Suffer Love

by Ashley Herring Blake

  Finally, he slaps his book shut. “I think we should do act three. It’s long, but it’s when everything starts really heating up. Beatrice thinks she might love Benedick, Claudio thinks he sees Hero in bed with what’s-his-name. It’s a good tension-building act.”

  “I like act five.” Actually, act three sounds good to me too, but I don’t feel like acquiescing so easily.

  “Why?”

  “It’s the resolution. The happy ending.”

  He makes a sound in the back of his throat, something between a laugh and a snort.

  “Everyone wants a happy ending, Sam, even if you don’t believe it’s possible.”

  He glances at me and puts his book down. “Is it so impossible?”

  “Have you ever seen one? A real, honest-to-God happy ending?”

  He frowns and opens his mouth. Nothing comes out, but he keeps looking at me. With our eyes locked like this, I know this is the moment. I need to lean in, let him get within a millimeter of my mouth, whisper what an asshole I think he is for assuming words on a locker somehow mean I’m going to sleep with him, and then leave.

  I angle my body toward him and press lightly against his arm, holding his gaze. I hear him suck in a breath and I look at him from beneath my lashes. All those little tricks I used to abhor. But something stops me from going any further. For one thing, he doesn’t move closer. He doesn’t even blink. Just maintains this baffling intensity that chews at my stomach. It’s not the same type of look I got from Josh or Henry Murphy or Isaac Jorgensen, like I was their favorite flavor of ice cream. It’s a different kind altogether.

  His gaze flicks down to my lips once, but he remains a fortress. Unreadable. I shift away from him and fiddle with the neckline of my shirt.

  “All right,” he says hoarsely before he clears his throat. “Let’s give your happy ending a shot.”

  I nod and write Act V in my notebook, tracing over the letters again and again while I wait for my heart to stop hammering. I feel unsettled, like I’m face-to-face with a mirror, only I don’t quite recognize my own reflection. I look around Sam’s room, but it’s all unfamiliar, making my head even lighter.

  A strident beep sounds from somewhere downstairs, and I startle.

  “Oh, just a sec.” Sam gets up and heads for the door. “I need to get this out of the oven.”

  “Did you just say the oven?” He doesn’t answer and I follow him downstairs, entering the kitchen in time to see him pull a casserole dish out of the top of a double oven.

  “What’s that?” I ask, taking a seat on a stool at the island.

  He places the dish on a trivet on the counter. “Chicken Georgia. Or maybe it’s Tennessee.” He waves a gloved hand. “Whatever. It’s dinner.”

  “You cook?”

  He smiles while he moves aside some mushrooms and melted cheese, cutting into a piece of chicken to inspect it. “Surprised?”

  “A little.”

  “I started when my dad left. My mom’s not very domestic.”

  “Oh. I’m sorry. About your dad I mean.”

  He shrugs and lays down the knife. “He had a good reason.” I’m not sure what to say to that, but he saves me by continuing. “Anyway, it was either cook or let my sister live on frozen pizzas. After a few rubbery chickens and a couple of kitchen fires, I actually got pretty good. It’s fun.”

  “Kitchen fires?”

  “No one was hurt except an oven mitt or two.”

  I laugh, breathing in the savory smell of the casserole before he covers it with foil. Another timer dings and he slides a coffeecake out of the bottom oven. Cinnamon.

  “Wow. And you bake?” I lean over the counter and inhale again. “That smells incredible.”

  “Thanks. My grandma taught me how to make this while we lived in Atlanta. Took me a while to get it right.”

  My mouth spreads into a smile as he sprinkles some raw sugar over the top of the cake.

  “What?” he asks, one corner of his mouth ticked up.

  “Nothing. It’s just . . . well, you’re a baseball player, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And a guy.”

  “Astute observation.”

  “You have to admit, it’s a little unusual to meet a teenage-boy-slash-baker-slash-athlete.”

  He purses his lips and opens a door next to the refrigerator, disappearing into what I assume is the pantry. I hear him rummaging around, and when he emerges, he’s smocked in an extremely ruffly green and white striped apron. He spreads his arms wide. “Well, now you’ve met one.”

