Okay (25 page)

"Like you could climb up to the top bunk anyway, you're fucking hammered, bro," he shoots back as he makes his way into the adjoining bathroom to brush his teeth.

"Fuck you."

And as I lay back on the bed, too drunk to bother washing up despite the sobering effect of my epiphany—thanks to Tucker Green, of all people—my mind reels interminably with the thought that getting her back is a possibility. Because,
fuck
, maybe she really doesn't know.

****

I
t's
a damn good thing it's Senior Sleep-in because I woke up hung the fuck over. I had barely thirty minutes to shower and make it to school before I would've been tardy even for the afternoon block of classes.

I passed out last night while silently lamenting over the realization that Rory might still have feelings for me—that she might somehow not know that I still have feelings for her.

Ha.
Feelings
. That's bullshit if I ever heard it. More like she might not know that I'm still head over fucking heels, batshit crazy in love with her.

But the late morning light is brutal and unforgiving, blinding me with the harsh glare of reality. Because feelings or not,
love
or not, she still broke things off with me. She could have taken it back at any point—certainly when I had her naked in my arms again.

Fuck.

It killed me. How she acted afterwards. I'd been laid fucking bare that afternoon, opened my chest and put my heart on the line, again, even after she'd broken it once already. And she reached on in, and shredded it all over again.

So yeah, just because it's possible that she might still feel something for me—at least enough that some chick flirting with me at a bar caused her to fly into some jealous rage—doesn't really mean anything is actually different.

Even if it was a fucking
hot
jealous rage.

I sigh. It's all irrelevant. The point is that none of it means she wants to be with me. Because if she wanted to be with me, she would be with me.

So feelings or not--as much as the possibility of it fucking thrills me—I'm pretty damn sure it doesn't actually change anything. It doesn't mean there's anything I can do about the situation if she just wants to be friends. If she still can't handle something more.

My drunken Tucker-induced epiphany only reiterates the hopelessness of the situation. It only proves that none of the details actually matter. That there's no getting Rory back, and it's time I accept that.

The only thing that last night has changed is my realization that I was wrong in pushing her away. It was fucking selfish and vindictive. I feel ashamed that I ever treated her that way.

I'm supposed to be her friend. Her best fucking friend. And I've been avoiding her for weeks. And then last night she fucking flinched away from me. She says it was just a conditioned reaction because of
that motherfucking bastard
. And maybe she's telling the truth. Rory's never been a liar. It's not who she is. She rationalizes half-truths, but never lies, not without practically chewing her lip off. But even if she meant what she said, it doesn't mean it didn't also have something to do with me. God knows she's seen me lose my temper enough.

Fuck. I'm such a dick. I feel like I can't do anything right by her, and maybe she's right to have ended it in the first place. Maybe I am meant to only be her friend.

I sure as hell don't think I could handle putting myself out there like that again—being that vulnerable—and then having the same thing happen.

How could our friendship survive? Especially after how I've behaved.

I owe it to her to accept her decision and to be a good friend to her. I know I do. And I fucking will. Starting today.

I'm worried that she'll be embarrassed after last night. I know her, and I know she's probably freaking out over the thought of seeing me at school today. The thought makes my chest ache even more. I fucking hate the idea of her wanting to avoid me. And that's exactly what I did to her. I am such a fucking dick.

Chapter Thirteen

I
almost didn't come to school today. I can't believe I actually said those things. I can't believe I actually called a strange girl a slut to her face! But I'm not sure I wouldn't do it again, even if I were sober. Every time the memory pushes it's way through my mind—them flirting, the thought of where it might have led had I not interrupted them with my drunken outburst—it makes my stomach roll.

Despite my mortification, my outburst isn't what haunted me all night. Nor was it Sam's fight with Drunk Stranger Asshole. Honestly, the guy had it coming. He was incredibly forward, and he grabbed my wrist—I almost panicked.

A large part of me is upset—and not at Sam, at myself—because he has, once again, put himself at risk over me. And that is what I don't want. Sam in trouble because of me.

But what I couldn't stop thinking about was Sam believing I flinched because I was afraid of
him
. Because I thought he might hit me. That I see him as some kind of brutal monster, because he's been violent before, and because he defended me last night, again. But I'm not mad at him for being violent. The truth is I can't help but be grateful that he'd helped me. Because I
had
been frightened. But not of Sam.

And so I came to school in the end. I still haven't seen him, even though the last period of the day just ended.

