The Dandelion

by Michelle Leighton

  I’d forgotten what that feels like. And I’d forgotten how easily Sam could do it to me.

  I’ve missed it, too.

  Lord help me, I’ve missed him.

  His smile widens. “Hi.”

  “Hi yourself.”

  “What are you thinking about out here all alone?”

  At first, I don’t answer. There are so many things in my head at this very moment that I’m too addled to lie. I just blurt out the last thought I had.

  “That I’d forgotten a lot of this.”

  His brow wrinkles the tiniest bit. “A lot of what?”

  “This,” I explain, waving my hand between us. “You and me.”

  “I don’t think I ever forgot.”

  “I don’t mean that I forgot you. Or us. I just forgot how you could make me feel so much, so fast.”

  One side of his mouth tilts as he leans in, propping his elbows on the arms of my chair, scant inches from mine. “What am I making you feel right now?”

  His eyes are luminous. The color of bright, silvery cumulus clouds on a hot summer day. They hold only happiness right now, and they steal one more piece of my heart.

  My answer comes out in a whoosh, unbidden. “Breathless.”

  Sam’s answer to this is a wink.

  A wink, for God’s sake, and my stomach does a flip, just like it did at seventeen.

  The tips of his fingers are brushing the bare skin of my thighs, sending chills shooting both north and south. “It’s a start.”

  I scoot back, attempting to escape his touch. Thankfully, he backs away, pushing into a stand. He offers me his hand and, with only a hint of hesitation, I take it.

  Tenderly, he helps me to my feet. “Want me to carry you to the truck? Or do you need something from inside?”

  I have the urge to shake my head to clear it. Sam’s presence, his attentiveness is heady, and I feel intoxicated. Off balance. Buzzed.

  “Where am I going?”

  “To my house. I’m fixing dinner. Something I think you’ll appreciate.”

  “Sam, I can’t—”

  His expression quickly devolves into unease. “Why? Are you hurting? Did you have another flare?”

  “No, I’m fine, but I shouldn’t—”

  He sags in relief. “Thank God. So you’re coming.”

  “No, I said I was fine, but I didn’t say I’m going to your house.”

  “Why not?”

  “I just don’t think—”

  “You think too much.”

  “Maybe, but that’s not the point. I don’t think—”

  “See? There you go again. Overthinking. Don’t think. Just say, ‘Why, yes, Sam, I’d love to come to your house for dinner. You’re such a fabulous cook and amazing host. And your ass looks so damn good in those pants. And—’”

  I snort. “Let me stop you right there.”

  “My ass doesn’t look good in these pants?”

  He reaches around to pat the ass that would be absolutely stunning in anything. I roll my eyes derisively.

  “Your ass has nothing to do with this.”

  “Then come with me.”

  “No.”

  “Yes.”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “I’ve been trying to tell you that I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because. Sara hasn’t been feeling well and…and…”

  “Sara is having a very good day today. What else you got?”

  “I don’t think it’s good for me to be over there right now.”

  “Why not?”

  “God, you sound like a parrot.”

  “A parrot with a great ass, though, right?”

  “Sam, I’m trying to be serious here,” I snap in exasperation.

  “I know you are. That’s why you should come with me. I don’t want you to be serious. I want you to smile. I want you to laugh. I want you to be happy. I want you to be with me.”

  The last words, spoken more softly and more sincerely than all his other playful ones, are my undoing. I feel my insides, my outsides, and my every-other-sides melt right along with my resistance.

  “You don’t play fair,” I whisper.

  Sam grins again, mischief written all over his face. “Do you really want me to?”

  “Sometimes,” is my honest response.

  “The last time I played fair, I lost you.” Sam shrugs and shakes his head, his expression turning pensive. “Can’t see me doing that again.”

  I relent. “Fine.” I notice that my belly is warm no matter how much I wish it wasn’t. “Let me change clothes.”

