I sneak out to the car to reapply my makeup and have a few minutes alone. It’s bad enough having an attack in front of Sam and Charlie, but Jordie and Finn seeing me on my hands and knees is a special kind of humiliation. I’m frustrated with myself for not recognizing the signs early enough to find a quiet place to fall apart instead of what I did: jump to the conclusion that my heart was about to peace out on me, amping my panic up to one thousand.
I’m dotting on another round of concealer when my phone buzzes. The name on the screen is one I can’t ignore any longer.
“Hello?” I answer.
“P!” cries Chantal. “Are you okay? I’ve been calling you all day.”
I wince, remembering the message I sent her this morning. “Sorry. I, um, got a little caught up here. I’m . . .” I trail off, because I’m not sure what I am.
“Persephone Fraser, are you serious right now?” she screeches. “You can’t send me a text that says you need help, that you need to talk ASAP and then not answer your phone. I’ve been going nuts trying to reach you. I thought you had a panic attack and passed out in the woods somewhere and got eaten by a bear or a fox or something.”
I laugh. “That’s not far from the truth, actually.” I can hear her rummaging around in the kitchen and then a glass being filled. Red wine, no doubt. She drinks red wine when she’s stressed.
“Do not laugh,” she huffs. Then adds more softly, “What do you mean that’s not far from the truth? Are you lost in the woods somewhere?”
“No, of course not. I’m in my car.” I hesitate.
“What’s going on, P?” Her voice has returned to its natural velvety texture.
I bite the inside of my cheek, then decide to rip the bandage off: “I had a panic attack. A little while ago at the wake. It’s not a big deal.”
“What do you mean it’s not a big deal?” Chantal erupts so loudly I lower the volume on my phone. “You haven’t had a panic attack in years, and now you see the love of your life for the first time in a decade at his mom’s funeral—a woman, who if I recall correctly from the handful of times you’ve told me about her, was kind of like a second mom to you—and now you’re having panic attacks at her wake, and it’s not a big deal? What about this isn’t a big deal?”
I splutter.
“P,” she says at a lower decibel but with no less force. “You think I don’t see you, but I do. I see how you keep almost everyone around you at a distance. I see how little you care about the pompous douchebags you date. And even though you’ve buried your shit with Sam under more piles of shit, I know this is a big fucking deal.”
This stuns me. “I thought you liked Sebastian,” I murmur.
She lets out a low laugh. “Remember when the four of us went to brunch? The server had been ignoring us, and you had to use the bathroom? You told Sebastian to order for you if she came by?”
I tell her I remember before she continues.
“He ended up ordering you a huge stack of chocolate-chip pancakes while you were gone. You hate sweets at breakfast, and you didn’t say a thing. You just thanked him. You ate, like, half a pancake, and he didn’t even notice.”
“It was just breakfast,” I say quietly.
“There is nothing just about food,” Chantal replies, and I can’t help but laugh. Sue and Chantal would have gotten along. Then she sighs deeply. “My point is that he didn’t really know you, even months and months into the relationship, and you didn’t help him get to know you. I didn’t like that.”
I don’t know what to say.
“Just tell me what’s going on,” Chantal says after a moment of silence. Chantal, who figured out my entire relationship strategy with one brunch order. So I do. I tell her all of it.
“Are you going to tell him?” she asks when I’ve finished. “The whole truth?”
“I don’t know if it’s worth it, bringing up the past again, just so I don’t feel guilty anymore,” I say.
Chantal makes a humming sound that means she doesn’t agree. “Let’s not pretend this is just about making yourself feel better. You’ve never moved on.”
BY THE TIME I head back inside, most of the guests have gone home, Dolly and Shania have been shut off, and Sam, Charlie, their grandparents, and a small group of aunts, uncles, and cousins are sitting around a row of pushed-together tables with glasses of wine and brandy. Sam and Charlie look tired, but mostly they seem relieved, not so bunched up in the shoulders. I leave the Floreks to reminisce, find a spare red apron in the linen closet and a serving tray behind the bar, and start clearing the dirty plates and glasses, bringing them to Julien, who’s hunched over the dishwasher in the kitchen.
