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“Sore,” I make a face at him. “I think you owe me a professional massage.”
He raises an eyebrow. “I can make that happen.”
“Kidding,” I say, waving a hand. “But I am very sore.”
Catching me around the waist, he pulls me in for a kiss, sneakily using his hands to massage what parts of me he can reach. “Does that feel better?”
“Yes,” I bite my lip, “but likely to lead us to more of what made me sore in the first place.” I break away from him and go to the plate of pancakes. “These look delicious.”
And oh my God, they are. They’re buttery and fluffy and some of the best pancakes that I’ve ever had. A perfect blend with the syrup. I find myself making noises that sound entirely sexual while I’m eating them. “I don’t care what you think, Sam. You’re a really good cook.”
He laughs. “You’ve only had two things that I’ve made. I could just be really good at making alfredo and pancakes.”
“Who gives a shit? They’re really good alfredo and pancakes. And don’t forget, you make a mean ice cream sundae,” I say with a wink.
“That’s true. My skills with dessert can’t be overstated.” He has his own plate of pancakes, and leans against the kitchen counter to eat them. “Can I see you again? Like this?”
“As friends?” I ask.
“Or maybe more.”
It’s so easy to ignore things at night. Everything seems a little more magical, and the impossible seems possible. All of our ideas seem a little harsher in the daylight. And I can’t ignore our history any more. But there’s a hope I can’t squash down, that maybe after last night, Sam will be more willing to talk about it.
“Twenty questions?” I ask.
He looks suspicious. “We never seem to get to the end of the game.”
“Someday we will.”
He gestures for me to continue. “Why did you do what you did on prom night.”
Sam goes rigid. “Please don’t ask me that. Not during the game.”
“Why not? Because you have to tell the truth during the game?” He places the plate of pancakes to the side and assumes a pose I know all too well. Crossed arms, clenched jaw, averted eyes. He’s not going to tell me. “Even after last night, you can’t just tell me? God, Sam, it’s been ten years. I just want to know the truth. I just want to know why. It’s like this gaping wound that I feel whenever I look at you and I know that it’s never going to start to heal if I can’t have closure.”
He looks up at me, and his eyes are angry. “I didn’t do what you think I did.”
There’s a prick of anger in my chest that grows. This is the most he’s ever said about it, and that’s what he chooses to say? “That’s all? That it’s not what I think?” I lean forward, hands on the counter. “Why does this have to be this hard? If it’s not what I think, then just tell me. But you won’t. You’ve never wanted to, and after what I saw, what else am I supposed to assume?”
It feels like there’s electricity in the air, a storm about to break open. I said last night that I could pretend that this never existed, but deep down I didn’t. Deep down I hoped that I could show him that I was worth it. That I could prove that it would be kay if he told me whatever he’s been hiding all these years. That it might still work between us if we can get past it. Tears prick at my eyes and I blink them back. I will not cry. I will not.
“We were together for a year and a half. I assumed that you would give me the benefit of the doubt. But you decided what had happened, and I never saw you again.”
“Because it hurt,” I say, my voice breaking across the room loudly. “It hurt to look at you, knowing what I’d seen and that you wouldn’t tell me what really happened. You wouldn’t explain. My heart was broken, Sam. Shattered.” I try to keep myself from crying. “Shattered.”
He comes to the bar opposite me, leaning on it, challenging me. “You don’t think my heart was broken too?” His voice has an unfamiliar rasp, a depth of emotion that I’ve rarely seen from him. “I loved you. More than anyone thought I did. More than you thought I did, and you didn’t trust me. Didn’t believe me. And then you disappeared for ten years. We live in the same fucking town and I didn’t see you for ten years.” His voice echoes off the walls. “You’re not the only person who needs closure.”
“Is that what last night was? Closure?”
He laughs sadly. “I wish. I had hoped it would be. But all last night did was make me want you more. But we’re still here having the same fight, over and over again.”
