Page 143 of Smoke and Glitter

"There you are."

"You wanted me to say what I want."

"I did."

"So I'm saying it."

I shake my head, but I'm smiling now. "Look at you."

"Don't."

"I'm not doing anything."

"You're enjoying yourself."

He leans back against the bench, and some of the tension leaves his shoulders. We stay there longer than I expected. Nothing else enormous gets said. No relationship summit. No list of terms and conditions. A dog barrels past us chasing a ball, and Sam asks whether British dogs understand American accents. I tell him that's the dumbest thing he's said since landing, which unfortunately starts a ten-minute argument about whether dogs have regional language preferences.

It feels so normal that it scares me more than the rest of the conversation.

Eventually I look toward the gate.

"When do you leave?"

"Tomorrow."

I turn back to him.

He doesn't add anything. Doesn't mention the cost of changing the ticket or how far he traveled. He just waits.

"And if I tell you none of this changes anything?"

"I go home."

"You wouldn't stay and try again?"

"Not unless you asked me to."

I believe that too. The problem with Sam suddenly becoming believable is that it complicates absolutely everything. I look down at the space between our hands.

"Are you going to call me?"

His answer almost comes immediately. Then he stops. I watch him catch himself.

"Yes," he says.

I wait.

He rubs his thumb across his palm. "I want to call you."

Better.

"And I want to see you again before I leave."

My pulse jumps. I pretend it doesn't.

"That was much better."

"I'm learning."