We’ve been working mostly in silence for almost an hour and finishing up the last of the cutlery when Julien says, “I always wondered where you went to,” his eyes still on the silverware.
“I didn’t really go anywhere. I just didn’t come back,” I tell him. “My parents sold the cottage.” A few long seconds go by.
“I think we both know that’s not why you disappeared,” he says, and I pause. I dry off the last fork, and I’m about to ask Julien what he means, when he speaks. “We all thought you should come.” He turns to me, his eyes boring into mine. “Just don’t vanish again.”
“What do you mean we . . .” I start to say, when the door swings open and Sam steps in, holding a half-dozen dirty glasses. He stops when he sees us and the door swings shut, bumping him in the shoulder. He eyes the apron and the tea towel I’m holding.
“Déjà vu,” he says with a lazy half grin. He seems a little blurry around the edges. He’s removed his jacket and loosened his tie. The top button on his shirt is undone.
“Still got it,” I say, sticking my hip out and motioning to the apron, feeling Julien’s eyes on me. “You know where to come if you’re short-staffed.”
Julien scoffs. “She’s only a little less shit than you at dishes,” he tells Sam just as Charlie walks in with a few empty snifters.
“Everyone’s cleared out. This should be the last of it,” he says, putting the glasses in a rack. “Thanks so much for cleaning up, both of you. And for putting this all together, Julien. It was exactly what Mom wanted.” He brushes by me to give Julien a hug, smelling of the brandy and cigarettes he’s been indulging in. Sam follows suit, then pulls me into an embrace, whispering a thank-you in my ear that feels like a warm towel wrapped around damp shoulders.
“You kids get out of here,” Julien says. “I’ll finish and lock up.”
Charlie looks around at the spotless stainless steel surfaces. “Everything seems done to me. Why don’t we all head out and go back to the house? We can grab a pizza on the way—I didn’t eat anything.”
Julien shakes his head. “Thanks, but you go ahead,” he says, adding in a gruff voice, “And get Percy to drive. You two jackasses are in no state.”
WE PICK UP a couple of Pizza Pizza pizzas on the way to the Floreks’ since none of us ate at the reception. I’m relieved Julien asked me to drive the boys home. I’m not ready to say goodbye.
I feel calmer after talking to Chantal. She didn’t offer any advice—just listened to me talk about the last few days, then told me not to feel so bad about what happened with Sam in the truck, that people cope with grief differently.
And maybe that’s all this morning was for Sam, comfort in his darkest hour. I could be okay with that, I tell myself, if that’s all it is, if that’s all he needs from me.
“This is weird,” says Charlie from the back seat of the car. “You two up front and me in the back. It used to be me driving you around.”
“It used to be you driving us nuts,” Sam replies, and our eyes meet. He’s smiling and now I’m smiling, and for a second it feels like there’s no one but us, and that it’s always just been us. And then I remember Charlie in the back seat and Taylor in wherever the heck she’s gone.
“So tell us about these panic attacks, Pers. You a head case or what?” Charlie asks.
“Charlie.” Sam’s voice is hard as concrete.
When I look in the rearview mirror and meet Charlie’s eyes, there are no sparkles of mischief, only soft concern.
“They let me out just for the funeral,” I tell him, and he laughs but the lines between his eyebrows have become canyons. “I have a bit of an anxiety thing,” I say, looking back out at the road. I wait for the pressure to build up in my lungs, but it doesn’t, so I keep going. “I can usually manage it. You know—therapist, breathing exercises, mantras—the basic self-care practices of a privileged white girl. But sometimes the anxious thoughts get a bit out of control.” I find Charlie in the mirror again and smile gently. “I’m okay, though.”
“That’s good, Percy,” Sam says, and I glance at him expecting pity but I don’t find it. I’m surprised how easy it is to tell them both.
Once we get to the house, they change out of their suits and we each grab a beer from the fridge, taking the pizza out to the deck and eating it straight from the box with squares of paper towel in lieu of plates. We scarf down the first slices without talking.
“I’m glad all that’s done with,” says Charlie when he comes up for air. “Just the ashes now.”
