Why did I say that? How is it that I’ve seen Sam for all of an hour and the lock has come flying off my big mouth?
Sam runs his hand over his face and then through his hair. “Why don’t you come in for a drink? Twelve years is a lot of time to catch up on.” It doesn’t escape my notice that he’s already done the math.
I shift on my feet. There’s nothing more I want than to spend time with Sam, to just be near Sam, but I need some time to figure out what I’m going to say to him. I want to talk about the last time we saw each other. To tell him how sorry I am. To tell him why I did what I did. To come clean. But I can’t go there tonight. I’m not prepared. It would be like going into the fight of my life without any armor.
I look around the quiet side street.
“C’mon, Percy. Save your money.”
“Okay,” I agree. I step into the dark kitchen behind him, and when he flicks on the lights, my eyes slide down the slope of his back to the curve of his butt, which is a very big mistake because it is a stupidly great butt. It is at this precise moment that he turns around, catching me mid-ass-ogle.
“Bar?” I ask, feigning ignorance. I brush past him and through the dining room doors, turning on the lights in the main room. With my hand still on the switch, I take in the space. I have to blink a few times to process what I see because it’s wild how little has changed. Pine planks cover the walls and ceiling; the floors are some kind of tougher wood, maple maybe. The effect is of being in a cozy cabin, despite the large size of the room. Historic photos of Barry’s Bay hang on the walls along with antique logging axes and saws and paintings from local artists, including a few of the Tavern itself. The stone fireplace sits where it always did, and the same family photo is placed on the mantel where it always was. I make my way over to it while Sam takes a couple of glasses from the shelf behind the bar.
It’s a framed shot of the Floreks in front of the Tavern, which I know was taken the day the restaurant opened. Sam’s parents are wearing massive smiles. His dad, Chris, towers over Sue with one arm wrapped around her shoulder, holding her tight to his side. A toddler Charlie clutches his free hand. Sue is carrying an infant Sam; he looks about eight months old, his hair is so fair it’s almost white, and his arms and legs are deliciously dimpled. I studied this photo countless times as a teen. I touch Sue’s face now. She’s younger than I am in this photo.
“I always loved this shot,” I say, still examining the picture. I hear the gurgle of liquid being poured into glasses and turn to see Sam, adult Sam, watching me with a pained expression.
I walk to the bar and put my hands on the counter as I take a seat in front of him. He passes me a generous tumbler of whisky.
“You okay?” I ask.
“You were right earlier,” he says, his voice rough as gravel. “It’s a lot having you here. It kind of feels like I’ve been punched in the heart.” My breath hitches. He lifts his glass to his lips and tosses his head back, downing its contents.
I am suddenly one thousand degrees hotter and hyperaware of the dampness under my armpits and how my bangs are stuck to my forehead. There’s probably a cowlick up there. I try to push them off my face.
“Sam . . .” I begin, then stop, not sure what words come next.
I don’t want to do this now. Not yet.
I raise my glass to my mouth and take a large sip.
Sam’s gaze is relentless. His ability to maintain eye contact was something I got used to after I first met him. And as we got older, that blue stare set fire to my blood, but now its pressure is overwhelming. And I know, I know, that I shouldn’t find him attractive right now, but his dark expression and his hard jaw are unraveling me. He is undeniably gorgeous, even when he’s a little intense. Maybe especially so.
I tip back the rest of the whisky and gasp at the burn. He’s waiting for me to say something, and I’ve never been able to evade him. I’m just not ready to open up our wounds now, not before I know whether we’ll survive them a second time.
I look down at my empty glass. “I’ve spent twelve years thinking about what I would say if I ever saw you again.” I grimace at my own honesty. I pause, counting four breaths in and out. “I’ve missed you so much.” My voice trembles, but I keep going. “I want to make it better. I want to fix things. But I don’t know what to say to do that right now. Please just give me a little more time.”
I keep my attention on my empty glass. I have both hands wrapped around it so he can’t see them shake. Then I hear the soft pop of the bottle’s cork. I glance up, my eyes wide with fear. But his are soft now, a little sad even.