Page 41 of Resilience

Before he could ask why she’d punched him, or make any kind of decision about what to do, she looked up at him with real worry in her dark eyes and signed, “Is it because of what happened?”

The most true answer would be that it both was and wasn’t because of the rape. His feelings for her had nothing to do with it, but his turmoil now, and his shitty friend-being, was at least half because of what she was going through. But while he struggled to figure out a way to explain himself without saying too much and giving her something else to worry about, she asked something that changed everything.

She asked, “Do you see me differently now? Is that it?”

“No!” he signed at once. Then he grabbed her head, stared deeply into her eyes, and spoke the word. “No.”

“Then I don’t understand. I need you, and you’re not with me.”

“I am here for you. I am. Always.”

“You’re not. You haven’t been since it happened.”

He needed to explain, but what could he say? “I’m sorry, Frodo. I’m so sorry.”

That wasn’t good enough, and she shook her head. “Please, Sam. Please.”

The only thing he could think to say was the truth. It filled his head and rattled at the bars of his conscience. “What if they’re right?”

She frowned. “What? Who?”

“Lark and all the others. What if—” No. If he was going to take this risk, he had to take it. Own it. “I think they’re right. I think the reason I can’t find a girl who’s okay with you and me is they’re right.”

“What are you talking about?”

His heart pounded so hard his eyeballs pulsed. “My head’s been in a knot since Lark and I broke up. But it’s not her I’m thinking about. She said some shit that’s got me thinking about ... about everything. If I’ve been acting weird, it’s not because I’m mad at you, or think of you as anything but amazing. It’s not because of what happened to you. It’s because I’m scared. I’m so scared about what I’m feeling, and what it might mean. I’m fucking terrified to actually say it. I don’t know if there would ever be a right time to say it, but I know now is the wrong time.”

He stopped and let his hands fall. Athena stood before him, looking up with that same frown, no indication that she understood where he was going—and that seemed a sure sign she didn’t feel the way he did.

But he’d come this far, so he went the rest of the way. “I think I’m in love with you, Athena. I think you are and have always been the only one for me.”

Her frown was replaced by shock. Eyes wide, mouth open, angry flush receding from her cheeks. She took a step back.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

“Sam,” she signed.

He’d made a monumental mistake.

He wouldn’t, couldn’t take it back, but he had to try to defuse it. “It doesn’t have to change anything. I promise I’m fine—I’m excellent staying as we’ve always been. I don’t need you to feel the same way. I won’t be weird about it, I swear. I just needed some time to—”

She grabbed his hands to stop him. She brought them to her chest and held them there, and for a moment, Sam knew hope.

But she let him go and stepped farther back. “I can’t do this. Not now,” she signed. “I’m sorry.”

And then she left.

Sam watched her hurry from the shop, out the door, around the building, and to her car. He watched her get in, start it, pull back from the spot, and drive away.

Then he reeled to the stool and dropped onto it.

He’d just destroyed the most important relationship in his life.

Once, eight or ten years ago, he’d asked Athena’s father about the time he’d been brazed by the club. The event was legend throughout the family, but Apollo never talked about it. When he was asked, he either changed the subject or flat-out refused and told the asker to turn his nose to his own business. But that night, maybe because Sam’s dad had been away in a Texas prison, and Sam and Apollo had been sitting out alone behind Sam’s house, watching the fireflies and talking about guy shit, Apollo had told him the story.

Since that night, Sam’s heart had held a little bit of fearful awe for the Bulls. For his family. The kind of awe one might hold for a vengeful god. They were capable of more than he’d realized, and not all of it was good. But the thing he remembered most about that story was the way Apollo had described the pain of being burned.

He’d said that pain could grow so huge it transcended the brain’s ability to process it, and that was a mercy. When that point was crossed, the brain either shut down entirely, bringing unconsciousness, or it flipped the pain switch off, and sensation became like static.

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