Page 8 of Give Me What You Will

Sammy stilled, but looked indifferent to it. He knew better. Sammy cared about that woman, even though she was barely ever a mom to him. Frankie had gone back and forth over the years about his own feelings toward her and decided his opinion didn’t matter in the end—it was Sammy’s mom, and if Sammy wanted her in his life, she was in Frankie’s, too. And he’d do his best to keep his mouth shut and help out whenever he could. The only good Samuels was the late and great Papi, Sammy’s grandfather.

“She looked good, considering. Sold Papi’s house somehow, I dunno. She said she sold some of his military stuff, but the rest is in storage.”

“Yeah, she called me a few months ago to tell me about it.”

“Okay—I see how it is. You’ll answer her calls, but not mine?”

Sammy sighed, tilting his head to the side. “You done with that yet?”

“Nah, probably not. Eight months, asshole.”

Sammy glanced away, the tip of his thumbnail digging into the edge of the wooden table. “I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“No, I’m sorry for…” he trailed off, and Frankie’s heart fluttered for some stupid fucking reason.

He let out an impatient sigh, “I’ve already forgiven you, Sammy. Let’s just move on, all right?”

Sammy's jaw clenched, eyes still firmly looking away. “I don’t think I can.”

“Well, you are,” Frankie said flatly, refusing to dig that moment up. “I’m here. We’re burying the fuckin’ hatchet because that’s what friends do.”

Something shifted in his expression, something dark and… angry.

He knew that look. Sammy’s crazy fuckin’ mother had it right before she went berserk on someone. Sammy had that anger of hers without the madness, except Sammy rarely lost his shit on anyone, and when he did—it was marvelous. Something Frankie had been determined never to be on the receiving end of. The Samuels clan was an angry bunch that could ruin a person's day or life, depending on their mood, and there was no in-between.

He wasn’t sure how he had managed to upset Sammy, only that he did.

He took a steady drink and waved to the bartender for another round. Maybe getting him drunk—or himself drunk—would help soothe some of their tension.

Or maybe they needed a distraction. Frankie was always good at that.

“I wanted to give you something,” he reached into his coat pocket, pulled out Nona’s old dog tag, and slid it across the table to him. “15 years.”

Sammy’s eyes widened as he took the delicate, worn steel tag into his fingers, emotion brimming in his eyes. “What happened?”

Frankie felt Sammy’s emotion as if it were his own. Because it was. They loved her, their pittie, and cared for her together. Even though Frankie had adopted her, she belonged to them both.

“One day she just couldn’t get up…” he murmured, throat aching, and he cleared it roughly. “She—yeah—she wasn’t in any pain in the end. I stayed with her, wrapped her in that old sweater we had, the one we used to fight over who bought at the Audioslave concert. You remember?”

Sammy scrubbed a hand over his face, tears welling, and nodded. “Yeah, I bought it, and you stole it.”

“You kept leaving it at my place. What was I supposed to do?”

“Give it back like a normal person.”

“Hey, you left it, don’t give me that shit.”

Just like you fuckin’ left me.

He shook his head, pushing down the thought. “We shared custody of that sweater, just like we did with her. She was yours just as much as she was mine. I wanted her to have something of yours when I took her…” he cleared his throat again. “Still had your scent on it. Better than a blanket.”

Sammy wiped the tears from beneath his cheeks. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I tried. I wasn’t gonna send that shit through a text, Sammy. I wanted to tell you on the phone or in person.”

“Fuck, I’m sorry, man. I should’ve been there.”