  Sam bends and scoops me up, his face once more happy and relaxed, like my response switched the light back on. “Okay.” And he starts off toward the house.

  I let him carry me to my bedroom and drop me off. When he sets me on my feet, we stand staring at each other for a few seconds. Our chests are nearly touching, and attraction charges the air between us like static.

  Reluctantly, he breaks the silence. “I guess you don’t need my help for this part.”

  I smile a little. “No. And, just so you know, I could’ve walked in here just fine on my own.”

  “I’ve missed twenty years with you. Can you blame me for wanting to touch you and be close to you?”

  I don’t respond, mainly because I know exactly what he means. A huge part of me craves Sam’s touch, from the smallest brush of his fingers to the kiss of his lips and more. My flesh practically sings when he’s near. So, no, I can’t blame him. But I don’t have to tell him that.

  I playfully evade answering, opting for a lighthearted banter instead. I poke my finger at his chest. “Well, you’d better try, mister. Now wait for me outside. I won’t be long.” I add a smile for softness and take a few steps back.

  Distance.

  That’s what I need to keep a cool head—distance. The closer he is, the more I tend to focus solely on him and what he’s making me feel. It’s like we’ve fallen back in time to a place where nothing matters but what’s between us. There are no other people to consider, no priorities, no consequences. Only the love we share.

  Only we aren’t at that place in time. There are other people to consider. There are other priorities. And there are consequences for getting carried away. And they would all fall on Sam. So yes, distance is good. Distance is imperative.

  Sam lets out a playful growl and cups my face in his hands. For a few seconds, my heart stops. I think he’s going to kiss me.

  Oh, God, how I want him to kiss me.

  But I also don’t.

  He shouldn’t.

  He can’t.

  And, in the end, he doesn’t.

  Eyes locked on mine for an eternity, Sam’s face gets closer and closer until it departs upward and he presses his lips to my forehead. Against my skin, I hear him faintly mutter, “Later.”

  With that, he turns and walks out of the room, closing the door behind him without looking back at me.

  Later.

  I know just what that means. It’s a promise, to both of us. It’s a reward, for both of us. It’s respect for his wife and consideration for his child. As easy as it would be to get caught up in the moment, he won’t allow it, even if I would. Because Sam is better than that, even if I weren’t.

  As I peel off my shorts and tank, replacing them with capris and a blouse, I think back to seeing Sam again for the first time at the grocery store. I suppose I wondered what kind of man he’d become, although the answer seemed fairly obvious since he became a doctor. Choosing a profession where one is basically helping others for a living speaks volumes. But even that doesn’t begin to hint at what kind of man he really became. This entire situation is impossibly horrific, and yet he seems only to shine more and more as things get hairier and hairier. Sam is good. All the way to the very deepest parts of him. More good than I deserve. More good than I’ve ever deserved.

  A sense of rightness, of pure providence s
wells within me, causing me to catch my breath.

  This is why I’m in Molly’s Knob.

  This is why I came home.

  God knew I wanted, no needed redemption, and He knew Sam needed someone to lean on in this dark and awful time. We can be that for each other.

  I didn’t think it would be much sacrifice to spend this time with him, and in a way it isn’t, but it will be in the end. Sam is going to destroy me. He’s going to break the only parts of me that are still whole. That’s the only way this can go. I know it. But I’m still going to go boldly forward, and not just for me and my need for redemption, but for Sam.

  My Sam.

  The one I left because I couldn’t abandon my mother. The one that time and distance couldn’t make me forget. The one and only true love I’ve ever had.

  I realize now that I’d do anything for Sam.

  Even if it kills me.

  I remember from Sunday school lessons a million years ago that somewhere in the Bible it says there’s no greater love than to lay down one’s life for a friend. While Sam might not kill my body, he will kill what’s left of me, but I gladly hand it over to him for the killing. This is the most poetic kind of redemption I can think of. Even if I weren’t seeking it, though, I’d still give my life for Sam’s.

  Because he’s my Sam. He always was and he always will be. Nothing else needs to be said.

