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  “James is . . .”

  “My brother—he’s two years older. He was wounded in Iraq, came home early. Steven is the oldest, still in the army, and Billy is ten years younger—just thirty. He’s over in Afghanistan.”

  “So, the army is the family business?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “But you’re an architect?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “That probably didn’t go over well.”

  “My mom loves it—all she does is worry about Steven and Billy, especially after what happened to James. But Daddy saw it as an insult. To him. To country. He never quite . . . never quite saw me as a man. A real man, anyway.”

  “Does he still feel that way?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Quiet. “And James?”

  “James is in construction now; he’s actually the one who got me into architecture in the first place.”

  I smile. “So you and James are the closest?”

  “He probably, looking back, had the biggest hand in raising me.”

  “He’s back in Shelby Forest?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Kids?”

  “Four.” Sam’s face lights up.

  “Must be hard being away from them.”

  “At times.”

  “So, James and you . . .”

  “Right. We’d go out back and shoot these watermelons with Daddy’s .45. We were outside, so the gunshot wasn’t ever as loud as it was tonight, but I remember one of Daddy’s friends from Vietnam came out back one time and told us that the watermelons were what—”

  Sam stops. He shakes his head and looks away. He’s struggling. His mouth twists and contorts as he tries to keep in control. His eyes are panicked and uneasy. He finally continues, his speech halting and stilted. “He said those watermelons were what it looked like when someone gets shot in the head. And I thought that was so cool, you know?” He stops again. He clears his throat and continues. “Turns out it’s not so cool.” I am quiet. Sam sets his plate down, hops up and quickly exits the bathroom.

  I lean over and set my plate and beer on the tiled floor of the bathroom and drain out a bit of the now lukewarm water. Anything but thinking about watermelons and . . . the gurgling moan of the draining water echoes through the bathroom. I realize now that I didn’t factor in how quickly the bubbles would recede. I can hear the water running in the kitchen. I plug the drain once more, lean forward quickly and turn on the hot water. Scalding. The fridge door slams. Cold. Colder. Hothothot. Wait. There. Just right. The water pours in, warming me once more. Sam walks through the bathroom door with an entire six-pack of beer. He looks at the low tide happening in the bathtub, the receding bubbles, and stands unmoving. I don’t look down at my body. I know what’s showing. My heart races. Races in a way as if I’ve freed a caged animal. Let a greyhound off its leash and given it a meadow all its own. I lean forward and turn off the water.

  “I apologize,” Sam says, averting his gaze. He looks back over at me. I lock eyes with him. Those cinnamon-brown-spoked eyes. I sit up straight, the bubbles receding to my waist, and extend my hand toward him. He takes it. I guide his hand to my heart; his fingers curl around my shoulder, his palm resting on my naked breast. His attention now on what is just below his hand. What he can feel.

  “Don’t apologize,” I finally say, bringing my knee up. Sam looks into my eyes. He gives me a quick nod, as if to ask for his hand back. I oblige, feeling just a pinch of unease. Sam takes a few steps away from the tub and from the corner of my eye, I see him unzip his UT hoodie and let it fall to the floor. He quickly slips off his Adidas sweats, bending over in a futile attempt to hide his now uncovered body.

  “Scoot forward,” he says. I look up at him. His gaze is unwavering. His eyes are calm for the first time tonight. I scoot my body forward, the squeak of the bathtub under my body momentarily causing me to blush. I pull my knees in tight, encircling them with my arms, and watch as Sam tucks in behind me. Feel him tuck in behind me. One leg, then the other sliding around me. The water laps at the walls of the bathtub and even lightly splashes over onto the floor, wetting the bath mat below. I hug my knees close.

  “Lean back,” Sam says, his arms on either side of the bathtub. I let my shoulders drop, my back curves and I sigh into Sam. The warmth envelops me in a way that I never thought possible. I close my eyes and let my head list to one side, his chest just underneath my cheek.

  “You will go to any lengths not to talk about yourself,” I say, my voice an exhausted rasp.

  “What about you? What was I supposed to do? I was blameless. Walk back in and . . . I was powerless,” Sam says, smoothing my hair to one side.