  I cover my mouth and laugh. “I guess I have. What would Josh say?”

  “He’d say ‘Dude, this cake kicks ass.’”

  “Oh my God, you sound just like him.”

  “He’s not a tough one to imitate.” He takes out two plates from the cabinet. “Want to try some?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Sure. You can be my taste-tester.”

  “Okay, but only if you take off that apron.”

  “Not my color?”

  “I don’t think the color is the problem.”

  He removes the apron as he rounds the island. Before I have a chance to protest, he loops it over my head and pulls my hair out of the strap’s grasp. His fingers graze my neck a little and I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from shivering.

  “You’re right. Looks much better on you.”

  I laugh nervously and look down at the starchy, cottony stripes. He grins and returns to the cake, slicing two large pieces onto the plates. He slides one over to me with a fork. I quickly take a bite, my mouth already watering.

  “Holy crap,” I manage through a sugary mouthful. There must be a pound of butter in this thing. “That’s amazing. I’m officially impressed.”

  His smile is huge, spilling into his eyes and crinkling the corners. “It’s Livy’s favorite.”

  “Your sister?”

  “Yep. She just turned fourteen in July.”

  “Are you close?”

  He nods and digs around in a cardboard box near the sink, coming up with two glasses. “She’s a pain in my ass half the time, but I love her. She’s all I have, really.”

  I want to ask what he means by this, but any question I form in my mind sounds intrusive. I finish off my cake as he pours Coke into the glasses and hands one to me. “I’m an only child. I’ve always sort of liked that, but . . .” I take a sip of Coke, my throat suddenly dry.

  He tilts his head at me. “But what?”

  I take a deep breath. “I don’t know. I used to be super close with my dad, but now . . . it’s just . . . my parents are going through a hard time. I guess it would be nice to have someone else there with me. Someone who’s not them, you know?”

  I slide my gaze to him, but he’s focused on his plate, blinking rapidly and rubbing at his forehead. “Why aren’t you close with your dad anymore?”

  I swallow hard. My lower lip feels unsteady, so I press my teeth over it until it stills. “He just . . . isn’t who I thought he was. And I can’t seem to get over it.”

  God. My voice sounds so small and pathetic. Weak.

  “I’m sorry,” I say a little too loudly, sitting up on my stool. “I don’t know why I’m talking about this.” I barely know this guy. I hardly talk about my parents to Kat, much less a ballplayer who’s probably only interested in whether my bra’s clasp is in the front or the back.

  But from the way he keeps moving the salt shaker in front of the pepper shaker and back again, his eyes a little glazed on the black and white ceramic, it doesn’t look like my bra is what’s on his mind at all.

  “No, it’s fine.” He finally knocks over the salt, and white granules skitter over the counter. “I get it. When things get too heavy, Livy and I always head out to the movies. We spend all day theater hopping and making ourselves sick on popcorn and candy.”

  “That sounds like a good distraction.”

  “Yeah.” He sweeps up the salt and tosses it in the sink. “The bes
t is when we get a slasher movie back-to-back with some Disney flick or cheesy romantic comedy.”

  “Sort of like a visual yin and yang?”

  “Exactly. And Livy is hilarious to watch rom-coms with. She eviscerates them. The acting, the plot, the saccharine endings. It’s classic.”

  I laugh. “I think Livy and I might have a lot in common.”

  His smiles fades a little, but he finally looks at me. “Maybe you could come with us next time. Get your mind off things.” He blinks and steps back a little. I feel the unmistakable warmth of blood seeping into my cheeks. To cool them, I take a too-large gulp of Coke and half of it slides down the wrong tube, bubbles searing my nose.

  Sam raises his brows in concern as I proceed to cough up a lung. He hands me a bottle of water and I take a few sips while he moves around the kitchen, unpacking only half a box before moving on to another. Outside the window over the sink, a female robin lands and pecks at the sill.

  “Oh, shit.” Sam’s voice pulls my eyes from the window. Off the kitchen, an automatic garage door rattles and creaks. Sam’s face is completely white.