  I grab my purse on the way out the door and, as I step off the porch, I let the pleasure of seeing Sam smiling at me from behind the wheel of his truck wash over me like a wave. I let it run into all the empty places. I let it fill in all the crevices. I’m going to enjoy as much of him as I can, while I can, because nothing lasts forever. I’ve only got a short few weeks left of this summer. I need to make the most of them.

  ********

  At his house, Sam goes immediately to the kitchen, rolling up his sleeves as he goes and instructing me to join the girls out on the patio.

  I protest. “Surely there’s something I can help with. You don’t need to do this all by yourself.”

  His lips curve into a small smile and his eyes shine. “You are helping. More than you know.”

  I feel the ache in my chest. I feel the breathlessness of being with him like this, of being on the receiving end of his tender looks and meaningful words. I feel it and I relish it. For just a few seconds, I soak it in, a dry sponge in need of moisture. Then, with a nod, I turn away from him because I have to, because it’s the right thing to do. Instead, I go join his wife and child on the patio, as he suggested.

  For nearly two hours, I chat with Sara. We laugh and talk as Noelle plays in the sand. Periodically, one of us will get up to chase her when she runs or seek her when she hides, but most of those hours are spent in pleasant chatter as Noelle happily builds her sandcastles.

  “She loves to build castles then tear them down and start all over. She could do it for hours. Literally. Over and over and over.”

  “Why does she do that?”

  “I told her a year or so ago that I loved to watch her build castles. Since then, she builds and builds and builds.”

  My throat squeezes tight. “She does it for you.”

  Sara nods. “She’s so like Sam in that way, doing things to make others happy.” She turns to look at me, her expression open, her eyes tired but happy. I notice that she even has some mascara and lipstick on, the first time I’ve seen her in makeup. It’s as though she’s revived somehow. She really is having a good day. “He is tireless when it comes to those he loves. It’s like he never gives up. Even now, even though he knows it’s useless, he won’t give up on me.”

  “It’s a good trait to have.” I don’t know what else to say. My heart is hammering painfully against my ribs.

  “He won’t give up on you either.”

  I look away as hot tears sting my eyes.

  “Please don’t be angry, but he told me about your situation.”

  I’m stunned. And not in a pleasant way.

  Don’t be angry.

  Don’t be angry?

  Easier said than done.

  Not only is what happened incredibly painful to me, still, but it’s very personal, too. I didn’t even want to tell Sam, but I did. He cornered me. However, it was my story to tell, not his, so it’s hard not to feel angry. Angry and betrayed.

  “He wanted me to know why he went to check on you.”

  “I’m sorry he did that, but I didn’t ask him to. And I didn’t need his help.”

  “It’s hard to do for yourself when you’re in pain. I get it. I really get it. But so does Sam. He understands pain better than most people.”

  When I say nothing for fear of biting off a sick woman’s head out of aggravation at her husband, she asks, “He said you broke your leg. Is that right?”

  I glance over at Sara. She isn’t wearing the expression of judgment that I’d expect from a woman, a mother, who found out about what happened with my daughter.

  “What, exactly, did Sam tell you?”

  “He said you had some kind of condition in your leg and foot. Something that comes and goes. He always spares me the clinical details. He knows I won’t understand them, and these days my brain isn’t very clear half the time anyway, so…”

  Sam didn’t tell her the whole story. That explains the lack of judgment. That explains her casualness. He broke it down to the bare bones, gave her just enough to ease her mind. He gave her what she needed, and still managed to give me what I needed, too—his discretion.

  I nod, slowly exhaling in relief. “Yeah, it’s complicated.”

  Sara reaches over to take my hand, winding her fingers around mine. Her touch is icy, but at the same time, the warmth of friendship seeps from her skin into mine. “He will stand by you, Abi. No matter what. That’s the type of man he is.”

  My voice is a raw rasp. “I know.”

