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“I know you can. But you didn’t have to … and the fact that you did …”
It takes some effort to set that up. Effort and time and money and coordination. He did that for me. Just because. Who is this man? He isn’t turning out to be what I expected. He’s so much more.
Our gazes are connected across the small space as the moment drags on. His gray-blue eyes are clear and bright despite him traveling the past few days. They look less empty, less tortured than they did even a few weeks ago. When did they start to clear?
“It’s no big deal.” He shrugs, turning toward the television.
“You’re wrong. It’s a huge deal to me.”
He meets my gaze again and holds it. Something starts to stir low in my stomach. I think it’s those butterflies again.
“I mean it, Sam. No one has ever done anything like that for me before. My parents … we don’t talk anymore mostly because they don’t support my art.” My voice is barely above a whisper. I hug my knees to my chest again, fortifying myself against the vulnerability my words are creating inside of me.
“Maybe you’ve been hanging around the wrong people, Doe.”
“Maybe,” I murmur. “Or maybe I’m hanging around the right people now.”
His eyes flicker between both of mine, searching. The television murmurs softly in the background.
“I wanted to do something nice.” His voice is low and rough with his confession. He’s emotional and so unlike the man the rest of the world sees.
“Who are you?” I ask. “Because you continue to surprise me.”
“You surprise me too,” he confesses. “The way you look at me …”
“How do I look at you?”
No hesitation. “Like I’m something. Like even if there’s only a tiny flicker of goodness buried deep inside of me, that goodness is all you see.”
“There’s a lot of goodness inside of you, Sam.”
He shrugs as his eyes drop to the floor. “I guess when enough people tell you that you’re bad … you start to believe them after a while.”
“We all have a little good and a little bad inside of us,” I insist. “But you’re so much more than what you let others see.” I sigh. “Why do you think you’re not that person?”
“Why do you not know how beautiful you are, Em? Because you are.”
I scoff and roll my eyes, running a hand through my disheveled hair. “I’m sure I’m a vision right now. Four days with the flu, puffy eyes, snot running down my face, and in desperate need of a shower …”
“You’re beautiful,” he insists sincerely.
I study his face for what feels like forever.
“What’s happening between us, Sam?” I ask, suddenly desperate for the answer.
“I don’t know,” he admits. “But I like the way it feels.”
“I do too,” I confess.
He finally breaks eye contact, glancing away for a few beats. “I’m going to tell the Hawks about the benefit. See if the rest of the guys want to be involved. It’s a good idea.”
“It won’t take away from the sentiment. It’ll only enhance it. Make it bigger and better. Think of all the people who will benefit from your generosity. People like your mom.” I smile. “And if you just so happen to get some positive press out of it … well, that’ll be the cherry on top.”
He’s studying me again, like I’m an anomaly. “I’ve never met anyone like you, Em. Your optimism is contagious.”
“Is that a good thing?” I arch a brow.
“In my case, it is,” he says. “I needed someone with your positivity to rub off on me.”