  “Yes, I am truly a femme fatale.”

  “Quite the temptress.”

  “That’s actually hilarious.”

  “Why is it hilarious?”

  “Because I’m so not.”

  “Says the woman who wanted to eat pizza naked in the bathtub.”

  “I know! That is so not me.” I have to laugh. Lisa and Jill would be so proud of me. Guilty. I feel guilty for . . . let’s face it, I feel guilty for getting out of that teachers’ lounge alive. Feel guilty for what Sam had to do. Guilty about not knowing what was going on in Emma’s life. All of it. Trivial musings about my burgeoning sexuality feel inappropriate and trite.

  “How is that not you? You did it. Pass me that sponge. Up there, around the tap.” Sam extends his long arm, pointing. I lean forward; Sam slides his hand down my spine. Goose bumps. Everywhere. I unhook the sponge from around the spigot and pass it to him. He lays his hand against my back. He wants me to stay forward. I obey.

  “I’ve just never seen myself like that in the past. Like a temptress.” Sam runs the sponge down my back, lathering my body. Washing me clean. My skin is a raw nerve. Goose bumps and shivers follow wherever the sponge goes. I close my eyes. The sound of the gunshots is gone . . . for now. A twinge of guilt remains. Wash that away too, Sam. Wash that away, too.

  “In the past?”

  “With . . . other relationships, I mean.” My voice is tentative. Self-conscious.

  “How many are we talking?” His hand hitches.

  “Are you honestly asking me my number right now?” I look over my shoulder. Sam’s not looking at me, but the smirk. The smirk tells me he is hearing me just fine.

  “Pamela said we should just go with the flow.”

  “Oh, so now you’re comfortable with the whole ‘go with the flow’ thing?” I ask, my voice nervous and . . . eager. Excited. Invigorated.

  “You’re evading.”

  “You never told me why you relocated to Pasadena.” Sam rolls his eyes, moving the sponge up and down each one of my arms.

  “I thought I could start fresh. Not be Buck’s kid, or Steven or James or Billy’s brother, or ‘that poor Tilly’s boy.’ Thought I could . . .”

  “Run.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Did it work?”

  “It seems to be working out pretty well, actually. I’ve only had to kill one man in the process.” I can feel Sam’s entire being deflate behind me. Before I know better I whip my body around, water spilling out, the bathtub squeaking under my body and knees. I take extra-special care not to knee anything important and settle in between Sam’s legs. I take his face in my hands. Make him listen.

  “You saved us all. You saved us all. I know . . . I know you’re the only one that . . . that can’t really experience that saving, but you’re a good man. And I know this is going to affect you, but you did what a hero would do. You did what . . . you did what had to be done. And I love that. I love . . .” I smooth white-blond strands of hair that don’t need to be smoothed. I watch his cinnamon-brown eyes well with tears. I watch him watching me. Listening. Wanting to believe me. He eases his hands around my waist.

  “I want to believe you,” he whispers, his head bowed. I pull his face up, the strong jaw, the stubbled skin beneath my hands.

&nbs
p; “It wasn’t our faults. Jamie walked in there with a gun. We are all victims. We have nothing to feel guilty about,” I say, searching his eyes. Searching him for some understanding.

  “I keep replaying it. It was so fast, but then it wasn’t. The bullet. The bullets. How he got knocked back and then . . .” Sam trails off, his eyes closing.

  “Don’t,” I say, knowing what happens every time we close our eyes like that. Crack. Crack. I continue. “Don’t.” His eyes are fixed on mine as I kneel before him utterly naked in every way, our bodies a tangle of comfort and sorrow. He licks his bottom lip. I smile. There it is. His tell. There’s my boy. “I love when you do that,” I say.

  “Do what?” Sam asks, his arms pulling me closer.

  “You lick your bottom lip right before you’re about to kiss me,” I say, brushing his bottom lip with my thumb.

  “Do I?” he asks, leaning into my touch.

  “Yes, you do,” I say. He smiles. A crinkly-eyed smile. A smile of someone I pray is starting to heal. I lean the few inches in and give Sam the sweetest, purest kiss. I hold nothing back. His mouth is warm and sweet and the entire day rushes away. He tightens his grip around my waist as he pulls me closer. I stop and lean back from him with a smile.

