CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
On Sunday, Abby, Sloane, and Grace FaceTime me into movie night. I listen to them through my headphones talking about the dress Abby got for the wedding. She’d been holding out to find the perfect one because she and Victor haven’t had a good excuse to wear more than athletic clothes to school and practice. I’m thankful that my friends still want to include me, but it’s hard to focus and be happy for Abby with so much on my mind.
Since this is Abby’s weekend, she gets to pick the movie. They set me down on the couch with a view of the TV, and even though I can’t see any of them sitting next to me, I can still hear them talking about watching The Edge of Seventeen or To All the Boys I’ve Loved Before.
“Guys,” I say. I know I’m too quiet, and I don’t want to talk loudly because I know there’s the chance Sam could hear me through the wall. But when no one hears me, I repeat myself loud enough to get their attention.
Sloane leans into my view, and behind her I see Abby and Grace.
“The bachelorette party,” I say, watching as Sloane leans back so all of them are sitting on the floor in front of the camera.
“Oh, how was it?” Grace asks, smiling.
“Sam and Geoffrey had a fight,” I say quietly. “And it was really bad. Like, they aren’t talking to each other.”
“How did they have a fight when they were at two separate parties?” Sloane asks, popping a Starburst into her mouth.
“Brooke sent a picture of Sam to the best man to see if the boys were having as much fun as us, and he texted back a picture of Geoffrey talking to some waitress—that Sam is definitely blowing out of proportion. But, yeah, then Sam dialed Geoffrey and called him out for it, and it pissed him off.”
Sloane raises her eyebrows, looking at Abby and Grace like she’s surprised. Abby’s jaw drops in shock, but Grace just scrunches her brow—confused.
“Really?” Grace asks. “What?”
“I don’t know, maybe the wine got to her a little or she was in a bad mood and was taking it out on him,” I say, then pause in my own thoughts. “I kind of feel like it’s my fault because Brooke wouldn’t have done anything if I hadn’t suggested that we weren’t having fun.”
“Still, you aren’t the one who made Sam think Geoffrey was cheating,” Grace says. Abby nods in agreement.
“Have you talked to her about it?” Sloane asks, her lips smacking around a new Starburst.
“I mean, it happened last night. I know I’m not her favorite person right now, and she didn’t even want to look at me after we got home.” Remembering the way Sam slumped down on the stairs, her face in her hands, makes me feel like it wouldn’t be a stretch if she blamed me.
“That’s true,” Abby says, tapping the remote against her lip. “I think maybe Sam and Geoffrey just have to cool down and give each other space.”
“It definitely doesn’t sound like Sam,” Grace adds, twisting one of her box braids around her finger. “Don’t blame yourself, the same way you can’t blame her for things.”
“Right,” I say, remembering my rude awakening at the library. Even though Grace’s words caught me off guard, they helped me realize that I’m more in control than I was willing to admit. In the same way, Sam didn’t have to jump to the conclusion she did. At the very least, I didn’t make her see it that way.
Which makes me wonder why that would be her first reaction. She and Geoffrey have been together for almost five years, and neither of them has ever cheated on or questioned the other. So, why now? Where is this coming from?
When I get up to go to school on Monday and see Sam moping back into her bedroom, still wearing her fuzzy robe and silk nightcap, I realize she must have called in sick to work. I try to imagine how her little ArchiTech minions will get along without their micromanager, but I figure—like Abby said—one day off to cool down from the fight shouldn’t be cause for worry. I hope that her constant, loud, mucus-filled crying might be over by the time I get home, and she’ll be preparing to reenter the world outside her bedroom. Maybe she’ll be picking out an outfit for work tomorrow or preparing her lunch, or—even better—packing her bag to go home.
I have no such luck. After school I come upstairs and find Mom and Dad standing outside Sam’s door. When I open my mouth to ask what they’re doing, they hold their fingers over their mouths. I tiptoe over and lean close to the wall next to her door. Sam is crying on the phone. It’s not hard to tell that she’s talking to Geoffrey, though “talking” isn’t a good way to describe it. It’s more like she’s pleading—over and over to the point where it’s safe to assume Geoffrey hasn’t budged yet.
“I don’t understand,” Dad whispers, stepping away from the door.
We all take a step back, though Sam probably wouldn’t hear us if we did talk in front of her door, because of how loud she’s crying.
