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I pull her tighter against my body as I fight to keep my hands above the curve of her tight, round ass.
God
she makes me crazy. I bring my lips down to hers and kiss her right there on the dance floor. It doesn't matter. There's no one else here. I only see Rory.

Around midnight we all pile into the party bus, most of our friends pretty tipsy by now, but I'm drunk on Rory's mood. She's relaxed, living in the moment. Not loud or giggly like some of the other girls, just enjoying the night. Every now and then she peeks up at me with this look—like I'm her whole fucking world, and it makes my chest feel so full it could explode.

We get to East Hampton in a little over an hour. We've all changed into comfortable clothes, Rory in leggings and my varsity shirt, and the satisfaction I feel seeing my last name written across her back is unreal.

The after-party is tamer than one might expect. There's more drinking, a few joints, and I'm pretty sure Marshall and Luke have been sneaking lines in the bathroom with their dates, but mostly we sit around and do more talking while Dave curates the playlist on the house's sound system.

There are eight couples and only six bedrooms, but not everyone is exactly planning to sleep. Either way, I secured the master, which is in its own wing of the house.

Rory excuses herself to go to sleep around three a.m., insisting that I stay up and hang out with my friends. I last another five minutes before I make my way upstairs to join her. In those five minutes Rory has passed out on the bedspread. I climb behind her, tug her back against my chest, and close my eyes.

A few months ago this isn't how I would have imagined my prom night. Now it's how I imagine every night.

Chapter Twenty Three

E
veryone
leaves in the party bus the next morning except Sam and me. He tells me he arranged for a car service to take us home tonight so we could spend the day. I don't complain. The beach-front property is gorgeous, and though I knew his uncle was successful, a house like this is almost shockingly luxurious. It isn't warm enough to swim so we wrap a throw blanket around our shoulders and walk along the beach, hand in hand.

We don't say much. There isn't a whole lot left to be said. For the first time in the longest time, I feel completely present. I'm not stifled by my past or terrified of my future. I'm just here, now, with Sam.

Sam orders us lunch and we eat out on the pool deck, then we watch a movie on the sofa which turns into a long nap. The whole place is incredibly relaxing. I can't believe Thea's family will get to spend the entire summer here, and I tell Sam so. He tells me we can come down any time we want. That he needs to be in the city during the week to help his uncle with his new hotel, but that he'd be happy to take me back here any weekend—
every
weekend.

I stare out the window at the infinite ocean, picturing us here in a couple of weeks when it's summer in earnest. Something about the ocean has always been calming to me. It makes me feel like I fit in the world, or rather, that it doesn't matter whether I do or not. Because the world is an enormous place, with billions of people, and it will go on whether I fit or not. That whatever happens, good or bad, the ocean will still be here, its tides rising and falling, its waves surging and ebbing.

The ocean doesn't care about my problems; its tidal currents will continue its ageless movement whether Robin is free or imprisoned, or whether I choose to give into my issues or choose strength—to keep going. Because it
is
a choice. It always has been. And no one can make it but me.

I look over at Sam, watch him watch me like he does—like I'm the most captivating thing in the universe. It took this beautiful boy to make me understand not only that it was my choice, but that I had the strength to make it after all.

His midnight blues shimmer in the afternoon light, one side of his mouth curled up into a half-smile, his dimple peeking out. I love the way he looks at me. I love the way he looks
period
. Especially when he seems so content. It mirrors my sentiment, the one he elicits, and though I'm not sure I deserve it, not sure I deserve
him
, I'm past being able to give him up.

I know we're not perfect, because I'm not. But I finally feel like I'm heading in the right direction.

I talked to Dr. Schall about Cam on Wednesday. I told him how Sam said his accident wasn't my fault. How he accused me of feeling like I should have been the one who died that morning in his place. Dr. Schall didn't say anything for a full minute, just sat there with a small, knowing smile, confirming my suspicion—that Sam was right.

He was so pleased I'd finally opened up about Cam that he didn't even push me to make up the sessions I missed while I was in Miami. But I didn't tell him everything. I didn't tell him about the kiss I shared with Cam that last night. Didn't get into my confusion over what might have been, and the guilt I feel for wondering. I don't want him to think it means I wish I was with him instead of Sam. Because I don't. I don't want to be with anyone else, for the rest of my life. But I do wish Cam was alive. I'll never stop wishing that.

So we may never be perfect, because I know I never will be. But Sam, maybe he can be perfect enough for the both of us. Or at least, perfect for me.

For dinner Sam takes me out to The Shell Shack, a beachy cafe right on the water, full of families cracking crab shells with hammers and laughing exuberantly. He pulls me to the deck in the back, and we eat outdoors overlooking the beach.

We have a long, lazy meal and it's already late when we head home. I fall asleep on him in the back of the town car and don't awaken until he's carrying me to my front porch, his scent overwhelming my senses, and I press my face to his skin, inhaling deeply. I brush my lips over the soft day-old stubble just under his jaw. I love when he goes a day without shaving. I love the feel of it against my skin.

"Mmm, baby. Don't get me worked up right now, yeah?"

I climb out of his arms with a yawn and fish through my purse for my house keys. The driver places our overnight bags on my porch and Sam thanks him before he drives off. He picks up my bag to carry it inside, but he doesn't touch his own.

"You're not staying?" I ask, sounding far too disappointed.

"Do you want me to?"

I blink at him. Where would he get the idea that I wouldn't?

He runs his fingers through his hair. "I’ve barely slept home in weeks. I thought maybe you could use a break," he says uncertainly.

I don't want a break from him. Does he want one from me?

"If that's what you want," I murmur, desperately trying to feign nonchalance. I turn to head into the house before my lip biting gives me away, but Sam grabs my arm, looking like he's wrestling with something profound. It unsettles me.