  I can’t tell her that’s part of the problem. I can’t tell her that it’s because Sam is that type of man that I could never ask that of him. I can’t drag him into sickness. Not again. He’s watched for two years as his wife slips away from him, degree by degree. He’s held it together, held the house and the family and his practice together, all on his own. He is strong, he is determined, and he is loyal. And he deserves better than another woman who will drag him and his daughter down another painful road. That’s why, when I promised Sara that I’d try with Sam, that I’d try to honor her wishes, I felt guilty. I knew it was a lie. I will try, and I will stay as long as I can, but it won’t be forever like Sara wants. I won’t put Sam through this again. Not because I don’t love him enough, but because I do.

  “I know it’s probably uncomfortable to have conversations like this with me. I can imagine how I’d feel in your shoes. I guess that’s why I’ve been trying to reassure you that this is what I want and that it’s okay. There was a time when it would’ve broken my heart to know that you and Sam still have feelings for each other, but now I see it only as a blessing. Facing death…it just gives you a different perspective. It gives you different priorities. What probably would’ve hurt or bothered me before brings me a strange kind of peace. It’s hard to explain, and I’m only trying to explain it because I want you to know how much comfort it brings me knowing you’re back in Sam’s life. And that he’s in yours. Under different circumstances, I think we would’ve been good friends.”

  “I think so, too,” I offer weakly.

  “Be honest. You think I’m crazy, don’t you?”

  Her grin is adorable. I can’t help smiling back at her. Her eyes shimmers with mischief, giving me a glimpse into the woman Sara was before illness struck. I can see why Sam fell for her. Sara probably charmed everyone she came into contact with when she was well.

  “Maybe a little.”

  At my response, she laughs, a breathless tinkling sound, like she doesn’t quite have the energy for a vigorous one. She squeezes my hand, but keeps her fingers twined around mine. I get the feeling she’s holding on for a re
ason. I just don’t know what that reason is.

  Regardless, I’m relieved when Sam comes to tell us that dinner is nearly ready and that I can set the table.

  “What are we having?” Sara asks, tipping her head back to look at him. “I’m starving.”

  Sam smiles, but somehow the action looks more like worry in the cloudy depths of his eyes. “Chicken cacciatore.”

  His eyes flicker to mine only for a second before returning to his wife, but in that one brief instant, a wealth of sentiment is conveyed. The last time I ate here, Sam was fixing Sara’s favorite dish, chicken and broccoli Alfredo.

  Tonight, he’s cooking mine.

  A half dozen thoughts run through my mind, each conflicting with the one before it, but rather than get lost in the twisting labyrinth of them, I take a piece of advice from Sam and, for now, I don’t think. I choose not to. Instead, I choose to turn off the rationale and the unsettling reasoning, and just feel.

  Sam made a special effort to make me feel cared for, comfortable, at home. Loved. He cooked this dish for me at least twenty times in the years we dated, maybe more. He perfected it after his first try, and it was always the best I ever had until he made it the next time, and then that was. But he always did it just for me. No one else we knew liked it. I’m not even sure Sam was that fond of it, but he knew I was. And he did it just for me.

  Like he did tonight.

  He didn’t have to say it. He didn’t have to make a declaration or give an explanation. He knew I would know. And he knew what it would mean to me.

  Releasing Sara’s hand, I rise to my feet. “I’ll get the plates.” I hurry from the patio. I don’t want either of them to see how full my heart is at this moment. It doesn’t seem right or fair that I should have such a burst of happiness when Sara is staring death in the face, and Sam is watching her do it. It’s a betrayal to her, to him, and to my own daughter, for whom I should suffer a fate worse than death. Happiness isn’t part of the equation. Happiness is too much to ask for someone like me.

  But for this one blip on the radar of time… I take the happy. I take it by the hands and I twirl it around. I dance with it, play with it, and bask in it.

  All alone, in another woman’s kitchen, gathering plates that aren’t mine for a family I’m not a part of, I let myself be loved.