Page 21 of Without You, Scotch and Sammy 2

“I can’t say anything else. I’m legally bound and I can’t say a damn thing. I could be disbarred for even saying this much, Samuel. Alex doesn’t know why we’re speaking. No one does--”

“I don’t know why we’re speaking!”

“You need to get your life in order. And you need to do it now!”

“What are you talking ab--”

“Who’s that bitch?” Britt storms into the living room and slams her fist into my shoulder. “Why would you bring a random bimbo to family night? My son is here, dumbass. He doesn’t need to know what a whore looks like yet.”

I rub a hand on my aching arm. “Jesus, Brat. What the hell’s the matter with you?”

“We told you to date, but we didn’t mean you had to bring home the first stray cat you found.”

“What’s your problem with her? She’s nice!”

“She has her claws in you. I’d bet you anything we’d find blood under your shirt right now.”

I point at Jules. “No, that was her! If anyone has claws tonight, it’s that psycho.”

“Dunno what you’re talkin’ about.” Jules pops her hip and blows on her nails. “I just wanted to wish you a happy birthday. Love you, dude.”

My eyes narrow. “Love you too, Jules. You give my brother a baby yet?”

“Ha! He’s working on it, but I’m busy with work right now. But hey, remember what I said. Go clean your house. It stinks.” She wanders out of the room, then Luc’s obnoxious heckling begins as soon as she reenters the kitchen.

I turn back to Britt’s filthy glare, and despite her terrible mood, I hold my arms out. “Give me a hug, Brat. I haven’t seen you in days. It’s my birthday and you haven’t even told me you love me yet. Even the psycho said she loved me. And by the way, I think she might already be pregnant. She’s hormonal and weird as shit.”

Britt slaps my hand away. “Not hugging your stanky ass. I don’t wanna catch the clap. I dunno about your apartment stinking, but you sure do.”

I lift the collar of my shirt and sniff. Girlie musky, with a side of flowers. “Damn, Britt. You’re being really mean to me today. In fact, you all are. This is supposed to be my birthday, and I’m the only sucker getting picked on.”

She shrugs carelessly, but eventually steps into my arms and rests her face on my chest. “I’m just looking out for you. Get a girlfriend, but the one you dragged in today ain’t her. Try again.”

Nancy is actually a sweet girl. She didn’t turn up here in hooker heels or big hair. I don’t know what Britt’s problem is, but without getting to know her at all, she’s decided Nancy isn’t worth her time.

Well that’s just too damn bad, because Nancy’s got my attention, and she’s worth my time. Wavy blonde hair down to her shoulders, brown eyes that look like melted chocolate, boobs that are at least seventy-percent fake, and zero freckles or plans to ditch town. She’s beautiful, and she’s keen to pull me out of my funk.

I’m at a point in my life that I need a damn intervention. If Nancy wants to be that for me, then so be it. Nothing else has worked so far.

In the thirteen years since I graduated high school, I’ve tried in vain to move on. The first year without Sammy, I was practically sleep walking. Class. Home. Class. Home. The lake for a run. Home.

Day in, day out, that’s all I did. I rented the apartment I’m in now before that first summer even ended. I was fed up with my family watching over me like they were on suicide watch.

I wasn’t going to kill myself. Sammy wasn’t dead, she was just gone. I wasn’t going to kill myself and risk missing out on when she’d inevitably come back.

And I was so sure she would.

I sat holed up in my apartment above the autobody shop and wrote songs. I wrote songs that, if they were read today, might induce a full-blown panic attack from my family. I wrote songs about drugs, and how a certain teenaged girl was my fix, a fix I was accustomed to getting daily. Then cold turkey, my supply line was cut off.

I wrote songs about heartbreak and the unlikelihood of healing. I wrote songs about crushed dreams and tragic deaths.

In my senior year while I knew Sammy, I could barely grow three whiskers from my chin. That very next year, I looked like a homeless bum, with hair past my shoulders and an untrimmed beard that would rival a filthy Santa.

My mom and dad came by my place and demanded I get outside immediately, or risk being moved home again where Mom could watch over me.

I got outside often enough, but you’d never know by the way I looked and the way my apartment reeked of dirty socks and week-old pizza. Eventually, my mom dragged me to the doctor and demanded they ‘do something with me.’ I was placed on anti-depressants for the next few years after grad, and although I wasn’t sure I needed them, I didn’t care enough to argue.

They gave my robotic life a soft and shimmery glossy coat. Nothing really changed for me; I didn’t suddenly regain my happiness in life, the new drugs in my system didn’t rebalance the scales in my brain and heart, but I did sleep and eat more.

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