“I can’t imagine any amount of time being long enough. She was so young.”
“Fifty-two.”
I inhale sharply, because that’s even younger than I had guessed. And I can imagine how this must gnaw at Sam. His dad was young, too.
“I hope it’s okay that I came,” I say. “I wasn’t sure you’d want me here.”
“Yeah, of course.” He says it as if it hasn’t been more than a decade since we spoke. As if he doesn’t hate me. He turns back to the dishwasher, emptying a tray of side plates and stacking them on the counter. “How did you know?” He glances at me and squints when I don’t immediately reply. “Ah.”
He’s already figured out the answer, but I tell him anyway. “Charlie called me.”
His face darkens. “Of course he did,” he says flatly.
There are serving dishes and chafing trays lined up on the counters—the kind of equipment needed to cater a big function. I move beside him at the dishwashing station and begin putting some dusty serving utensils in a rack to run through the washer. It’s the same machine from when I worked here. I’ve run it so many times I could do it with my eyes closed.
“So what’s all this for?” I ask, keeping my eyes on the sink. But I don’t get a response. I can tell from the quiet that Sam has stopped emptying dishes. I take a deep breath, in one, two, three, four and out one, two, three, four, before looking over my shoulder. He’s leaning against the counter, arms crossed, watching me.
“What are you doing?” he asks, voice rough. I turn to face him straight on, taking another deep breath, and from some deep forgotten place, I find Percy, the girl I used to be.
I lift my chin and give him an incredulous look, putting a hand on my hip. My hand is soaking wet, but I ignore that as well as the swooping in my stomach.
“I’m helping you out, genius.” The water seeps through my dress, but I don’t budge. I don’t look away. A muscle in his jaw twitches and his frown loosens just enough that I know I’ve stuck a knife under his sealer lid. A smile threatens to ruin my poker face, and I bite my lip to hold it back. His eyes flash to my mouth.
“You were always a shit dishwasher,” I say, and he bursts out laughing, the rich bellow bouncing off the kitchen’s steel surfaces. It is the most magnificent sound. I want to record it so I can listen to it later, again and again. I don’t know the last time I’ve smiled this widely.
His blue eyes sparkle when they find mine, then drift down to the wet spot my hand has left on my hip. He swallows. His neck is the same golden brown as his arms. I want to stick my nose at the curve where it meets his shoulder and inhale a hit of him.
“I see your trash talk hasn’t improved,” he says with affection, and I feel like I’ve won a marathon. He motions to the dishes on the counter and sighs. “Mom wanted to have everyone here for a party after she passed. The idea of people standing around with crustless egg salad sandwiches in the church basement after her funeral horrified her. She wants us to eat and drink and have fun. She was very specific.” He says it with love, but he sounds tired. “She even made the pierogies and cabbage rolls she wanted served months ago, when she was still well enough, and put them in the freezer.”
My eyes and throat burn, but I stay strong this time. “That sounds like your mom. Organized and thoughtful and . . .”
“Always stuffing people full of carbs?”
“I was going to say, ‘feeding the people she loves,’？” I reply. Sam smiles, but it’s a sad one.
We stand there in the quiet, surveying the tidy array of equipment and plates. Sam pulls the tea towel off his shoulder and sets it down on the counter, giving me a long look as if he’s deciding something.
He points to the door. “Let’s get out of here.”
* * *
WE’RE EATING ICE cream and sitting on the same bench we used to as kids—not far from the center of town on the north shore. I can see the motel across the bay in the distance. The sun has dipped low in the sky, and there’s a breeze coming off the water. We haven’t spoken much, which is okay with me because sitting beside Sam feels unreal. His long legs are spread out beside mine, and I’m fixated on the size of his knees and his leg hair. Sam grew out of his stringy phase after he hit puberty, but he is so thoroughly a man now.
“Percy?” Sam asks, breaking my focus.
“Yeah?” I turn toward him.
“You might want to eat that a little faster.” He points to the pink and blue trail of ice cream dripping down my hand.