Sam doesn't hold my hand. The prosecutor told him not to. That he should do his best to appear unbiased or it may affect the judge's perception of his testimony.
His testimony comes next. It sounds much like his statement, just longer, and he shows less emotion than that night in Miami. His cross-examination runs significantly longer than his initial testimony. The defense tries to paint him as my puppet. They try to get him to admit that he couldn't possibly have known for sure if it was Robin or me who started the altercation, and that when he came upon us in the alley it was possible Robin was holding me against the wall to keep me from assaulting him more.
He doesn't.
Sam just keeps saying that it was clear what was going on and that the defense's story isn't remotely plausible. But they keep at it.
Eventually Sam loses his patience. Despite his best performance, his detailing of the exact sight he first saw in that alley gets to him. It gets to me, too. I hate seeing him so affected by it. But he's effective. After all, it's hard to defend holding a girl by her throat, cutting off her air, and shoving your hand under her skirt as self-defense. But it will only be effective if they believe Sam, because that's about the time the defense changes tact and starts questioning Sam about our relationship and his devotion to me—specifically how far he would go to back me up.
They question him over and over about the supposed beating he delivered to Robin after I was safely removed from the alley—after Robin was already subdued. Sam denies it. He swears he did what he had to do to keep Robin down, to keep him from coming after me, nothing more, nothing less.
Photos of Robin from the hospital are entered into evidence. They're pretty damning. Photos of Sam also taken that night show some bruising and swelling, but there's no comparison. It doesn't prove anything, but it doesn't support the story of a fair fight either.
The questioning continues, now asking details about Sam's and my relationship. He's truthful but evasive at the same time. I haven't looked at Robin since I walked into the courtroom, trying to pretend he isn't even here, but I glance at him now. He holds his face carefully without expression, but his hands are curled into fists, so tight his knuckles begin to turn white. My pulse races, beads of sweat breaking out on my nose and forehead. I swallow anxiously. His anger elicits terror in me, and I can't help my fear, even if rationally I know I'm not currently in danger.
The defense attorney takes things too far, asking incredibly personal questions, and though our side objects, the judge allows the defense a "short leash". Apparently nuances of our relationship speak to whether or not Sam would beat someone up for me, if he would lie for me.
"Mr. Caplan, is your relationship with Miss Pine sexual?" the defense attorney, Walter Serpo, asks for the third time and this time the judge directs Sam to give a clear answer.
Sam allows a small half-smirk to play on his lips. "Sometimes," he replies. He's playing the room, being his charming self, but I hate that he has to answer such a personal question in front of an audience. In front of this audience.
There is a small spattering of chuckles from the strangers in the room, but I see Robin's fists tighten even more. For the first time, he turns my way, and though he keeps his glare inscrutable, I can feel his rage, his contempt. He wants to kill me. He wants to kill Sam. He very well may.
The attorney seated next to him elbows him subtly and he returns his gaze straightforward. Everyone is focused on Sam and I doubt anyone noticed Robin's brief hostile glare but me.
I swallow my second pill of the day dry.
Finally Sam is excused and we break for lunch. I barely pick at my sandwich as Counter goes over my testimony with me for the third time, the first two times having been over Skype before we flew down.
I don't want to do this. I'm terrified. But I know I have to find some courage, because this is my chance to stand up for myself—to be my own hero—and I have to come through for myself.
We re-enter the courtroom and get settled, but before we begin, the doors fly open and a new face steps inside.
Well, not a new face. An old face.
Chip is here.
He looks around the room until he finds me, offering me an unsure smile. He's grown taller, his hair longer, almost shaggy, and he pushes it behind his ears. He looks good in his khakis and blazer—handsome, and more mature than I ever expected him to look. He walks over to the bench behind me, this one act demonstrating the reason for his presence—to support me.
My mother elbows me, as if I hadn't noticed him, and I nod at her. I smile at Chip, my friend who I honestly never thought I would see again. He must have driven six hours to be here for me.
