“I didn’t . . .” I start, but he interjects.
“I think my textbook-reading days are over,” he says, giving me an out. But then he adds, “Calm down, Percy. You look like you’ve been busted watching porn.”
I let out a relieved sound that is halfway between a laugh and a sigh.
We finish our drinks in a happy silence. Sam pours more. It’s dark outside now, and I have no idea how long we’ve been here.
“We’re going to regret this tomorrow,” I say, but it’s a lie. I would endure a two-day hangover if it meant I could have another hour with Sam.
“Do you stay in touch with Delilah?” he asks, and I almost choke on my drink. I haven’t spoken to Delilah in years. We’re friends on Facebook, so I know she’s some kind of political PR ace in Ottawa, but I pushed her away not too long after I messed everything up with Sam. My two biggest friendships: gone within months. Both because of me.
I run my finger around the rim of my glass. “We stopped being close in university,” I say. The truth of this still stings, though it’s not the whole story, not even close. I look at Sam to see if he can tell.
He shifts his weight on the stool, looking uncomfortable, and takes a big drink. “I’m sorry to hear that. You two were really tight for a while there.”
“We were,” I agree. “Actually,” I add, glancing up at him, “you probably saw her more than I did since you both went to Queen’s.”
He scratches the scruff on his jaw. “It’s a big campus, but yeah, I ran into her once or twice.” His voice is coarse.
“She’d get a kick out of seeing how you’ve grown up,” my stupid whisky mouth blurts. I look down at my drink.
“Oh?” he asks, bumping my knee with his. “And how did I grow up?”
“Cocky, apparently,” I mutter, squinting at my glass, because somehow there are two of them.
He chuckles and then leans toward me and whispers in my ear, “You grew up pretty cocky, too.”
* * *
SAM SITS BACK and studies me.
“Can I tell you something?” he asks, his words running together just a little.
“Of course,” I choke out.
His eyes are slightly unfocused, but he has them set on mine. “There was this incredible used book and video store in Kingston when I was premed,” he begins. “They had a huge horror section—all the good stuff you loved. But other movies, too. Obscure ones that I thought maybe you hadn’t seen. I spent a lot of time there, just browsing around. It reminded me of you.” Sam shakes his head, remembering. “The owner was this grumpy guy with tattoos and a huge mustache. One day he got super pissed at me coming in all the time and never buying anything, so I grabbed a copy of The Evil Dead and plunked it on the counter. And then I just kept going back, but of course I had to buy something each time. I ended up with Carrie, Psycho, The Exorcist, and all those terrible Halloween movies,” he says. He pauses, searching my face. “I never put them on, though. My roommates thought I was nuts to have all these movies I didn’t watch. But I just couldn’t bring myself to. It felt wrong without you.”
This shakes me.
I’ve spent hours, days, entire years wondering if Sam could possibly long for me the way I did for him. In some ways, it seemed like wishful thinking. In the months following our breakup, I left countless messages on his dorm room phone, sent text after text, and wrote email after email, checking to see how he was, telling him how much I missed him, and asking if we could please talk. He didn’t respond to a single one. By May, someone else answered the phone—a new student had moved into his room. I considered driving up to Barry’s Bay, telling him everything, begging for forgiveness, but I thought he’d probably wiped me, my name, and all memory of us from his mind by that point.
There’s always been a small, hopeful part buried inside me that felt he must sometimes find his mind drifting to me, to us. He was everything to me, but I know the same was true for him. Hearing him talk about the video store dislodges that deeply hidden sliver of hope, just a little.
“I don’t watch them, either,” I admit in a whisper.
“No?”
“No.” I clear my throat. “Same reason.”
We’re looking at each other, unblinking. The tightness in my chest is almost unbearable. The temptation to lean into him, to show him what he means to me with my hands and my mouth and my tongue, is almost impossible to ignore. But I know that wouldn’t be fair. My heart is a stampede of animals escaping the zoo, but I sit still, waiting for his response.