I think about Sam. About their similarities, and their differences. I was once put off by how ostensibly similar Sam and Robin seem, but I know now that what makes them alike is barely surface deep. That where it matters, Sam is far more like Cam than he is Robin—that he's more like Cam than anyone else I've ever known. But then again, he is very much uniquely himself.
They would have liked each other, I have no doubt of that. In another life, they could have been great friends, and I drift back into sleep with these wistful thoughts of a world I will never know.
Chapter Six
Iwake up feeling a little lighter than most days. Like I do most Tuesdays and Thursdays. Because today I tutor Rory after school, and so I know I have some alone time with her to look forward to. As much as it sucks to pretend I don't want more, I'd be lying if I said I wasn't grateful for every minute I get with her. And it gives me an opportunity twice a week, while tutoring her in a subject she detests, to gauge how she's doing.
Next week will be the final exam, and so this is probably one of the last tutoring sessions we'll have, if not the last. The truth is she's pretty caught up on the coursework, so while I could probably swing talking her into one more session just to be safe, it won't be more than the one.
With the end of the year approaching, there's a cloud of uncertainty hanging over me, casting an ominous shade on everything I do. I see her around, of course, but rarely alone. And as just friends, without a legitimate excuse to get together just the two of us, I fear I'm going to lose these opportunities for good.
Lately she's seemed a bit better. Ever since that God-awful brunch. Not all better, of course, but better than she's been since Miami. Except she's still so damn tired all the time, and it drives me crazy.
I jog through the double doors that lead out the gymnasium wing and down the concrete steps to the student lot. Tucker and Dave are already chatting by my truck and I greet them each with our standard handshake.
"'Sup, bro," Dave says in greeting. He's not actually asking me what's up, just saying hello. I nod in return just as the rest of the boys join us.
"Pizza?" Luke asks. He and Marshall always want pizza.
I look to Tuck, silently asking him what only he knows will decide where I'm going to eat lunch.
"Girls want to meet at the diner," he replies.
I nod, tell Luke and Marshall that I'm going with Tuck and Andy, and they shrug and head on their way. Dave comes with us, too, and they climb into my car. I see Carl and Tina by Carl's car, waiting on Rory, who always takes an extra couple of minutes taking the long way around the outside of the building to avoid walking by the locker rooms. If my last class wasn't on the exact opposite side of the building, I'd go out of my way to walk her every day.
I wait to get into my car until I see her joining her friends. I want to wait even more, to see if she seeks me out, makes eye contact, maybe even gives me that sweet smile of hers, but I don't. I have to play the game.
Just friends.
And so I drive my boys to the diner and pretend like hearing the girls will be meeting us for lunch didn't just brighten my day even further, and as I sit in the booth, pretend I'm not carefully positioning myself to sit next to her. It's a farce that at least Tuck, and probably Dave and Andy, see right through, but they don't say a word.
The girls arrive and I get up to let Tina and Carl sit next to their guys. Rory makes her way over to my side of the booth to sit next to me as planned, and her lips slide up into a small, sincere smile. I watch her face with greed, and my eyes inexorably skate over her tight ass as she bends to scoot in next to me. I can't pull them away, so I shut them instead, for the barest of moments, before I grab a menu and pretend to look over offerings I've long memorized in an attempt to disguise my longing.
Dave and Tuck start arguing about the Knicks, who are actually in the playoffs this season, and I take advantage of the distraction and take another survey of Rory. I watch as she stifles a yawn, grinding her teeth together to quash it. But the scrunch of her eyes, they way they water slightly, gives her away.
I lean down to her ear, I can't help it. "You okay?" I ask.
She doesn't turn to me. I guess she's used to me whispering words for her ears only. Instead she bites her lip, telling me that whatever she answers, it won't be the whole truth. She's not a liar, but she does rationalize half-truths to herself, and put enough half-truths together, and you have total bullshit.
"Yeah, fine, why?" Her tone is meant to be light, blasé. But it rings false to me, and I'm pretty sure that I wouldn't have believed her even if I hadn't seen her bite her lip.
I don't call her out on it, though. What would I possibly say?
"You just seem… tired," I make an attempt.
She's not surprised by my words, and I half think she was expecting them. She swallows anxiously though, and I think that maybe she'd been worried I'd notice.
She fakes an ironic chuckle. "I'm always tired, Sam," she murmurs. No one else at the table is remotely interested in our conversation, all engrossed in their own. Either way, only I know why Rory is always tired. Only I know about her nightmares. And it fucking kills me. Knowing I can't protect her from them.
Fuck that. I can protect her from them. I did protect her from them, in Miami. And a small part of me even resents her a little that by breaking up with me, she took that right from me. And the worst part is—she's the one suffering for it. Because I can handle my own suffering. It fucking sucks, but if it's what she wants, then it's what I'll give her. But watching her yawn for the third time since we sat down fifteen minutes ago, and seeing the sorrow in her eyes… it fucking destroys me. Whatever is left of me, anyway.
She barely picks at her grilled cheese sandwich, maybe eats one and a half french fries. When she yawns again not another ten minutes later, this time unable to even try to suppress it, I narrow my eyes at her. She blinks away from me, swallowing nervously again, or maybe it was another stifled yawn, who even knows anymore?