"Who is that?" Sam whispers to me.
"That's Chip. Franklin Chipley," I tell him.
"The sheriff's son?" Sam remembers everything.
I nod. Sam nods at Chip in greeting and Chip nods back with a slightly confused expression. Of course, he has no idea who Sam is.
The judge re-enters and we all stand in unison until he tells us to be seated. I'm called to the stand not a minute later.
I am a pathetic witness. My voice is shaky, soft, and the judge asks me to speak up several times. I feel like I'm failing, but I tell the truth. I answer every question, if not always particularly eloquently, and Prosecutor Counter is very patient with me. The defense objects more times than I can count, and the judge grants their objections more often than he overrules them, making me more anxious each time. It feels like he's on their side. I don't know why, but it does, and it terrifies me even more.
I avoid Robin's eyes, except for when I'm asked to point him out in the courtroom.
I disappoint myself by crying more than once, and I have to take three breaks, and one more anti-anxiety pill. But I don't panic and I suppose that's some small victory.
It's nearly five in the evening by the time I'm finished and the judge decides to continue with my cross tomorrow. I'm partly relieved, but at the same time, I just want to get it over with.
I step down from the stand and receive hugs from both my mother and Sam, who whispers to me how brave I was. Chip approaches us hesitantly, and my mother pulls him into a hug, thanking him for showing his support.
I can't find words to tell him how much it means to me that he showed up. Instead, I start crying, and he wraps his arms around my shoulders. It's the first time I've tolerated the touch of a man other than Sam since Cam's death.
"Of course I'm here, Rory girl. I've always had your back, you know that," he whispers to me. It's true—he has. But I'm not sure if I've always known it.
"Thank you Chip," I murmur as I pull away, wiping my eyes.
He turns to Sam and holds out his hand. "Franklin Chipley, I'm an old friend of Rory's," he introduces.
Sam shakes his hand, sizing up Chip as if he might be some kind of competition, which is ridiculous. "Sam Caplan, Rory's boyfriend."
Chip's eyebrows raise as he continues shaking Sam's hand. He doesn't trust him, that much is obvious. Of course, he knows what happened with my last boyfriend.
"Did you drive down?" I ask Chip.
He nods. "Left at dawn, woulda got here earlier, but I-95 was shit."
"Are you drivin' back tonight?" I ask.
"Is this bullshit hearing over?" he asks, already knowing the answer, so I don't offer him one. "Then I ain't goin' anywhere, Rory girl," he says meaningfully.
Hearing the nickname both twists my heart painfully and makes me smile. That's what grief does once you've actually begun to process it, which I'm starting to realize I have, thanks to Michelle's Cam box. It makes you think of the happy times, and makes you miss them terribly at the same time.
"Well, where are you staying?" I ask.
He shrugs. "Haven't quite figured that out just yet. I'll find a motel."
I look up at Sam.
"I'll get you a room at our hotel," he offers.
Chip starts to argue, but Sam explains his hookup and Chip relents. My mother wants to work on the
case tonight, so Sam, Chip and I plan to have dinner together and catch up. I want them to get over their distrust of one another. I want them to like each other. Because Chip has no romantic interest in me and Sam would never hurt me, and once they both realize that, I'm sure they can be friends.
Chapter Seventeen
Rory's mom is still talking to Prosecutor Counter and Rory and Chip are chatting like the lifelong friends they obviously are, so I decide to give them a few minutes to catch up in private. The truth is I could also use a few minutes. Hearing Rory recount all that—watching her relive it… it wasn't easy for me. I leave them talking and head to the men's room.
It's good that they're still in the courtroom because I stop cold when I turn the corner to find her father and that motherfucking bastard's father standing around talking about the day's proceedings.
Fucking traitor.
Neither man notices me and I don't make myself known. As much as I'd love to tell them both off—or fucking deck them—I know that wouldn't be helpful to Rory.
