Love and Chaos (17 page)

“There’s a difference between secrets and lies, Angie,” says Sam.

“Is there?” I say. “It seems to me like they’re interchangeable.”

“Mmm.” Sam doesn’t agree, but he’s too well-mannered to argue.

“I just, um, I want life to be … simpler.”

Sam nods slowly. “I completely agree. My life before I took off was complicated. Sometimes I felt like it was overwhelming me. More than I could handle.”

“Exactly,” I whisper.

We’re still lying on the pillows; our faces are just inches away from each other.

For a few seconds, there’s total silence, the only sound our breathing.

My heart is beating so fast that I’m trembling, and I close my eyes for a few seconds, a fizzy tingle in my stomach.

Then I open my eyes again. Sam is still staring at me. He’s so close that I can see his individual eyelashes, brown at the roots but white at the tips from sun, the tiny tan-free mark on his nose from wearing sunglasses, the fledgling stubble on his chin. He’s staring at me, too, and it’s making me self-conscious. I don’t know what to do with my lips, I wonder if I have eye snot, if I look stupid, if …

Then Sam locks eyes with me again.

We’re going to kiss.

I know it. I can feel it, that prekiss moment, the tingly tension, that almost unbearably sweet torture of anticipation. I can imagine the feeling of his lips on my lips so strongly it’s like I’m craving the taste and feel and touch and smell of him, like he’s the only thing that will satisfy me right now.

Sam leans in a tiny fraction, oh, my God, we’re actually going—

No!

I jerk my head away and turn over to break the moment while my mind races. No! No. It’s wrong. Sam’s my friend. I can’t fuck up this friendship by giving in to a base impulse that is the reason I’ve never had a male friend longer than two weeks. I only like him as a friend. I’m sure of it. Being friends is safer and easier. Take a deep breath. Yes. Another one. Good.

This is transitory sexual tension that is inevitable when you put two people of the opposite sex on a bed and give one of them a crisis. Right? Right. Friends. Safe.

So I get up, go over to my window, open it up, and light a cigarette. For a minute, neither of us says a word.

“My parents divorced when I was twenty-one,” Sam says finally. “Then my mom decided she wanted to move to New Mexico and live on a ranch, and my dad, uh, he didn’t. Boom. Family over.”

I’m so surprised Sam is being so open with me, instead of his usual cryptic self, that all I can think to say is: “Where does your dad live?”

Sam doesn’t answer, or doesn’t hear me. He’s just gazing into space, quiet and serious. “The thing is, it’s just another change. You know? Not an ending, just a change. Everything changes, all the time, you move on, your life changes. You graduate from school, boom, change. Go to college, boom, change. You date, you break up, you move in with your buddies, people get sick and die, change change change. So divorce is just another change in life, which is constantly changing anyway.”

“But what if you don’t like what life changes into?”

“Then you do something to make it change again. Life has to change. If it didn’t, then what would be the point? You’d always know what was going to happen next.”

“That’s pretty good,” I say. “You should be a therapist.”

“That’s what my therapist says.”

“You’re in therapy? I thought you didn’t like talking about yourself.”

“Ha.” He pauses, and then it all comes out in a rush. “I’m not in therapy anymore, I was in therapy, um, I was kind of angry about the divorce and stuff that happened around that time.… You know. And it was such a fucking waste of time, all that anger, people are just gonna do what they’re gonna do, you know, you can’t change them, not really, you just have to accept them and love them for who they are. I shouldn’t have … Some of the stuff I did, I was kind of a dick. I wish…” He shakes his head, as if to clear it. “Sorry, we’re not talking about me.”

“We can talk about you if you want to.”

“I don’t want to. I just want to watch TV and not talk. That’s my prerogative, as a dude.”

“Where are you from?”

“Ohio. I told you.”

“Ohio? I kind of thought you were joking about that. You just don’t seem very … Ohio-like.”

Sam makes a “huh” sound. “I really don’t want to talk about it, Angie.”

“Too bad, tiger, I do. Is your dad still in Ohio?”

A long pause. “My dad is dead.”

“Oh, God, I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be.”

“Where’d you go to college?”

“New England. I dropped out.”

“What did you study?”

“That’s all for today.”

“Talk,” I say, poking him with my toe.

“Nope.”