“Understand what?” Mom asks, watching Sam’s door like she’ll come out any second. I can practically feel Mom itching to give her a hug.
“What happened?” Dad turns to me. “I—I just don’t understand how over the course of a few hours everything has changed.”
They both watch me expectantly.
“They had a fight,” I say, feeling awkward.
“Well, yeah. But about what?”
“Why don’t you ask Sam?”
“We did,” they say in unison.
“What did she say?”
“She said she hardly knows what happened. She said everything happened so fast, and that’s all she gave us,” Dad says.
“All I know is, they fought,” I say, not wanting to give any more. I don’t want to say I suggested we see what the boys were up to, because I’m scared it’s my fault that any of this happened in the first place. I’m scared Sam might blame me.… I retreat to my room to start on my homework.
I can hear Mom and Dad mumbling outside Sam’s door and am relieved when they finally walk away. While Mom is tucked inside their bedroom, and Dad is downstairs feeding his fish, I hear Sam’s door open. I pause, my pencil hovering over the derivative I’ve been solving for the competition tomorrow. I thought she cried herself to sleep earlier, and maybe she did. Or maybe she just stopped crying and stayed in bed for a while.
She passes my door, without looking in my direction, on her way to the bathroom. Instead of wearing her fluffy robe and silk hair wrap, Sam’s hair is sticking out. She’s wearing one of Geoffrey’s concert T-shirts that she stole from him when they first started dating in college.
She looks like the version of herself that usually only slips out during occasional meltdowns and isolated all-nighters, when she’s too tired to do her hair in the morning. Only, instead of this being a momentary slipup, she’s been consumed by this disorganized Sam. This Sam doesn’t oil and twist her hair every night or repaint her nails every Sunday, or work at an architecture app startup. This Sam doesn’t boss around anyone, because she can hardly force herself to get out of bed and pour herself a bowl of cereal. She doesn’t shower, she doesn’t eat, she doesn’t remember to turn off the light when she leaves a room.
The last time this Sam came around was sophomore year of high school. Because of Harley, the long-haired drummer who transferred to our district from Pennsylvania farm country. He was her project, bringing him into the folds of city life and of high school. Girls were jealous because Sam just happened to be printing field hockey flyers in the office on his first day. Before he even really passed over the threshold of the school, he was taken. And they were inseparable for nearly three months.
Then Harley fell in with a rock band at school called Bottle Ship and the Sunfish. He started hanging out in the drama-and-music hallway, which—to Sam and her friends—was the source of the bubonic plague. So, without Sam controlling his every thought and move, Harley met Polly—an electric guitarist who needed a drummer and had a soundproof garage attached to a house that was always empty for a few hours after school. No helicopter parents. No little sisters stumbling into the room at the most inopportune times.
Sam was devastated. Our parents were surprised at how affected she was. To them, three months warranted a good cry, buying a deep-dish pizza and ice cream, and waking up the next day a little shaky but ready to go back to school. For Sam, three months meant she would never find love again, that Harley was the One, and now all her life decisions had been brought into question. She started eating French fries from the school cafeteria, drinking soda, and watching TV for a few hours after school instead of starting her homework and snacking on baby carrots or pumpkin seeds. She wasn’t herself.
Sam told me the story about Harley when she first started dating in college. Mom thought it was unnecessary for her to put up walls and act like dating was the equivalent of playing defense. But Sam did not want to repeat being vulnerable and genuinely liking someone only to get hurt. Geoffrey was the first guy that I know of who she truly let in, who she felt comfortable being herself with. If she was a wreck after three months with Harley and closed off to the idea of true love for almost six years, I don’t even want to think about what she might turn into after five years with Geoffrey, and the threat of her wedding being cancelled.
I hear the bathroom door open. When she doesn’t pass my room right away, I picture her standing on the tile floor, her toes nearly touching the hallway carpet. I imagine her looking toward my parents’ room, gauging whether or not the coast is truly clear for her to hustle back into her cave. I wait, silently hoping that she might slip into my room and close the door. But even if she does, I don’t know what to say. I know she’s not okay. I know there’s nothing I can do to make her feel better, except build a time machine and go back to not bring up the bachelor party.
Maybe I want her to tell me that she doesn’t blame me, to assure me that this distance I’ve felt between us hasn’t grown as big as it feels right now. Maybe I want her to tell me that if the wedding really doesn’t happen, she won’t hate me forever.