I slip my boots back on after I change out of my sneakers. They're the only thing I still change for phys-ed, since after the incident with Chelsea I started wearing yoga pants or sweats on gym days. I pull my hair out of the loose braid I'd tied it in for gym and head out of the girl's room.

"Ror."

He's there when I turn around, and somehow my heart races and my breath slows at the same time.

"I owe you an apology," Sam's low timbre affects me as much as his words shock me. "Several, in fact."

I hear his words,
love
his words, and at the same time I can't get past the ones flying around my own head. I try to interrupt, desperate to get my point made first. It's too important to wait, no matter how badly I want to hear what he has to say.

"Sam, I—" But he interrupts.

"For losing my cool, for my drunken tantrum, but… for pushing you away.  It was selfish, and you deserve better—"

"That's
not
how I see you." I can interrupt too, and I can't let him keep talking until I tell him this. Sam's brow furrows, confused, which is understandable since I've just carried on our conversation from last night as if there were no break. But there hasn't been a break for me, I haven't stopped thinking about it. "You think I think you're like them because you've fought?" My narrowed eyes widen with emotion. "But every time, Sam, you were fighting
for me
," I remind him.

Sam blinks at me and I know he's having trouble accepting my words, understanding the significant distinction between violence alone and violence in defense of another, but it doesn't make them any less true.

"
That's
how I see you. That's
what you do
. You
protect
me… No one's ever been there for me like you, Sam. Even my own father did the opposite. And…" I trail off, thinking about Cam, and how unfair it is for me to resent his abandoning me when he had no choice in the matter—when he lost his life. But the truth is I do feel that way. All I wanted was his comfort, but he risked everything, driving out in that precarious storm to go after Robin his way. Even if he had succeeded, he could have ended up in jail, and that would have been my fault too. Either way, I end up alone.

Sam chooses differently. Every time. He respects my wishes, honors my choices. When we argued over Robin's Facebook photo, about Sam's intentions, he promised he wouldn't go after Robin, even if he admitted he wanted to. Sam only ever acted rashly when he thought me to be in immediate danger. And how could I begrudge him that? Especially when I'd be lying to say I hadn't always desperately wanted that kind of support, the sense of security it invokes.

"That's
how I see you. As the man who saved my life in that alley. Who I can count on. No one can take that away from you," I promise.

No one can take that away from me.

God,
he said those exact words when he was being all smug over giving me my first—and second, and third—orgasms. There's so much Sam will always be to me that no one can take away from him. Not even me

And that's when it hits me.

What am I doing? What the hell is wrong with me?

Sam isn't Robin. His love doesn't come with conditions, like obedience and submission, or even being in a relationship. I ended things with Sam to keep him safe from any danger my past—or apparently my present—might cause. But it hasn't done that. Sam was never going to stop looking out for me just because we're not together. He would always protect me. I know it in my heart. Because last night in the bar I didn't flinch because I was afraid of what
he
might do. I flinched because I am so in tune with Sam, trust him and his reactions so implicitly, that his anger made me think there
was
something else to fear. Because why would he be angry if all was well?

Sam is my anchor. And I threw him away.

Only, Sam still didn't abandon me. He kept his promises about protecting me and keeping me safe, even though I tried to take that right away from him. But I couldn't.

"
Shit
, Ror. You're making me feel even worse than I already did. I was looking for you to apologize." He rakes his hand through his hair "I'm supposed to be your friend and I fucking abandoned you just because it didn't work out with, you know,
us
."

The way he's acting terrifies me. He's hurt me plenty in the past couple of weeks, but he always had that hopeful longing in his eyes when he looked at me, when he talked to me. But now, it's dulled somehow. Like there's something new clouding it… Acceptance.

"Do you… do you think it's too late?" My voice almost doesn't come out at all. It's nothing more than a tremulous whisper, but I know he hears.

His entire demeanor changes immediately. It morphs before my eyes. Like he's instantly on edge.

But I see it disappear—vanish like it never really wanted to be there in the first place—the acceptance. And it gives me courage.

"Rory."

My name comes out an admonishment. And also a warning. But there's also something else, barely there, but there nonetheless—hope.

And it gives me even more courage.

"I miss you," I confess.

"I know, Ror." Sam watches me carefully. "I haven't been a very good friend to you lately, and I'm sorry for that. And I've missed you, too," he admits. "It won't happen again, Ror. I'll be here for you. Things will go back to how they were. It'll be okay," he assures me.