  “What’s wrong?” I slip off the barstool, a pinch in my stomach. “Is that your mom?”

  He hangs a hand on the back of his neck and shakes his head at the ceiling. “Yeah, and you need to go now.”

  Chapter Eight

  Sam

  I circle the island and grab her arm, all but dragging her from the kitchen toward the front door.

  Shit, shit, shit.

  It wasn’t supposed to happen like this. She wasn’t supposed to look at me like that and feel like that, all smushed up against my arm, and talk about her dad like he broke her heart into a million bloody pieces. I sure as hell wasn’t supposed to invite her to the goddamn movies.

  I spent the day avoiding her and distracting myself with Josh and couple other guys from the baseball team, Matt Pavers and Noah Harrington. Even though Josh spent the entire lunch block staring at a cheerleader with a pixie cut, my new friends kept me occupied, reliably steering clear of topics other than boobs, asses, and PlayStation. During English, I slouched down in my desk and texted with Ajay the entire period just to keep myself from looking at Hadley. So beyond double-checking that Livy wouldn’t be home until after six, I didn’t have much time to think about what a sick son of a bitch I am.

  Until she rang the doorbell.

  And then her hair fell on my shoulder and the sweet smell of her skin attacked me, addling my damn brain. Then she laughed and ate my cake wearing that stupid apron Livy bought me for my birthday as a joke. Then she got all haunted and hopeful at once.

  “You need to go,” I say, opening the front door. I hear Mom’s key in the side door between the kitchen and the garage.

  “Why? What’s wrong?” Hadley asks, pulling out of my grip.

  “I’m an idiot, that’s what’s wrong.”

  “What?”

  “Nothing. My mom’s just . . . she’s . . . going to be tired and bitchy and I don’t want you to have to deal with it.”

  “Sam, it’s fine.”

  The door hangs open, a cool breeze blowing her hair into her face. I clench my hands at my sides so they won’t betray me, but she brushes the strands aside and my hands release.

  “Hadley, I need you to leave.”

  She frowns. “All right. If that’s really what you need.”

  “Yes. Thank you.” I nudge her shoulder toward the door, but she walls up against my hand.

  “My stuff is upstairs.”

  “I’ll bring it to you tomorrow.”

  “How very gentlemanly of you, but I have homework tonight.”

  She’s getting pissed, but I don’t really care at this point. I wave her upstairs and peek around the corner into the kitchen as she heads to my room.

  “Sam?” Mom calls. “Are you home? This smells wonderful!”

  I meet her in the kitchen. “Yeah, hey. I’m here.”

  “Hi. How was your day?” she asks while she unpacks her bag.

  “Great. Um, I’ll be right back.”

  I go to rush Hadley out of the house, but she’s already stepping through the front door without a word. I feel bad that I’m pretty much kicking her ass out, but there’s not much else I can do. This was a bad idea to begin with, and at this point, I’d sell my nads to the devil himself to keep my mom from meeting her.

  Unfortunately, the devil’s not interested in a trade. As Hadley steps onto the front stoop, Mom click-clacks down the front hall toward the stairs.

  “Oh,” she says as she spots Hadley. “Sam, who’s this?”

  Hadley freezes and turns around. “Hi,” she says, flicking her eyes to me.

  “Um, yeah. Mom, this is a friend from school. We were working on a project. She’s just leaving.”

  “Hi there.” Mom’s voice is as bright as a 150-watt bulb. “I’m Cora.” She holds out her hand.

  Hadley hesitates in the doorway and then I start cracking up. I mean, I’m laughing like a crazy person, because that’s really all you can do when you’ve willingly jumped into a pile of your own shit.

  “Sam, you’re being very rude,” Mom says, folding her arms.

  I manage to get it together and clear my throat. “Sorry.” Clenching my jaw into place, I take Hadley’s arm and draw her back inside while she looks at me like I could benefit from some psychopharmacological intervention.

  “As I was saying, I’m Cora. Sam’s mom.”

  I watch Mom hold out her hand again.

  “Hi, I’m Hadley.”