I lick my lips unconsciously, still leaned into her, itching to say something to her, to tell her she needs to get some fucking sleep, to accuse her lying to me about how she's been doing.
But I say none of these things. I can't. Not in front of half of our friends. They're starting to gain interest in our conversation just from the way I'm glaring at her, and so I turn my attention to my burger. A minute later and everyone is talking about some bar we're going to the night before Senior Sleep-In next Friday.
I glance at Rory's plate and notice she's barely made it on to french fry number three. I nudge her lightly with my elbow, and nod my chin at her plate.
Fucking eat.
She picks up the grilled cheese and takes a small bite, exaggerating her chewing for my benefit. I smile, subtly nodding my approval.
That's it, baby girl, I think to myself when she takes a second bite, bigger the first. I can call her what I want in my head, and I do. It makes all of this the smallest bit more bearable.
We talk about some events coming up, including prom, which Andy, Tucker, and their girls are looking forward to, but that's about it. To be completely honest, I don't even want to go. But my friends would never let me out of it, and it's easier to just go along with it. It's just one night.
Chelsea has hinted that she'd like to go as friends, but so far I've played dumb to her subtly. I honestly probably won't take her either way, but it's hard to even think about her, to consider her, when I can't think of anything other than the possibility of taking Rory.
That is the one thing that would make that night not fucking suck.
But I don't know if she's up for something like that right now. A month ago I would have said she was. But that motherfucking bastard…
Anyway, something tells me that now she might not be open to going with me, even as a friend. She would probably see it as crossing the line of friendship either way, and wouldn't want to blur those lines. And fuck am I scared to push her.
I glance over a
t her again, and am pleased as fucking pie to see that she's finished half her grilled cheese and more than half of her fries. I don't bother hiding my smile. If any of my friends notice the lift in my mood, they don't show it. Rory doesn't notice a damn thing, she's too fucking exhausted to function, but at least she ate something.
I remember that Carl drove them to lunch, and am grateful that Rory's not driving. I'd hate to start a fight by insisting she hand her keys over to Carl.
We walk them to their car and Dave follows along. Tucker kisses Carl through the driver's window as I help Rory into the backseat. She gives me a curious look, acting like she doesn't need my help, but she practically stumbles into the seat. I grimace. She really needs to get some motherfucking sleep.
When there is nothing more I can do without making a scene of one kind or another, I reluctantly close the door and step back from Carl's A4.
I keep my eyes open when we pull back into the student lot. We left just after the girls, but only we got stuck at that damn red light on Branch Road, and their car is already parked, Carl and Tina heading up the steps and back into the building. But Rory's not with them. She wouldn't be, of course, and I scan the perimeter of the building in search of her, but she's nowhere in sight.
There's no way she could have made it around the corner of the building so quickly, and I cut the engine and jump out of the car before my boys can even unbuckle their seatbelts. I catch up to Carl and Tina at the double doors.
"Where's Rory?" I demand.
Carl gives me a look, telling me she thinks I'm overreacting. But I don't give half a shit.
I raise my eyebrows, waiting with thinly veiled impatience until Carl rolls her eyes and sighs.
"Relax, Cap. She just had to get something from her car."
I don't wait. I turn and scan the lot for her jeep. I don't know why I'm suddenly overcome with the threat of panic. Somehow I know that Rory's story about getting something from her car is bullshit. It's another one of her half-truths, I know it. She may have gone to her car, but I have the terrifying, plaguing suspicion that she intends to get behind the wheel and the girl can barely walk straight right now.
It takes me an interminable moment to spot it, parked against the back fence, just about as far from the school building as she could possibly have parked. And it pisses me off further. Has the girl learned fucking nothing? Getting behind the wheel when she can barely keep her eyes open, and parking so far away when she knows she'll be leaving school late after our tutoring session. Even if she knows I'll walk her to her car, it's still an unnecessary risk, and she should fucking know better.
I jog to her jeep in record time, ignoring curious looks. The only relief I have is the absence of her brake lights, telling me that at least she's not pulling out. But she doesn't appear to be retrieving anything from it either. In fact, she doesn't appear to be outside her car at all.
I peer through the back window, but can't see if she's in the driver's seat, she keeps the headrest too high and she's too small. I make my way around to the driver's side and feel a simultaneous surge of anger and relief. Because her small frame is slumped in the seat, her head laid back and mouth slightly open in sleep. I don't doubt that she had every intention of driving out of this parking lot, but I thank God that she didn't even get to start the engine before she closed her eyes and passed the fuck out.
I take a deep breath, exhaling my frustration with the whole situation. I run hand after hand through my hair, before I decide what I need to do.
Rory needs a fucking nap. And I'm going to make sure she gets it. And not in a goddamn car.
I pull the handle, further conflicted over my relief that she didn't lock it, and my anger that she didn't fucking lock it. She doesn't even flinch at the sound.
She looks like an angel when she sleeps. Her thick fans of lashes hide the soft gray circles of exhaustion that I know lie just under her tired eyes. The faint flush of sleep stains her pale cheeks, which still have the slightest spattering of sun freckles from Miami—physical proof that our time as something more than friends was real.
