“It was a panic attack?” he asks, and I know he doesn’t mean what’s just happened.
I reply with a slight nod.
“Do you get them a lot?” Sam asks, brows pulled together.
“Not in a long time,” I tell him.
“When did they start, Percy?”
I blink at him. “Um . . .” My eyes flash to Charlie for a split second. “About twelve years ago.”
14
Fall, Thirteen Years Ago
Delilah and I were sitting in the cafeteria the first week of our senior year, and I was smiling so hard a snow plow couldn’t have scraped the grin off my face. I had just bought a used Toyota that weekend, and freedom was pulling up the corners of my lips like marionette strings. Dad had agreed to split the cost of a secondhand car with me, stunned I had managed to save $4,000 in tips alone.
“Don’t be one of those girls,” Delilah said, waving a french fry in my face. I had just mentioned the idea of quitting the swim team. Practice was during the week but races were mostly on weekends, and I had big plans to spend every weekend in Barry’s Bay with Sam.
“What girls?” I asked, my mouth half-full with a bite of tuna sandwich, as a cute red-haired boy sat down across from Delilah, holding out his hand.
“Seriously?” she asked, pointing another fry in his direction, before he could get a word out.
“I’m new here,” he stammered and pulled his hand away. “I thought I’d say hi.”
Delilah gave me a look that said, Can you even imagine? and glared at him.
“What, you think because we’re both gingers we should get together and have little carrot-topped brats together? Not gonna happen.” She shooed at him. “Buh-bye.”
He looked at me to check whether she was serious or not.
“She looks a lot sweeter than she is.” I shrugged.
After he left, Delilah turned back to me. “As I was saying, you don’t want to be one of those girls who has nothing interesting to say because all she thinks about is her boyfriend, and all she does is darn his socks or whatever. Those girls are boring. Don’t get boring on me, Persephone Fraser. I’ll be required to break up with you.”
I laughed, and she narrowed her eyes. She wasn’t joking.
“Okay,” I said, holding up my hands. “I won’t quit. But Sam’s not my boyfriend. We haven’t, you know, put a label on it yet. It’s new.”
“It’s not new. It’s, like, one hundred years old,” she said with a shake of her head. “It doesn’t matter whether you label it or not, you two are together,” she said, watching me. “And stop smiling so much. You’re making me nauseous.”
* * *
ON THE WEEKENDS when I didn’t have swimming, I would pack the car on Thursday nights and drive north straight from school on Friday afternoon. This did not sit well with Mom and Dad at first, but I won them over with the I’m going to be eighteen soon and What’s the point of having a cottage if we don’t use it? arguments and assured them I would study while I was gone. What I didn’t tell them was that I was also planning to shove my tongue down Sam’s throat as soon as I got him alone. They found out anyway.
The day after Sam had put his hands over every square inch of my body in August, Sue had spotted a hickey on his neck. True to Sam’s unwavering brand of honesty, he told her precisely who’d given it to him. Sue called my mom just before my first solo trip to the cottage to make sure she and Dad were aware of what was going on. Mom never said anything to me about it, but, according to Sam, Sue told Mom that Sam and I had started a “physical relationship” and then put him on the phone with my mother so he could promise her he’d treat me with respect and care.
My parents never talked to me about sex, and it blew my mind that this conversation took place. But when I unpacked my weekend bag, there was a box of condoms inside with a Post-it note stuck to it, the words Just in case written in Mom’s handwriting.
Sam worked Fridays, and I usually drove right to the Tavern to wait until he finished for the night. He was cooking with Julien in the kitchen since Charlie was away at school. If the restaurant was still busy by the time I got there, I’d tie on an apron and bus tables or help out Glen, the pimple-faced boy who’d replaced Sam at the dishwasher. If it was quiet, I’d take my homework to the bar and study until Julien let Sam go.
Sam insisted on showering after his shift, so we always went back to his place. On the drive, we filled each other in on our weeks—the swim practices, bio exams, Delilah dramas—and then we raced upstairs. We had approximately thirty minutes after Sam’s shower to feel each other up before Sue got home after closing. We kept the light off, a frantic clash of tongues and teeth and hands, and when Sue’s headlights shone through Sam’s bedroom window, we’d pull our tops back on and run downstairs to the kitchen, throwing the plates of food Julien had sent home with us in the microwave. We’d eat at the kitchen table, sneaking glances and nudging each other’s feet under the table while Sue fixed her own dinner.