"It's not." Another hand through his hair. "It's not what I want, Ror. What I want is to spend every night with you. What I want is to beg you to move into my place instead of your dorm. I just…
shit
,
Ror
. I'm scared. I don't want to fuck this up. I don't want you to get sick of me."

I want to laugh, the thought is ridiculous, but his sincerity overwhelms me.  

"God, Sam, you still don't get it, do you?"

His lack of response tells me he really doesn't.

"I don't want a break from you. I'm not gonna get sick of you. I don't want to sleep without you. I'm not even sure I
can
anymore." Not that I really got much sleep without him before, either. "I don't want to fuck this up either. But… I also don't want you to leave."

Sam looks at once relieved and full of awe.

"Just… just please come inside."

He does. He grabs his bag and follows me up the stairs. The house is quiet, my mother asleep, and for the first time we don't take turns washing up. We brush our teeth side by side and it's remarkably domestic. But the strangest part is how comfortable it all feels. I sense a shadow of my future, and it whispers that I could really have this—him—forever.

If I don't screw it all up.

****

T
he sun blares through my open drapes making it impossible to sleep any longer. I yawn and stretch my back. Sam tightens his arms around my waist from behind me, telling me he's not ready for me to get up yet. I feel him hard against my hip, telling me he
is
ready for something else. I wiggle against him in encouragement and he groans.

He's definitely awake now.

Sam's lips find that spot on my neck just below my ear and I sigh, increasing my pressure as I push back harder against him. He groans again before pulling back away from me and giving me some slack in his arms. I don't want it.

I turn around so I'm facing him and slide my leg over his hip. His features screw up as if he's in pain, but he presses himself against me anyway. "You're killing me, baby," he rasps. "I promised your mom I'd be respectful, remember?"

He must not have realized how late we've slept. "It's nearly nine, Sam. My mother left for work hours ago."

His eyes widen and he glances at my clock as if he needs confirmation.

"Well in that case…"

And just like that I'm on my back and Sam is exactly where I want him.

He holds me afterwards and whispers to me about his plans for moving into his new apartment. Since he's going to start working with his uncle in two weeks, he's going to move into the city before then. He wants me to come with him. If not to move in officially, at least to spend most nights. He wants me to come see the apartment this week. He wants me to feel comfortable there. He'll even stay here some nights if it makes it easier, he says. And then we can go to the Hamptons any weekend I want.

He whispers all of this softly into my ear, painting a picture of our summer that almost seems far too wonderful to be real. He may as well be reciting poetry for the effect he's having on me. I sigh in pleasure, but don't say anything, I just let him keep talking.

Eventually he trails off, but his fingers continue their trademark exploration of my skin, lingering on their favorite spots—my shoulder, my collarbone, my hip bones—and I break out in goose bumps.

I can't believe we're really here, really getting ready to begin our future. Really free of Robin.

Not forever though.

"Seven years," I breathe without even thinking.

I both hear and feel Sam's sharp intake of air. I shouldn't have brought up Robin. I didn't even mean to do it. But now he’s here, in this room, taking up more space than he deserves.

"Yeah," Sam whispers.

"It's a long time… but…"

"Not long enough. I know, baby." His tone makes me think that this is a thought he's had before. "But a lot can happen in seven years. And it will be ten unless he behaves, which I doubt he's even capable of." He keeps his voice soft and soothing. But he's not just trying to placate me, he really believes this. That everything will work out. And so I try and let myself believe it too.

Sam's right. Anything can happen within the next seven years. Except Robin getting out of prison, and it's a comforting thought. Maybe by then he'll forget about me.

"We'll be twenty five," I murmur. It's hard to imagine myself that age. But easier now than it would have been a few months ago. The picture that floats through my mind is the one Sam painted of me. Of the tough lawyer helping girls who have been through the kinds of things I have. It's an inspiring thought.

"Yep," Sam replies.

"Do you think I'll still be your girlfriend seven years from now?" It's an insecure thing to ask. But I want to know. I want to know if he thinks we are forever or if he's just living in the moment. Because the more I picture my future, the more I can't picture it without him, and it's scary to think he might not.

When Sam doesn't respond right away my nerves grow tenfold. I lean up to look at him and his furrowed brow and contemplative expression give me pause. It worries me that he has to think about it.

"In seven years? When we're twenty five?"

I don't know if he's really considering his answer or if he's just buying time to come up with something that won't upset me. Either possibility sends small fissures fracturing through my heart. I don't respond, since I'm pretty sure his question was rhetorical.

"Nah," he says finally, and I stop breathing, terrified that if I try to take another breath, I will only choke on it.

The worst part is he's looking off in the distance, as if he's really considering his answer—as if it's what he really believes.

"I mean, I hope not," he adds, still not looking at me, and it's a good thing too—I can only imagine my own expression right now.  

But why would he
hope not?
What a strange thing to say to your girlfriend. That he hopes we break up by the time we're twenty-five?

Sam sighs then. "By then I hope you're my wife. Or at least fiancé."

It takes me a moment to process. I have to remind myself of my choice of words. And then I shove him in the shoulder.

"I hate you," I mutter under my breath before curling back into his side.

"What?" He's all innocence and confusion.

Asshole
. My heart is still beating so fast it might combust.

"Does that scare you?" he asks cautiously.

I shove him again. "No, you jerk.
You
scared me." I'm only vaguely aware that the thought of marrying Sam has the opposite effect than the one of marrying Robin did, even before things got really bad between us. In fact, it's a monumental relief.

"What?" Sam still has no idea what he just put me through.

"Never mind."

But he won't accept that. I know it even before he rolls me onto my back and hovers over me so I can't escape his gaze. He doesn't even have to ask again, his eyes do it for him.