Page 39 of Without You, Scotch and Sammy 2

I look at my boots and bite my lip for a long time, shuffling my feet and fussing with the loops on my belt, and I think about the millions of hours Sam and I spent alone when we were younger. Not only didn’t we need an intermediary, but our relationship was built on quiet mornings together at the lake. We craved our alone time. We planned our lives out and we kissed and touched in the shadows.

“Alright.” He stomps around the kitchen loudly. He digs around in cupboards above his fridge, then pulling out a yellow legal pad and pens, he noisily drops them onto the table. “What do you need from me, Samantha? Put it all out there. I’m not a dumbass. I know adoption means home studies, psych evals, financials, criminal. I know they’ll wanna interview us both, so put it all in writing for me.”

I nod shyly. He’s right. This is smart. I walk to the table, and taking the pen, I lean forward and start writing out appointments I have to attend over the next two months. He stands nearby, but maintains a couple of feet between us. He coughs gruffly, turning away every minute or so, but every time I move, he turns back. I take my cell from my back pocket, unlocking it and opening the calendar app, then I write more dates down. “Do you want pediatrician appointments too?”

He nods sharply. “Put it all down.”

I nod and start listing all the extra dates. He frowns as he gets closer. “How often does she have to go to the doctors?”

I shrug. “Often enough. She was an unwell baby, so we have some stuff we have to take care of--”

“She was? She’s still a baby.”

“Yes. I just meant… never mind.”

“How old is she?”

“Three months. Thereabouts.”

His eyes snap back up to mine. “Three months? I expected you to tell me three days, not months.”

I shake my head softly. “No, she was born premature. She’s still really small, but she’s catching up fast.”

“Why was she born so early?”

“Her mom was a homeless addict. Life beat her down and she went into labor early.”

“Her mom was an addict? So Lily--”

“Was born addicted also. She went through withdrawals in hospital.”

“Jesus.” He scrubs his hands through his hair, stepping away from the table and pacing across the far side of the kitchen. “That itty bitty thing has already had to fight that hard?”

I smile. “Yeah, but she’s a fighter. She’s a survivor.”

His eyes flare quickly, but snuffing the flame, he turns his gaze away. “Okay, keep going. Write everything down.”

“My apartment has a spare room, so if you want to stay there, you can. Or there are nice hotels really close, so if you’d prefer that, that’s okay too. I’ll take care of the expenses.”

He turns back slowly, glaring at me again. “Why would I need a hotel? Or a room in your apartment.”

“Because we’re pretending to be a happy family. Happy families at least appear to be living together.”

“So you can stay here,” he snaps.

My eyes come up to his in shock. “What?”

“Stay here in town. You had your chance back in high school, Samantha. I would have gone anywhere for you, but you threw that away. Now, I’m not going anywhere. Not a single fucking block. You want my help, you’re coming to me.”

“Sam--”

He shrugs carelessly. “I guess you’ve got decisions to make.”

“But I have an apartment in the city. And my job. And--”

“And I have an apartment here. And a job. And a family. You’re delusional if you think I’m leaving them for you.”

I sit down heavily in the kitchen chair, and drop my face into my hands. I scratch my nails over my scalp in an attempt to calm the shakes rushing through my body. “Okay.”

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