“Talk!” I poke him again.

“Don’t poke the bear, Angie, or I will tickle you so hard you will yelp.”

“Tickling is just an excuse for teenage boys to accidentally-on-purpose get some tit,” I say. “And did you just refer to yourself in the third person as ‘the bear’?”

“Did
you
just say ‘get some tit’? Wow, you are some lady.”

I giggle, overwhelmed with relief that the whole sexual-tension thing is over. He doesn’t like me as anything more than a friend. Everything is back to normal.

“I call it like I see it,” I shrug.

“Fine. I won’t touch you. Not even if you beg me. Can we just watch the next goddamn movie?”

He flicks channels until we find another movie. It’s
Rear Window,
an old Hitchcock movie with Grace Kelly and Jimmy Stewart. The sexual tension seems to have been broken, and I feel safe getting back on the bed now. We’re just friends. Yes. It’s fine.

“God, I love Jimmy Stewart,” I say, snuggling down on my pillow.

“Yeah? I thought he’d be a little straight for you.”

“Nah. He’s perfect.… I’m getting under the covers. You can join me if you want, but no funny business.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

And so, side by side, snuggled up together in a purely platonic way, Sam and I watch the movie. And pretty soon I’m so warm and cozy and comfortable that I fall asleep.

CHAPTER
22

I’m in bed with Sam.

No, not like that, we really did just fall asleep while watching
Rear Window
.

But I’m all curled up into a little ball on my side, with my head over Sam’s arm, and he’s nestled into me.

We’re fucking
spooning.

For a few minutes I just lie here, listening to Sam breathing.… He still smells like soap, even after a night of junk food and no teeth brushing. What is that about?

And why is it so different, sharing a bed with a dude, even if he’s just your friend? I’m fully dressed, and Sam’s wearing a T-shirt and jeans, it’s not like we’re indecent. Pia and I have shared a bed a gazillion times, after nights out or on vacation, and during a weird period when this fuckpuppet Eddie broke her heart and I had to carry her home every night, shitfaced and weeping. She always puts her freezing feet on me and snores, I tell her it’s goddamn annoying, she says it’s freakish that I sleep either starfished out and facedown, or curled up into a tiny ball like a little porcupine. That kind of sleepover is funny and silly.

But with Sam, it’s different. I’m so aware of his body next to mine, it’s all I can think about. I’m conscious of his feet sticking over the end of my bed, of his deep, even breathing, of the size and strength of him.

There’s such a vulnerability and sweetness to sharing a bed with a man, too. Awake, Sam always looks like he’s got something very serious on his mind. Asleep, he seems, I don’t know, peaceful.

And between you and me, well, sharing a bed with Sam is kind of sexy. Sam is so big, like a giant bear, heat is radiating out from his body, enveloping mine. I’m conscious of the warm, smooth strength of his arm I’m using as a pillow, I can feel the rest of his body pressed against mine all the way down to his feet, and I can see one of his hands: tan, very clean nails, big calloused fingers and palm. He’s missing his little fingernail entirely; it was ripped off during a regatta last year. Right now, even that looks kind of sexy. Goddamnit. Why am I having these thoughts about Sam?

And then Sam puts his other arm around me and pulls me in closer against him. He’s still asleep, his breathing hasn’t changed, he’s just hugging me tightly, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“Angie,” he mumbles.

I grin to myself. Sam’s talking in his sleep.

“Yes, Sam?”

No response.

Hmm.

I’ll try a trick my mother once told me about. Ask people questions when they’re sleeptalking, and sometimes their subconscious will understand and respond. Apparently they’ll tell you all kinds of stuff. So I wriggle around, still wrapped in his arms, until I’m facing him.

“Hey, Sam,” I whisper, pulling my head back so I can see his face. “Sam, what do you think of Angie?”

He smiles in his sleep. “Angel…”

I find myself relaxing into him. God, this is lovely. I can’t remember the last time I snuggled like this. And yeah, I just used the word snuggle. There’s no other way to say it. Sam is wrapping me into him tightly, I can smell his neck, I feel warm and comfortable and safe and just a teensy bit tingly.… It’s bliss.

Suddenly, Sam takes a deep breath and holds it, for what feels like forever but is probably only about ten seconds. Then he exhales, holding me even more tightly. I fit perfectly into him. I can hear his heart beating. For a second I lie there, listening to it.

