“I should get going,” I say, desperate to get out of the hallway and stop this awkward conversation.
“Why don’t we have a wine at my place? I’d love to catch up. But maybe we should sit outside with it on the deck.” He nods his head toward the door behind him.
“Okay.” I reach for Romeo. “I’ll put him back inside and get the bottle.”
“Great.” His dimple shows slightly.
“Great.” I need to stop sounding like an idiot. I hurry inside and into my bedroom carrying the wine and the cat.
“Oh my God, why are you so pale?” Liz bursts. “Are you sick?”
“Sam,” I gasp. “Sam lives across the hall.”
“Okay. The doctor?” She squints and a second later she’s pale too. “Sam. Wait! The Sam James is always talking about is that Sam? Your Sam?” she bursts.
“Stay calm. You can’t get worked up.” I put the cat on the bed and place a hand on her arm.
“But that’s not possible. Your Sam wasn’t sterile—oh fuck. His dad lied to make you go away,” she says it so plainly, as if it makes all the sense in the world. Her eyes well and she sniffles. “He made you break up. I told you he was your person and not to give up. All this time, you could have been happy. You could have been with someone who really loved you.” She is sobbing and emotional.
“Please stay calm.” A lump is forming in my own throat. “I can’t cry right now. I’m going to have wine at his place. On the deck and catch up. And I’m already sort of freaking out about it.”
“Okay.” She wipes her eyes. “Are you going to tell him the truth?”
“No. I don’t know if that’s the truth. I have no idea why his dad did what he did.”
“I think we both know why he did it,” she snaps and switches to fury.
“Calm, deep breaths.” I drink the last of my wine to compose myself. “Even if I did know, I wouldn’t tell him. It would ruin his relationship with his father. I can’t do that. I couldn’t do it fifteen years ago and I won’t do it now.”
“But he ruined your life.”
“My life isn’t over, Liz. I have a lot of life left in me. And maybe Sam and I aren’t compatible and it wasn’t meant to be,” I say and nod at the door. “But I’m going to be polite and catch up with him. Text me if you need me.”
She sniffles again. “Okay.”
I hurry into the kitchen, grab the wine, and on the way out, I put on a large sweater to cover my tee shirt. If I fully change, he’ll notice. At least the big sweater suits, it’s still cold out. Almost like mother nature is trying to keep us inside. Carrying the wine and my glass, I walk out and prepare myself for the most awkward conversation I’ve ever had.
I am grateful as hell that I put on makeup for my Zoom meeting this morning, and I knock on his door.
He opens it straightaway like he was waiting.
“Hi.” Is the smile too wide? Or is a happy greeting how you arrive at the door of the guy whose heart you broke.
“Hey.” He grins back and I stare at the dimple. It’s always been my favorite feature. Maybe second favorite. He has incredibly sexy hands. It’s a weird thing to think about while he’s standing here but it’s Sam. God, I missed his face.
“Lil?”
My cheeks flush with color when I realize he’s said something I’ve missed.
“Sorry?” I ask, wishing I could take back the last five seconds.
His grin turns to a chuckle, and I suspect he is aware I’m daydreaming about him. “I said, ‘Come on in.’”
“Thanks. Your place is nice.” I hope he doesn’t notice the sweat forming on my forehead as I overanalyze every second of this interaction. “I only caught a glimpse of it that day with the TV.”
“Right, of course. That stunt had a real Home Alone flair to it.” He goes into the kitchen to get himself a glass. “You can go out on the deck and make yourself at home.”
“Okay.” My stomach does flip-flops as I cross the room to the French doors and sit in one of the gorgeous chairs next to a small propane firepit that’s already lit. Music is playing softly out here. “Sexy Thing” by Hot Chocolate. I wonder if he knows this is the song I sing to myself when I have to exercise or do something requiring exertion.
What am I doing?
Is this a mistake?
It feels like a mistake.
Panic sets in when he too comes out to the large deck and sits.
“It’s been so long. Must be fifteen years.”
“Sixteen in August,” I say, regretting it. Does he know the exact day we last saw one another?
“I guess it was what, mid-August?” He places the cup down and I fill it up.
“Mid-August,” I confirm as I pour myself a smaller glass and lift it to my lips. He watches, staring in a way I’m sure he sees me noticing. I’d give everything except my cat to know what he’s thinking.
Does he hate me a bit still?
“So what’s the protocol here? Do we go year by year to update one another or should we do a brief recount of the highlights only?” he asks as he takes a drink of his wine. He’s exactly the same as I recall. Confident and cocky while being kind and funny. Only now there is a glint of something in his eyes. Experience and wisdom perhaps.
This time when his stare meets mine, he holds it, forcing me to make eye contact with him, and I realize he is perilous for a vulnerable woman like me in the middle of a life-altering change.
Adding the fact I know he’s an amazing kisser doesn’t help my predicament.
“Lil?”
“Sorry?” I ask again, realizing I’ve missed something else.
“It doesn’t matter. To neighbors.” He holds up the glass, not bothering to contain his humor at me and my daydreaming. I must look insane.
Forcing a pleasant expression, I lift my glass and clink it delicately against his, certain I’ve lived this moment before. “To neighbors,” I mutter. We sip the wine slowly.
“So what’s new?”
“New?” I lift my eyebrows and toy with the word. “Not old? Because sixteen years is a long time,” I reply cheekily. “Hmmm. Quarantine is new. How’s it at the hospital?” I change the subject from me.
“Slow but we’re ready. Just in case but I think we’ll coast through. We have a perfect dynamic here. Low population. What we do have isn’t dense. Lots of fresh air and coastal living. The ability to cut ourselves off from other provinces.” He moves on and goes right for the jugular, changing the subject, “Let’s skip the Covid talk. James said you’re single. How can that be true, Lilly Severson?”
Forgetting he doesn’t know my married name, I get a sense of excitement at hearing my old one. I’ve missed it. Dallin is such a dull last name. I contemplate the answer for a moment. “Choice, I suppose. Why are you single, Samuel Christianson?” I have always loved his name.
I can’t be sure if we’re flirting, it’s been so long. But I suspect we might be. That’s a terrifyingly exciting notion, but I remind myself there’s a load of heartbreak haunting us.
“I guess the real answer is I’m single because you left that summer and never called me again,” he says the thing I prayed he wouldn’t. “Did you know you’re the one that got away?” He cocks a dark eyebrow but there is no mistaking the cruel humor in his gaze. His lips and words and the melancholic stare are my kryptonite. At least I know where we stand. He hates me.