Page 1 of Resilience

CHAPTER ONE

Sam cracked open an eye. “How short are you going?”

Lark shifted the scissors to her left hand and flicked his forehead with her right. “You said you trusted me. So trust me.”

He closed his eye again. He didn’t need to keep them closed to avoid seeing what she was doing; she’d insisted he not be able to look in a mirror until she was done, so the only view before him was her fridge. She had him sitting on a chair, which sat on an outspread sheet, in the middle of the kitchen in the apartment she shared with three other people. However, he was nervous as fuck about his cosmetology-student girlfriend giving him a haircut and a beard trim, and he felt a little calmer with his eyes closed.

She’d said he was starting to look like ‘some homeless loser’ and what would that say about her as a hairstylist, if her boyfriend wouldn’t even let her keep him looking nice. He’d actually been growing his hair long on purpose, and his beard, too. His old man had always had long hair and a long beard, and Sam liked that look. Especially now, as he was prospecting for the Brazen Bulls.

Unfortunately, Lark did not like that look. They’d been together almost a year, which made this officially his longest relationship yet. You’d think getting to an anniversary two weeks away would be easy, practically guaranteed, but nothing about romantic relationships had ever been easy for him, and certainly not guaranteed. The past eleven-and-a-half months with Lark had been the usual roller coaster of fights and tears and making up, of jealousies and explanations and pleas to understand, of giving up pleading and making demands instead, and then more fights and tears and making up. Just enough spells of peace mixed in around the turmoil to keep them both hopeful and invested in trying to make it work.

It was exhausting, but Sam knew it was his fault. Thus, he was trying to find places where he could give Lark what she wanted without fucking with other priorities in his life. Letting her do whatever she was doing to his hair was a place where he could give her what she wanted.

And while he sat here, hoping he wasn’t going to look like the lead singer of some 80s German pop band when she was through with him, he fretted about that anniversary. Lark would want a big deal made; she loved big deals. For her most recent birthday—her twenty-first—her parents had thrown her an actual ball. For her high school graduation (before his time), they’d sent her and her three best friends to Costa Rica for two weeks.

Lark was sweet. She had a decent sense of humor. She was really pretty. She was eager and appreciative in bed. When they were firing on all cylinders together, Sam really liked their relationship. They had their ups and downs practically daily, but it was his most successful relationship to date.

But she was spoiled as fuck, a total Daddy’s Girl, and she was going to expect some Fifty Shades-level pampering (yes, she’d made him watch all three of those ridiculous weirdo movies) for their anniversary, he knew it. And he was thus almost equally sure that the whole thing would explode spectacularly on that day.

He had no trouble with the pampering. He couldn’t afford the kind of shit her parents could, but he had some ideas about how to make her feel special, things she’d really like and appreciate. He paid attention to the girls he dated.

However, they had not said the word ‘love.’ Sam had never said that word to any girl he’d dated. He’d never felt the emotion it named with any girl he’d dated. Including Lark.

Lately, she’d made some comments that were shaped like little throwaways but had really been cryptic instructions. He knew she was in love with him but was withholding the word until he said it first. She wanted him to declare his love on their anniversary. Probably she wanted him to give her a promise ring or something.

That would not be happening.

Should he love her after a year? Probably. Was he defective because he couldn’t manage to give girls what they wanted of him? Also probably.

Did every girl he’d ever been with think they knew exactly why he couldn’t give them what they wanted? Definitely.

Were they right? Honestly, the answer to that was a thorny mess.

Hence the inescapable cycle of fighting, tears, making up, jealousies, explanations, pleas, and demands. Also hence sitting here in this kitchen giving up the way he’d wanted to look and hoping he wouldn’t hate whatever his girlfriend was doing with her shiny-new stylist supplies.

“Are you done?” he asked, opening his eyes after she’d paused for a bit.

She set the scissors on the towel she’d laid out on the counter and picked up her blow dryer.

“Not yet. I need to dry you and finish your beard. Chillax, Sammy.”

He did not enjoy being called Sammy. Lots of people, including his parents, had called him Sammy when he was little, and he felt like he was seen as a little kid when people used it now. When he’d told her as much, the very first time she’d done it, they’d been in bed, after fucking. She’d snuggled up close and said she loved it, and it would be her special name for him, only when they were alone.

He still hated it, but it was another of those things he figured he could give her without causing a big ripple elsewhere in his life.

She blew his hair dry—at least all this hair stuff felt good—and then took a trimmer to his beard. He could feel the blade guard right on his cheeks. So much for his good, thick beard.

It was just hair. It would grow back. Someday.

She switched off the trimmer. Sam kept his eyes closed as she ran her fingers over his cheeks and chin, and through his hair. He could tell she’d taken a lot off. He’d just gotten it grown past his shoulders. Shit.

“Okay!” she chirped as she unclipped the beach towel from around his neck. “Ready to see?”

He opened his eyes; Lark smiled down at him and looked so proud and pleased, he couldn’t help but smile back. He really did like her a lot.

Why couldn’t he fall in love? It wasn’t like he was incapable of love; there were people in his life he loved deeply, people he wasn’t sure he’d survive without. Nor did he have some psychological trauma holding him back. Falling in love seemed simply impossible, like a circuit in him somewhere—his heart, he supposed—had never been connected.

“I’m ready,” he said.

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