  I continue. “I . . . it’s . . .” My voice catches on my quick intakes of breath as Sam lights up another part of me that was kept in the dark. My entire body is calling out for him. Screaming, really. A feeling . . . a feeling of completion I’ve never had before. That utter terror of knowing that it might be too much and I might flame out.

  Without a word Sam scoots me forward in the tub. The water laps and splashes as he steps out of the bath and onto the now-damp bath mat. He offers his hand. I take it. Stand. Utterly naked. I step out of the bath and into his arms.

  “Thank you,” he says, stepping even closer.

  “For what?”

  “Tonight could have been really bad,” Sam says, nodding slightly.

  “I know.”

  “And you’ve . . .”

  “It seems kind of silly that the same two words are used for such different actions,” I say, my voice impossibly quiet.

  “My thank-you is just as heartfelt, I assure you,” Sam says. He grips me tightly.

  “Most people believe the people in their life will take a bullet for them. I know you would,” I say, my voice now a whisper.

  Sam’s eyes are fixed on mine. He licks his bottom lip . . . and catches himself.

  “It’s sad to think that I’ll never be able to surprise you with a kiss again,” Sam says, smiling.

  I run my hands up his still-wet torso. He focuses in on me. Zeroes in. His hand curling around my naked waist. A completely spontaneous and uninhibited display. It starts something. As if a match is held to a trail of gunpowder. All we have to do is light it. The explosion is imminent.

  And I plan on lighting the shit out of it.

  I hold on to Sam, my grip determined, my intent clear. I feel him watching me, his breath steady yet deepening. My hands tremble as they drop lower, playing with the proximity, knowing how close I am. His breath is coming faster as he grips my hand, pulling me into my own bedroom.

  And before I know what’s happened, Sam has lifted me up, his arms strong and powerful, and I’m under him on my own bed. Just like he got me out of that low-slung Ferrari in one move.

  “How long did you think I was going to let that go on, darlin’?” Sam says, now levered over me, his eyes heavy. He licks his bottom lip as it curls into a reckless taunt. I smile, joy bursting up through my throat as I throw my head back and laugh. I blink open my eyes and see for the first time the way Sam looks at me. Who he sees. In the past, I was someone who was told to tone it down, slim it down or just sit down and be quiet. But right here and right now, I see who I really am. To Sam, I’m someone to be treasured and adored. Protected and kept safe. He swallows hard and in that moment I know, with his face flushed and his eyes fixed, that he’s not as in control as he’d like me to believe. I envision the match falling in slow motion, the trail of gunpowder waiting to be set ablaze.

  1 + 1 = 2.

  I pull Sam down and let him . . . let him set me on fire. Let him affect me. Let him in.

  And in. And in. And in.

  Chapter 12

  Nothing Wrong with a Little Intensity

  The dream goes like this: I’m searching in this dusty campsite for the group. They’re leaving. They’re leaving and I’m about to get left behind. The rickety staircases and old dirt roads are confusing. My suitcase is heavy and I question why I brought it. Crack. Crack. It’s coming. It’s coming. Drag the suitcase faster. Run. Catch up. Get them. Crack. But they’re behind me. I’m not . . . I’m not running to something, I’m running away from something. Crack. Crack. My hand is curled around the suitcase’s handle. Slippery. Sticky. Let go. I bring up my hands. Crack. Crack. Blood. Everywhere.

  “No!” I jolt awake. Sam stirs.

  “You okay?” Sam asks, his eyes still closed. My hand is gripping his.

  “Nightmare,” I say, leaning forward. Sam opens his eyes.

  “Do you remember anything?” I flip onto my back, still holding on to him.

  “Your hand was a suitcase handle,” I say, smoothing it. The ridges and lines of his knuckles and fingers are now visible as the morning sun streams in through my bedroom windows.

  “A suitcase handle?” he says, now on his side.

  “Yeah,” I say, trying to steady my breathing.

  “I was baggage,” Sam says, smiling.

  “Merely a prop.”

