn’t much food in there to speak of.
“Not to be bossy or anything,” I say, pouring us each a glass of cold milk, “but you might want to consider buying some fruit and maybe some vegetables the next time you’re at the store, you know, change things up a bit?”
Reilly gives me a sidelong glance as he plates our food. “Sandwiches and breakfast suit me just fine. I don’t need much.”
“I’d be happy to make a little extra dinner for you every once in a while, if you’d like a home-cooked meal to break up the processed delicacies.” I hope he knows I’m sincerely offering. I figure it’s the least I can do after not only commandeering his night but bawling all over him and eating most of what was left in his fridge.
Saratoga Falls: The Complete Love Story Series Page 27