Robert Forbes takes the opportunity to say some nasty things about Rory's testimony and I grit my teeth to stop myself from reacting. I wait there, not wanting to pass them, which I have to do to get to the bathroom.
"Your daughter is one good liar," Forbes observes.
I wait for Rory's asshole father to agree, or at least respond, but his silence surprises me. Both times I've met him he's jumped at the chance to condemn Rory. There's a long, pregnant pause and, for some reason, it startles me.
"She's not, actually," her father mutters so quietly I almost can't make it out.
I listen more intently, suddenly riveted by the exchange.
Forbes scowls. "What?"
There's another long pause before Rory's father speaks again. I stare at the small glimpse of profile I can see of him, his introspective expression confusing me deeply.
"When Rory was nine she broke a vase," he says cryptically.
Forbes glares at him with impatience, but he doesn't seem to care.
"I came home from golfin' early—with you, actually—on account of a sudden rainstorm, and there it was, shattered on the livin' room floor. I went up to her room to ask her about it. Cam Foster was with her, told me they heard a noise, but had no idea what had happened. That it musta been the cat."
Rory's dad lets out a soft, ironic snicker at the memory. "Kid was a good liar. Convincing as all hell. I asked Rory if that was the way of it. You see, those kids couldn't go an hour without tossin' a baseball around those days. Little League season was just startin' out and Rory was intent on startin' with the boys. She never could warm a bench.
"But like I said, it was rainin'. They weren't supposed to play ball in the house, Rory knew that…"
He trails off for a moment, Forbes watching him both warily and with frustration. "Honestly, Marty, my son is on trial for sexual assault and battery! His entire goddamn future is at risk because of your daughter! Why the hell am I listenin' to this stupid story—"
But Rory's father cuts Forbes off, continuing as if he wasn't interrupted in the first place.
"She had this tell, you know. Has this tell. She can't lie for shit. Bites her lip every time. When I asked her about the vase, she chewed it red. I knew right away she was lyin'. That she and Cam broke the vase, probably playin' ball in the house. Even as a teenager she bit her lip any time she so much as stretched the truth or left somethin' out. Amy and me, we always knew when somethin' was up with her because of it… Until I stopped payin' attention…
"But, you know, Bobby, that wasn't the only reason I knew she lied. She wasn't just bad at it, she couldn't stand doin' it. That stupid lie about the vase—an hour later she came to me sobbin', her eyes rainin' harder than the rainstorm, confessing that she did it. That she talked Cam into practicing inside, and she knocked it over goin' for a catch. "
His voice has grown strangely self-recriminatory, and I wonder. I wonder if it could be possible that he's finally coming to his senses. And from the look on that motherfucking bastard's father's face, he's wondering the same thing.
"Rory ain't a good liar, Bobby. Rory ain't a liar at all," he says pointedly.
Forbes expression morphs from nervous to indignant. "What exactly are you sayin', Marty?"
"I think you know exactly what I'm sayin'. I—shit." And then without another word, Rory's father turns and walks away, heading into the stairwell and disappearing inside it.
I back away, not wanting to be noticed, but I'm hoping. I'm hoping that what I just saw, what I just overheard, is exactly what it appeared to be. I'm not sure how it can help Rory's case, but the idea of Rory winning this small piece of vindication, it gives me just that—hope.
I won't tell her. I'm not sure what good it could do. But if Rory's father, one of that motherfucking bastard's biggest supporters, was convinced by her testimony, then maybe the judge was too.
But I'm not leaving it up to chance. My father explained the best way to ensure the case, including this hearing, goes our way, and I plan on seeing to it.
Like I've said before, I keep my promises. Especially to my girl.
Chapter Eighteen
Sam and I meet Chip in the hotel restaurant for dinner around seven. We spent the last hour sitting on Sam's hotel room balcony just decompressing from the day. Sam had a lot of questions about Chip even though I'd told him a bit about him before. Eventually he seemed satisfied that Chip’s and my friendship was more like brother and sister than anything else, complete with a healthy sibling-like rivalry.