A thick curtain of her long, auburn hair has fallen over half her face, and it blows faintly with each puff of air exhaled from her perfect pink lips. She's so beautiful it takes my breath away like some fucking cliché. I shake my head, silently chastening myself. I didn't come here to stare at her while she sleeps. Well… not in her fucking car, anyway.
I slide one arm around her back, and the other under her knees, and gently pull her to me. She startles in her sleep, and I watch her brows pinch together in confusion and perhaps a smidge of fear. I'm almost positive she relaxes before I even whisper my affirmations of her safety, of comfort. I let myself believe what I'm almost sure I saw--that it was her deep inhale, the recognition of the familiar scent of my aftershave that comforted her.
"It's just me, baby girl," I whisper to her soothingly, calling her what I usually only call her in my head now. "I've got you. We're going to take a nap."
I'm not expecting a response, and her faint murmured "m’kay", practically melts my heart into a puddle right there inside my goddamn chest.
I carry her around the front of her jeep, squeezing us through the small space between it and the fence to avoid as many eyes as possible since the next lunch period just began and the lot is filled with classmates.
I prop my foot on the side bumper and shift Rory's weight to my knee so I can get the passenger door open, then carefully place her on the seat and reach over and buckle her seat belt.
She murmurs something I can't make out, so I whisper more assurances and press a soft kiss to her forehead. I'm about to shut her door when I hear her breathe my name. I'm sure of it. But she says nothing more, and I give it another couple of seconds to make sure she's still asleep before I head back around to the driver's seat. I slide my phone from my pocket, text Tuck that Rory wasn't feeling well and I was driving her home, and for him to tell Carl. I'll get Tuck to pick me up after school to get my car back later.
I drive to Rory's house in silence, just listening to the sound of her deep, even, peaceful breathing. It is music to my fucking ears.
I park her jeep in the driveway, pocket her keys, and make my way around to carry her inside. There's another small startle when I slide my arms under her, but she relaxes into me immediately, and whimpers softly in her sleep.
I lift her effortlessly, she really is a slight little thing—not short for a girl, but not tall either, and naturally slim. Though her recent lack of appetite has cost her weight she couldn't afford to lose.
Rory's arms come up and clasp around my neck, taking me by surprise.
"Sam," I hear her murmur again.
"That's right, baby, it's me." I sigh, both in the pleasure of having her in my arms, and the resignation that I know it isn't real. "I've got you, Pine," I assure her.
She's either talking and moving in her sleep, or exhausted to the point of delirium. Probably a little of both, and I'm pissed again that she almost tried to drive herself home like this.
As if she can sense my tension even in her current state, she burrows her face into the side of my neck to soothe me. And it works, of course—the tension instantly drains out of me, but resurges lower, in one particular area that can't help but be affected by the sensation of her lips against my skin.
"That's not helpful right now, baby girl," I whisper to her as I reposition her weight to grab her keys from my pocket.
She hums against my neck, the vibrations flowing through my entire body, only making it harder for me. Figuratively, and literally.
Her house key is the only other key on the chain, and I open it expeditiously, and carry her upstairs to her bedroom. I know her mother will be home late today. Rory mentioned it would be after dinner, and I want her to sleep as long as she possibly can. She needs it. And I'll stay here all fucking day if I have to.
I yank open her comforter and lay her down on the sheet, slipping off her sneakers and setting them ne
xt to the bed. She's in black leggings and a gray tee shirt today, so she should be comfortable. She started wearing leggings or sweatpants every Tuesday and Thursday so she wouldn't have to change for phys-ed, and the recollection elicits a surge of renewed resentment toward Chelsea, whom I'm supposed to have forgiven.
Though it's only the reason she wears them that I resent. Because I'll be honest, I'm definitely not complaining about those tight stretchy pants. I want to send a fucking thank-you note to whoever it was that invented them.
Rory rolls to her side and burrows into her pillow before she settles into stillness. I fight to force my eyes away from the perfectly outlined curve of her ass.
I watch her for a few minutes, wondering what I should do now. I don't want her nightmares to return, not today. I know if I hold her there's a better shot of keeping them away, but she's not mine, and that's not my right anymore. If she were awake I would ask her permission. I would fucking beg if I had to. But she's not, so I don't know what to do.
The thought of just climbing into bed with her is tempting as hell. But it would be beyond presumptuous at best, and probably a violation for any girl. But for a girl with Rory's history? It could be disastrous. So instead, I drag her desk chair to the foot of her bed, sit down, kick my feet up onto the mattress, and watch her sleep. I tell myself I'm not a creepy stalker. And I hope to hell I'm not lying to myself.
The buzz of my cell phone has never sounded louder. I jump up out of my chair, fumbling for the damn thing before it can wake Rory. I'm about to decline the call, but I check the caller ID first just in case. The 212 number is one I've recognized since I was little.
I accept the call before it can buzz again, and slip out of Rory's room, keeping the door ajar so the click of the jam doesn't wake her.
"Hello?" I answer, though I know who's on the other end.
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