  “Something to drag behind you,” he says, flipping the covers off and walking out of the bedroom. I hear the bathroom door close behind him.

  In the quiet of the morning, the reality sets in. I had three seconds. Three blissful seconds where I got to be relieved that my dream wasn’t real before I remembered the real nightmare—not the allegorical dusty campsite version, but the reality that sometimes life can be just as terrifying as the monsters we think are under our beds.

  I whip the covers off my still-aching body. In our desperation to not feel anything, it seems Sam and I opened ourselves up to feeling everything. Or, at least, I did. My body and mind came together in ways I never dreamed possible. To feel that much actually hurt at times. I was cracked open. I allowed him to touch me in places not even I ventured. And with the heat of him, I felt myself break through the soil and bloom with the exquisite pain of pleasure.

  I pad over to my closet, pull on a T-shirt and pajama bottoms and head out into the kitchen. I hear the bathroom door creak open and Sam creak his way across the hardwood floors.

  “Coffee?” I ask, pulling a coffee filter down from the cabinet.

  “I think I’d better get going. I want to get a shower and some other clothes on before heading over to the hospital,” Sam says. I turn toward the freezer, tears welling in my eyes, and grab the bag of coffee beans.

  “Oh, sure. Okay,” I say, pouring the beans into the grinder.

  “Frannie, I—”

  I turn on the grinder. Sam’s eyes are fixed on me as the beans whirr into a powder. Maybe I can put my heart in there next? I stop the grinder.

  “I’ll see you at the hospital then,” I say, pouring the coffee into the awaiting filter. Sam’s face is creased, his brow furrowed; he’s starting and stopping a thousand sentences. I turn away from him, milliseconds away from becoming hysterical, and turn on the tap, sliding the coffee decanter underneath the silken water. I sniff. I can hear the quickening ticking of the bomb that is my composure about to blow.

  “Okay . . . at the hospital,” Sam says, stepping toward me. I turn around with the filled decanter, pouring the water into the top of the coffeemaker. I press out a tight smile and make my body as unwelcoming to him as possible. I’ve walled myself up again. He luxuriated in me and now wants to retreat. It’s definitely something I can understand, being as uncomfortable with my own vulnerability as I am, but . . . I thought Sam was
different. Apparently, last night was just “going with the flow” after all.

  For him.

  “I don’t want this to come off . . .” Sam trails off. He steps closer, closer . . . I look up at him. My entire body tenses. I turn the coffeemaker on.

  “What?” I ask, my voice catching.

  “I need to know you’re okay.”

  “I’ll be sure to lock the door after you leave,” I say. The smell of the coffee wafts throughout the apartment. A new day.

  “That’s not . . . I . . .” Sam’s entire body is buzzing.

  “You’d better run along,” I say, hitting the word run with a pain that cuts me in half.

  Sam nods; his eyes fall to the floor. He rakes his hands through his mussed hair.

  I lean against my kitchen counter, my chin high, my heart dismantled and somewhere in my throat. Sam turns and walks out; the door closes behind him.

  Yes, this is much better. Showing Sam the Real Me worked really well. Because instead of standing here, coffee percolating in the background, my entire body still aching from him, I can be certain that it wasn’t one of my many put-on masks or apathetic guises that Sam walked away from this morning.

  Nope, Sam saw—and walked away from—the Real Me.

  THE DOG WOULD HAVE been brought in last night. By animal control?

  I am first in line at the Pasadena Humane Society. I’ve filled out the paperwork. I’ve called my landlord to make sure I can have the dog, even temporarily. I am sitting in a tiny cubicle just off the main office. I am busying my mind. I am not thinking about . . . Crack. Crack. Nope. I’m not thinking about . . . Sam’s hands all over my body. Nope. I shake my head. In the present. We’re just going to practice staying in the present, Frannie.

  I focus in on my surroundings. The steady traffic is heartening. Families excited about adopting animals in need, kids barely able to contain themselves. As I watch a little boy light up as a mutt comes barreling out of the kennels with nothing but kisses and nuzzles for his new owner, I think, There’s more good than bad out there. There’s more good than bad. It’s a choice I have to make: feed one or the other. Notice one more than the other. Reward one more than the other.