  Mom’s color vanishes. My heart thump-thump-stops in my chest. She holds it together enough to shake Hadley’s hand, never taking her eyes off the dark-haired girl in front of her.

  “That’s an unusual name,” Mom says, her voice more of a 15-watt now.

  Hadley’s perfect mouth slips into a mirthless smile. “My dad’s a modern literature professor at Vanderbilt. Hadley was the name of Hemingway’s first wife, which, if you knew my dad, is really ironic—” She stops and lowers her lashes, her face flushing red. “Um. He’s a Hemingway fan.”

  “Right,” Mom says slowly. “Well. I need to take care of some things upstairs.” She cuts her eyes to me, slicing deep. “Nice meeting you.” And she’s up the stairs, two at a time in her heels.

  “You too,” Hadley says, a little divot digging between her brows. “Is she okay?”

  “Yeah. She’s just tired, like I said.” I stuff my hands in my pockets. I feel like a complete asshole. But what did I expect? I set out to use this girl as a human cannonball and fire her at my mother.

  And that’s exactly what I did.

  “Look, I’ll see you tomorrow, all right?”

  “Yeah.”

  She doesn’t move, and when I glance up, her eyes are on me, all darkness and questions.

  “Are you okay?” she asks.

  I blow out a long breath. Inhale again. It’s still not enough. I need a sky’s worth of air. And then another and another.

  “I’m good.” I smile. She smiles back, but it’s closed-mouthed and sideways. I don’t think I’ve convinced her. “It’s been a long week, with the move and all.”

  “Sure. I guess we can talk soon about when to meet again? And we should probably watch the movie, too, just to see the play performed.”

  “Great.”

  “Thanks for the cake.”

  I nod and watch her walk to her car. Watch her climb in and drive away until she’s just a little speck of silver among all the reddening maples. She’s long gone before I remember she left still wearing the apron.

  When I finally close the door and turn around, Mom’s already at the bottom of the stairs. Her eyes are rimmed red, but her expression is ten degrees of pissed off.

  “What is that girl’s last name?” she asks before I can sidestep her.

  I look down at my Vans. My favorite pair. Too small for me now, really. The toes are ragged from when Dad and I used to work on my changeup at the park. That was alm
ost a year ago, before everything went to crap.

  “Samuel. What is her last name?”

  I look up at her and shrug. “Why do you want to know?”

  “I think you know the answer to that.”

  I smirk at her. I can’t help it. I know I’m the asshole here, but I wouldn’t even be in this position if it weren’t for her. None of us would. “Then I think you know what her last name is.”

  She sinks down on the step, deflated. “Oh my God. Oh my God, they live here?”

  “Apparently.”

  “I didn’t know . . . I swear I didn’t know.” Her eyes widen. “Does Olivia know?”

  “Not yet. But I’m going to tell her because she’ll find out eventually. Hadley goes to our school and she’s . . . pretty well known.” Her locker flashes in my mind. I still haven’t asked her or Josh about that whole mess. I’m not sure I want to know.

  “She doesn’t know who you are?”

  “I don’t think so.” I have no idea which St. Clair found the papers on their front door. All I know is what happened before, in our house in Nashville on a rainy afternoon. All I know is that afterward, my mother took a phone call and fell apart to the point that she stopped eating for a few days, Dad moved into the spare room, and Livy slept on the floor of my room for the next three weeks.

  “Are you going to tell her?” Mom asks.

  “No, I’m not.” I wasn’t sure about this until the words were already out of my mouth, but it feels like the right decision. What would be the point? She clearly has no idea who we are and I don’t need a Ph.D. in psychology to figure out that she’s still dealing with the repercussions of all this crap. I guess we are too. I can be civil with her, finish this project, and then pretend she doesn’t exist. Easy. “But for her sake, and Livy’s, not yours.”

  Mom frowns and opens her mouth, but snaps it shut without speaking. Then, after the awkwardness has taken up most of the oxygen in the room, she says, “Why did you bring her here?”

  “We’re in the same English class. We have a project.”

  She shakes her head, balls her hands in her skirt. “That’s not why you brought her here, Sam. And you know it.”