“I don’t think I’m ready for that,” Sam replies, taking a sip of his beer and gazing out over the shore, where a boy and girl are climbing onto the Floreks’ raft.
“Me neither,” Charlie replies. Squeals and splashes carry up from the lake.
“The kids from next door,” Sam says, noticing me looking at them. “At your cottage.” They’re both dark-haired, the boy a bit taller than the girl.
“Don’t you dare!” she shouts just before he pushes her off the raft. They break into a fit of giggles when she climbs back on.
“How much longer will you be here for, Charlie?” I ask.
“About a week,” he says. “We have a few loose ends to tie up.” I assume he’s referring to the house and the restaurant, but I don’t ask—the idea of them selling this place is almost as heartbreaking as losing the cottage, but it’s none of my business. “And what about you, Pers? When are you heading back?”
“Tomorrow morning,” I say, peeling the label off the beer bottle. Neither one of them replies, and the silence feels dense.
“Did Taylor go back to Kingston after the funeral?” I ask to change the subject, and because I can’t shake the feeling that she should be the one sitting here right now. Sam murmurs a yes, but Charlie’s frowning. “That’s too bad,” I say, reaching for another slice.
“Are you fucking kidding me, Sam?” Charlie growls, and I jerk my arm back, knocking a half-full beer onto my lap.
“Shit!”
“It’s none of your business, Charlie,” Sam snaps as I stand, trying to brush the liquid off my dress. But it’s as though they’ve forgotten I’m here.
“I can’t believe you!” Charlie bellows. “You’re doing the same thing all over again. You’re a goddamn coward.”
Sam’s nostrils flare with each deliberate breath before he speaks. “You have no idea what I’m doing,” he says quietly.
“You’re right. I don’t,” Charlie replies, pushing back his chair so hard it tips over.
“Jesus, Charlie,” Sam shouts. “She knows Taylor and I aren’t together. Not that it’s your business.”
“You’re right, it’s not,” Charlie snaps, his chest rising and falling with heavy breaths, anger radiating from him.
“Charlie?” I take a step forward. “Are you okay?”
He looks at me with a stunned expression, like he’s surprised to find me standing there. His eyes soften.
“Yeah, Pers. I’m fine. Or I will be after I roll a joint and take a long walk,” he says, and heads toward the house. “Get her some dry clothes,” he tells Sam over his shoulder, and then he’s gone.
I start grabbing the dirty paper towels and empty bottles with unsteady hands, not looking at Sam.
“Here,” he says, taking the empties from me and bending down to my eye level. If it were anyone else, I’d say he was strangely calm for someone who was just told off by his brother, but it’s classic Sam, and I can see the scarlet streaks staining his cheeks.
“Will he be all right?” I ask.
“Yeah,” he sighs and looks toward the sliding door that Charlie disappeared through. “He doesn’t think I’ve changed much since we were kids. He’s wrong about that.” He looks at me carefully, slowly, and I know he’s deciding whether he should say more. “But you do need something dry to put on.”
“I can’t wear her clothes, Sam,” I tell him, my voice as wobbly as my hands.
“Agreed,” he says, gesturing toward the house with his head. “You can wear something of mine.”
In some ways, this whole trip has been a time warp, but I’m still not ready for the wave of nostalgia that bashes against me when I follow Sam into his old bedroom. The dark blue walls. The anatomical heart poster. The desk. The twin bed that seems so much smaller than it once did.
He hands me a pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt. “I’ll let you change,” he says and steps outside, closing the door behind him.
Sam’s clothes are about six sizes too big. I fold up the sleeves of the shirt and tie it in a knot at the waist, but there’s not much I can do about the pants, except to tighten the drawstring and roll up the legs.
“You’re going to laugh when you see me,” I call as my eyes catch on a yellow-and-red box on the top of the bookshelf. It’s no longer standing upright on display, but it’s there nonetheless. I’m reaching for it when Sam walks back into the room.
“I can’t believe you still have this,” I say, holding the Operation box out to him.
“You know, that dress was hot, but this is a much better look on you.” He smirks and motions to the pants. “Especially the saggy crotch.”
“Leave my crotch alone,” I tell him. One of his eyebrows quirks up in response. “Shut up,” I mumble. He takes the box from me and puts it back on the shelf.