He also wanted to hear details of how Chip reacted to what went down in Linton after Cam's death. Like he wanted assurances of his loyalty. He was satisfied to hear that Chip essentially bullied me into making my statement against Robin. That if it weren't for him, I may have never done it at all.
Chip looks more like himself at dinner in faded jeans and a golf shirt, which is still pretty dressed up for him. When Sam excuses himself after appetizers, murmuring something about letting Chip and me catch up, I realize that through all his earlier questioning he was looking for reassurances about leaving me alone with him. I don't know his real reason for excusing himself. Not for certain. Because Chip and I could just as soon catch up with Sam here, and I want him here, but I suspect he needs some alone time after a long day of testimony, and I don't want to make him feel guilty for it. So I say nothing.
I let spending time with Chip distract me. It turns out he's going to college in New York as well—the John Jay College of Criminal Justice—and with the knowledge that I really may get my friend back, we relax and just enjoy each other's company. We both pretend like it's the only reason we're here, in this restaurant in this hotel in Miami. We ignore the real reason.
We talk about memories. We talk about Cam. It feels good to talk about him with someone who was there, someone who remembers. Someone who loves Cam as much as I do. We don't discuss his death, we only discuss his life, and we do something I never thought I'd do again while thinking about Cam—we laugh.
But there are things I'm not ready to talk about. That I'll probably never be ready to talk about. Mostly because there is nothing to say. No answers. Because when Chip suddenly gets serious, an uncharacteristic look for him, and tells me how much Cam loved me, I have a striking suspicion he means more than the obvious. It's only a moment later that he confirms my suspicion.
"Did he ever tell you, Rory?" Chip's voice is soft and hesitant, and he seems oddly invested in the answer.
I can't meet his eyes, so I train them on my raspberry sorbet instead.
Chip sighs. "Well I guess he must've. Or you wouldn't even know what I was talkin' about, would you?" he says more to himself than to me.
It's minutes before I speak again, and in those minutes I'm desperately conflicted, as I always am when I think about that night, about our kiss. But even more so when I try to guess what would have happened if he hadn't vanished from my world—from the world—the very next morning.
> Sometimes I play out an alternate life. One where my plans weren't thwarted by my own naivety. Where Cam never read Robin's texts, where I woke up before him and had Robin arrested before Cam could try to confront him. Would we have ended up together? I don't see how we wouldn't have.
I loved Cam, I know that. But it wasn't what I feel for Sam. It wasn't less than, but it was different. But knowing how deeply in love I am with Sam doesn't change the fact that if Cam lived, I would be his. And I could have been happy. I may never have known the all-consuming passion, the borderline obsession and desperation for another person that I do now.
But that's just it, isn't it? I never would have known. Do you miss something you don't know exists? Particularly when you have a different, safer kind of love? A life-long companionship that means the world to you? I don't know the answer, and that's the problem. I'll never know the answer.
But I can't seem to stop asking myself the question.
"I love Sam," I say finally. It's the wrong thing to say, but then, anything I say right now is the wrong thing. There is no right thing when there's no right answer.
"I can see that," Chip murmurs, not even the smallest ounce of judgment coloring his words. It helps me meet his eyes again.
"But I did love Cam," I tell him. He knows that of course. "It could have been more. It might have already." My eyes well up, but I don't let a single tear fall. "What if in some alternate universe, I'm with Cam? Or at least, I'm supposed to be…"
I feel like I'm betraying Sam somehow. Like I do when I go through my Cam box. I know it isn't based in logic. Or maybe that's exactly what it is. If P then Q. If I hadn't lost Cam, I'd never have met Sam. I'd undo Cam's death in a microsecond…
"Rory—"
"I never thought I'd have this," I breathe. "I didn't even know it existed. It's not what I felt for Cam," I admit.
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