Then I try again, craning my head back so I can see his face. “
Angie
. Tell me about Angie. Do you think she’s funnier than you are? I bet you do.”

Sam gives that little half-sleep smile again and, in one swift move, shifts his arms tighter around me and rolls onto his back, pulling me with him, so that I’m lying almost on top of him and my face is right over his. Holy shit, if Sam was awake right now, we’d be an inch from kissing, literally a
moment
from it.…

If I just turned my head a fraction of an inch, I could—

No.

For the second time in twelve hours I pull away from Sam almost violently, half jumping, half falling out of bed in my hurry to escape. This is wrong, this is all wrong.

I’ll shower and dress, and then this whole weird intimate sleepover thing will be finished and we can go back to just being normal plain old friends. Right? Right.

I take a long time in the bathroom, washing and scrubbing and conditioning and shaving and moisturizing. I actually love shaving my legs, it’s an art form to get each swoop perfect. And the money I used to spend on waxing! What’s the point? I’m blond, I’m not exactly hairy, and that whole growing-back-thicker thing is a myth made up by the wax union. (Yes. They have a union.)

Then I shuffle back to my bedroom and check quickly to see that Sam is still asleep. I throw on some very comfortable old jeans, and, after reflection, my dad’s Princeton sweater. So what if he hasn’t called me in forever? It’s still a good goddamn sweater, though it has a couple of small bloodstains from that night I fell off the kitchen counter. That feels like a very long time ago.

Then I turn around, see Sam smiling at me, and let out a little shriek.

“What the hell!? Were you watching me change the whole time?”

“No.” Sam looks guilty. “Okay, yes. But I didn’t see anything, like, R-rated. Just the beautiful PG parts of you.”

“Really.” I avoid his eyes. Let’s get this conversation back to friend territory. And get the hell out of my bedroom. “How about some breakfast?”

“Buttermilk Channel? Or Café Luluc?”

“I don’t have any money, Sam. And no, you’re not paying for me. You must be broke by now.”

“Right, sorry. Well, I can make you breakfast, how about that? I owe little Coco about sixty meals, too, she keeps feeding me. She’s like a very young and innocent grandma.… I’ll do it for the whole house. I’ll fry up some bacon, eggs, pancakes.…”

“That would be great!” I say. “But can you grill the bacon, not fry it? I don’t like it too oily.”

“Oh, really?” Sam says. “I thought you’d like oil.”

“What? Why would you think that?”

“Well, you like oil tycoons!” Sam grins widely, and brings out from underneath his pillow …
Her Secret Desire
! My latest romance novel!

“Give that back!”

Grinning, Sam leans away from me and starts reading the blurb on the back
. “Shy Millicent had always been unlucky in love. But when oil tycoon Rod Rockson moved to town, she thought her luck was changing. Till she discovered his secret past.…
I wonder what his secret past could be?”

“Shut it!” I jump on the bed and reach for the book, just miss it, and find myself straddling Sam, furiously trying to grab the book back. “Give that to me! That’s fucking private! I’m not kidding! Sam! I mean it!”

“Now, Angela! Play nice!”

“My name isn’t fucking Angela!”

I finally snatch it out of his hands, jump off the bed, and throw it under Drakey the Dress Form.

I’m so upset, I can’t even look at Sam, so I pretend to be looking for something in my closet. I’m mortified to be caught reading something so uncool. I feel even more embarrassed than I did last night after my
Kramer vs. Kramer
meltdown! God! And why can’t I read whatever I want? Who cares if it’s cool? Why do I have to pretend to be tough all the time? Why is it so important to be cynical and unromantic, to not like happy endings and kisses and people saying I love you? Why?

Sam stands up, looking very apologetic, his hair sticking up at crazy angles.

“I’m so sorry, it was under my pillow, Angie. I just thought it was funny—”

“Well, it wasn’t.” I open my sock drawer and rifle through it pointlessly. He must think I’m such an idiot. “You know what, I’ve got shit to do,” I say over my shoulder. “You should go home.”

“You want me to leave?”

“Yes.”

There’s a long pause while I stare at my socks. Where the fuck do socks come from, I ask you? I don’t remember ever buying any in my entire goddamn life.

Sam clears his throat.