“Unless you want to play?” he asks, and I shake my head.
“What else do you still have?” I wonder aloud, leaning closer to the shelves.
“Pretty much everything,” Sam says from beside me. “Mom didn’t pack up my stuff, and I haven’t touched it since I’ve been back.”
I squat down in front of the Tolkien novels and sit cross-legged on the carpet.
“I never finished this.” I tap The Hobbit and look up at him. He’s watching me with a tight expression.
“I remember,” he says quietly. “Too much singing.”
He kneels beside me, his shoulder touching mine, and I nervously adjust my hair so it falls over my face, putting a barrier between us. I run my fingers over the thick medical tomes. I stop on the anatomy textbook, remembering what happened in this room when we were seventeen.
The thought enters my head unbidden and leaves my mouth at the same time: “That was the hottest thing that’s ever happened to me.” And then: “Shit.” I keep my sight clamped to the shelf, wanting to die in an avalanche of out-of-date science books. Sam lets out a breath that sounds a little like a laugh, and then moves my hair behind my shoulder.
“I’ve picked up one or two moves since then,” he says, his voice low and close enough that I can feel the words on my cheek. I put my hands on my thighs, where they’re safe.
“I’m sure,” I say to the books.
“Percy, can you look at me?” I close my eyes briefly but then I do, and I immediately wish I hadn’t because his gaze drops to my mouth, and when it returns to my eyes, his are dark and wanting.
“I’m sorry about this morning,” I blurt. “It should never have happened.” I fidget with the drawstring on the pants.
“Percy,” he says again, framing my face with his hands so I can’t look away from him. “I’m not sorry.”
“What did you mean when you said you’ve changed since we were young?” I ask, partially because I want to know but also because I’m stalling for time. He takes a deep breath and runs his hands down the sides of my face to grasp my neck, his thumbs tracing the curve of my jaw.
“I don’t take things for granted anymore. I don’t take people for granted. And I know time is not infinite.” He smiles softly, sadly maybe. “I think Charlie always understood that. Maybe because he was older when Dad died. He thought I was wasting time with Taylor. But I think it’s more like I’ve been following the path of least resistance.”
“Isn’t that a good thing?” I ask. “To have as little friction as possible in a relationship?”
His answer is quick and sure. “No.”
“Why did you break up with her?”
“You know why.”
Instead of relief, I’m sticky with panic. I can feel my heart picking up its pace. I try to shake my head in his hands, but he holds it firmly and then slowly brings his face down to mine, pressing his mouth so gently to mine it’s barely a kiss, barely a whisper. He pulls back slightly.
“You drive me crazy, you know that? You always have.” He kisses me again with so much care I can feel my heart relax a little, like it thinks it’s safe, and my lungs must agree because I let go of a sigh. “And I never laughed with anyone like I laughed with you. I’ve never been friends with anyone like I was with you.” He takes my hands and puts them around his neck, pulling me up so we’re both kneeling. I want to tell him we need to talk before we head down this path, but he hugs me tight to his chest, and my bones and muscles and all the bits holding them together liquefy so that I melt into him.
He releases me enough to brush the hair back from my ear and whisper into it, “I’ve tried to forget about you for more than ten years, but I don’t want to try anymore.” I don’t have time to reply because his lips are on mine and his hands are in my hair, and he tastes like pizza and movie nights and resting on the sand after a long swim. He sucks on my bottom lip, and when I moan, I feel him smile against my lips.
“I think I drive you crazy, too,” he says against my mouth. I want to climb him, and consume him, and be consumed by him. I slip my hands under his shirt and over the two indentations on his lower back, bringing him harder against me. I feel his groan rather than hear it, and he pulls off his shirt, then mine, throwing them both on the floor while I stare at the expanse of tanned skin. I move my hands through the light hair on his chest and then over his stomach, memorizing every ridge.
“Not bad, Dr. Florek,” I breathe. But when I peer back up at him, the slant of his grin and sky-blue of his eyes are so familiar, so much like home, that I know I have to tell him, even if it means losing him again. I drop my hands to my sides.