"How will it?" I ask.

His brow furrows, making my heart twist in my chest.

"How could anything be okay when just hearing you sweet talk some girl sends me into a jealous fit?" I ask him earnestly. "How is it okay that I've been missin' you so bad it hurts? Sam, I… I—"

But he stops my words with his sudden steps, and I'm backed against the wall.

"Don't." Sam's voice is a low, gravelly rumble, and for a moment I'm absolutely terrified that he's rejecting me and I nearly regret my words. I look down at my boots, trying to re-gather my waning courage.

"But—"

"
Don't
," he repeats more firmly, his hands coming up to press against the wall on either side of me, caging me in.

His proximity completely enraptures me, his scent intoxicating my senses, and the intensity in his gaze prevents me from forming any more words.

"No more of this wishy-washy bullshit, Ror," he says softly, and I frown. "Don't go there again, okay? Not unless you're sure."

"But I—"

"I mean it." Sam shakes his head. "I can't go through that again." He exhales sharply, and I subtly breathe in his breath. "You want to be something more than friends again? You need to be sure. I… I can't go through that again," he repeats.

And he's right. Of course he's right. Neither of us can handle such heartache again. Because as painful as this all is, I can only imagine how exponentially worse it would feel to have hope again—real hope—and have it yanked away when it all falls apart all over again.

I nod in response, and look back down. Because the thing is, every time I meet his eyes, I
am
sure.

Sam's fingers brush under my chin, and lift it to look at him again.

"I am not rejecting you," he clarifies, but it sure feels like he is.

I nod uncertainly, but our eyes are locked, and right now, I can't imagine anything other than wanting to be with him for fucking
ever
.

"You serious about this?" he asks, and I can sense him wavering. That he's really considering giving us another shot, and my pulse races with a heady mixture of excitement and hope.

I never break our gaze. "Yes," I breathe.

Sam deflates, all the determination of a moment before vanishing like it was never real in the first place. "I've told you, Ror. There's no half way with us. It can't just be a spur of the moment decision because I've been acting like a dick or because you were jealous last night. You need to be sure."

I feel the heat of my blush color my cheeks and spread downward at the memory of my embarrassing display, but there's a warmth in Sam's expression, in his tone, that tells me he wasn't angered by it. That perhaps he's even a bit pleased.

"And if I am?" I ask, increasingly sure that this isn't a hypothetical—that I was wrong to end it in the first place. That if the choice is up to me, I'm getting him back, one way or another.

Sam's eyes close briefly. As if he wasn't expecting my reply, as if he isn't quite sure how to respond, but when they reopen they are intent, sure.

"I can't go through that again," he says again, and my heart stops beating for a moment. "Think it over, Ror, okay? Take the weekend. Really think about what you want. We can talk about it on Monday, okay?"

I don't reply, I only stare at his hypnotizing midnight blues.

"If you change your mind again… it could really break us. Even our friendship, for good, you know? If you decide you want to give this another shot, then you need to be completely sure first, is that fair?"

I nod. "Yeah."

"Think about it. We'll talk about it on Monday. No pressure either way. I mean it. Just be honest with me about how you feel—be honest with yourself."

"Okay." What he's asking is fair.

"I really am sorry about how I've been acting," Sam says contritely.

I nod. "Me, too," I reply. "Last night—"

"Don't apologize for last night." It's a good thing he interrupts because I have no idea what my explanation was going to be. Even an apology wouldn't have been genuine, because if my drunken rant stopped Sam from hooking up with that girl, well then I certainly can't regret it. But Sam doesn't elaborate. Instead, he changes the subject.

"You coming to the city tomorrow night?" he asks.

"Yep," I answer about our group's plans to go to some extraordinarily expensive restaurant and some supposedly hot new club in Manhattan to celebrate our last weekend in high school.  

Sam nods his approval and smiles his incredible smile. "So I'll see you there, then. I'll be driving, so I'm not drinking," he adds.

I smile then, "I'm not driving, but I don't think I'll be drinking anyway. Not for a while, after the fool I made of myself last night," I admit.

Sam shakes his head, but his smile widens even more, "Don't be ridiculous," he says matter-of-factly, sounding more like the Sam I used to know, before I ruined everything between us.

"See you, Pine," he murmurs, before cupping my jaw and brushing his thumb over my cheek. A shiver runs through me from the point of contact.

And then he's backing up and turning away, and my eyes drop back to my boots, completely dazed as he walks away.