“What’s wrong?” His eyes flit across my face.
“We need to talk,” I say, then look at the ceiling, but not before two fat tears roll down my cheeks. I brush them away.
“You don’t have to tell me anything,” he says, taking my hand. But I shake my head.
“I have to.” I squeeze his fingers tight. “Twelve years ago, you asked me to marry you,” I whisper. Breathe.
“I remember,” he says with a sad smile.
“And I pushed you away.”
“Yeah,” he rasps. “I remember that, too.”
“I need you to know why I said no, when I loved you so much, when all I wanted was to say yes.”
Sam wraps his arms around me and draws me to him, his warm chest against mine. “I wanted you to say yes, too.” He presses his lips to my shoulder and leaves a kiss behind.
“I overheard you talking with Jordie and Finn earlier today,” I say into his skin, and I can feel his body tense. I look up at him. “It sounded like you were talking about us.”
“We were.”
“What did they mean when they said you were messed up after what happened?”
“Percy, do you really want to talk about this now? Because there are other things I’d rather be doing.” He kisses me softly.
“I want to know. I need to know.”
He sighs, and his brows knit together. “I went through a tough time after, that’s all. The guys knew. Jordie went to university with me, remember? He saw it all firsthand—lots of partying, drinking, that sort of thing. They’re just overprotective.”
This doesn’t sound like the full truth, and Sam must see my suspicion.
“It’s in the past, Percy,” he says. And even though I know it’s not, at least not for me, when he pulls my hair off my neck and sets a kiss just above my collarbone, I tilt my chin back and put my hand in his hair, holding him against me.
“Sam, stop,” I manage to say after several seconds, and he does, leaning his forehead against mine.
“I’m not good enough for you,” I tell him. “I don’t deserve you. Or your friendship. And especially not anything more than friendship.” I’m about to go on, but he puts two fingers over my mouth and looks at me with wide eyes.
“Don’t do this, Percy. Don’t shut me out again,” he pleads. “I want this.” He’s breathing rapidly, his forehead creased in question. “Don’t you want this, too?”
“More than anything,” I tell him, and one corner of his mouth ticks up. He brings my hands up to his lips and kisses each, not taking his eyes off mine.
“Then let me have you,” he says. And I don’t know if he means right now or for good, but as soon as the yes leaves my mouth, he’s kissing me.
THE KISS IS fierce and clumsy, and when our teeth knock together, we both laugh.
“Fuck, Percy. I want you so much,” he says, biting at my bottom lip. The sharpness sends a shudder through me, and he moves his mouth down, nipping at my collarbone along the way.
“I used to lie awake at night thinking about these freckles,” he murmurs, kissing the constellation of brown dots on my chest. I don’t notice him unhooking my bra, but when he pushes the straps off my shoulders, the whole thing falls away. He brings his hands to my breasts, moving the nipples between his thumbs and fingers, and when they tighten at his touch, he leans down, circling his tongue around one, then sucking it into his mouth, and pinching hard on the other. My hands fly to his shoulders to steady myself. When his name moves across my lips, he kisses me wetly before moving his mouth back down to my breasts.
I reach for the fly of his jeans and fumble with the button, distracted by what his tongue and his teeth are doing and the needy pulses between my legs. I conquer the button, then the zipper, and work the jeans past his hips. I feel his hardness through his briefs and he inhales sharply. The sound sets off something within me—an old need to push Sam, to make him come undone, to make him make more noises like the one he just made. It’s fireworks of lust and longing and humid summer nights. I run my nails up his back and then bring his face to mine.
“Just so we’re clear,” I tell him, unblinking, “I want this. I want you. You can have me, but I want to have you, too.” When I kiss him, it’s with every last drop of every bit of myself that I have. I move my hand down his chest, his stomach, slipping it inside the waistband of his underwear, wrapping my hand around him, moving it over his length. He looks down and watches for a second, then back to me with a smile, pulling my hand away and leaning me back on the carpet.
“Remember the first time you did that?” he asks, smiling down at me and taking his jeans off.
“I was so nervous,” I say. “I thought I was going to hurt you.” He curls his fingers over the top of the sweatpants and pulls them down my legs, leaving them around my ankles.
“You got the hang of it,” he says, kneeling between my legs. “We had quite a bit of practice,” he says, looking up at me with a slanted grin.
“We did,” I say, smiling back.
“But you didn’t let me practice this.” He bends and kisses me over my underwear.
“I was too self-conscious,” I breathe.
“And what about now?” he asks, moving my underwear to the side. My legs twitch. “Are you still too self-conscious?”
“No,” I gasp, and he smiles up at me, but his eyes are stormy with hunger.
“Good.” He hooks his fingers around the edge of my panties and pulls them down around my ankles, then pins my wrists by my hips so I can’t move my arms. “Because I have a lot of time to make up for.” He buries his tongue inside me, then brings it up over my clit, flicking and swirling and sucking, telling me how many times he’s thought of this, how good I taste. I cry out, and he sucks harder. I try to spread my legs, but my ankles are restrained by the fabric around them.
“You like that?” he asks softly, and I lift my hips closer to his mouth in response. He lets go of my wrists, gets rid of the clothes around my ankles, and grabs the flesh of my ass, holding me up to his mouth, while my fingers grab at his hair. He moves his tongue inside me again, his moan vibrating through me, his fingers tracing lightly where I need them. I squeeze my thighs around him, and he bites my inner thigh while he reaches up to my nipple, squeezing and pinching. His mouth follows, his tongue hot on my breast, while his fingers work the swollen flesh between my legs. I whisper his name over and over, and he presses his finger inside me. My body is hot and damp with sweat, and I ask for more. He looks up at me, his eyes burning as he adds another finger and another, until I’m full of him. My legs start shaking and he moves down my body, sucking on me, hard and long, and then he grazes his teeth against me, and I scream and fall into tiny little jagged pieces.
He kisses his way back up my limp body, and I wrap my arms and legs around him.
“Just think of all the time you wasted being self-conscious,” he says with a grin.
“Shut up.” I squeeze him with my legs and he laughs and kisses me more, brushing my bangs off my damp forehead.
“Told you I had a few new moves,” he says, kissing me again.
“I’m worried about your ego,” I say, a goofy smile on my face. He nips at my shoulder, then my ear, and then Sam is above me. Pressing against me. Looking down at me. I’m not sure I’ve been this happy in more than a decade, so I push aside the nagging voice in the back of my head, even though I know I can’t ignore it much longer. I feel frantic for him. We’ve never had sex, and I want to erase all the others, so that it’s only ever been him.
I bring my face to his and kiss him slowly, rolling my hips against him. I work his underwear down and feel him hot and hard against my hip. He reaches up behind my head and pulls a condom from his nightstand drawer, rolling it over his length, and with his forearms beside my head, he lies back over me, holding my eyes with his.
“Are we really doing this?” I whisper. He pushes into me and I inhale sharply. He holds still, and we look at each other for several seconds.
“Yeah, we are,” he says, and pulls out almost all the way, and then thrusts in again, and we both groan. I capture his waist with my legs and raise my hips to meet him, following the unhurried rhythm he sets, my hands on his shoulders, his back, his ridiculously firm ass, and his eyes never leave mine. He hikes my knee up, pushing himself deeper inside me and moving his hips in infuriatingly slow circles that inch me toward release but don’t take me there. I growl in frustration and pleasure and ask him to please keep going, to please not stop, to please go faster. I’m very polite, but he only grins and pulls on my lip with his teeth.
“I’ve waited a long time for this. I’m not in a hurry,” he says.
And he’s not in a hurry, not at first, not until his back is slick and his muscles are taut and he’s shaking from restraint. He holds back until I grow impatient and needy and bite on his neck and whisper, “I’ve waited a long time for this, too.”
After, we lie on the floor facing each other, the early evening sun glowing golden over us. Sam’s eyes are heavy, a tired smile on his lips. He’s running his fingers up and down my arm. I know I have to tell him. The words run in a loop in my mind. I just have to say them out loud.
“I love you,” he whispers. “I don’t think I ever stopped.”
But I barely hear what he says, because at the same time, the words I should have said twelve years ago bubble up my throat and out of my mouth.
