Page 26 of The Man I Love

“Are you sure?” her mom asked, twisting her hands nervously in her lap.

“I’m sure,” Sam promised.

“When will Tristan arrive?” she asked, as though his presence might somehow make her absence more tolerable.

“Tomorrow.” Sam smiled.

“Are you excited?”

“Excited is an understatement.”

Her mom’s eyes twinkled. “Please take pictures for me,” her mom requested.

“I will.”

Her dad sat forward next, his thumb covering the whole screen as he grabbed the phone from the tripod. “We won’t keep you, Sammie. I know you’re busy, we just wanted to wish you luck on your big day tomorrow.”

“Thank you, Dad,” Sam whispered, trying to force the emotion from her voice so her parents wouldn’t worry.

“We love you,” her mom said softly.

“I love you, too!”

“Bye,” they both said in unison.

“Bye.”

And then the call ended, leaving Sam staring at her home screen, where a photo of Tristan she’d taken over a year ago on Valentine’s Day stared back at her. He was wearing a gray fluffy robe, and an Indian clay mask was dry and cracked on his face. Somehow the dark color of the clay made his eyes even bluer. Deep lines had formed around his mouth from his grin, and the more she told him to stop, the larger his smile had grown. It was the most cherished photo she’d ever taken. Both because of the memory of the impromptu spa day she’d created in their living room, but also because of how happy he’d been. His smile wasgenuineand pure, and he’d givenit all to her. To this day her heart raced every time he graced her with it.

“I swear, Sam,” Margaret said from the kitchen, startling her, “you’re kind of disgusting.”

Sam glanced up, wincing at being caught. “What do you mean?”

“You blush whenever someone even mentions his name.”

Sam set her phone face down on the coffee table and rose to her feet. “Do I really?”

“Love ya, girl, but I’m getting lost this weekend. I don’t want to witness anything that happens while he’s here.”

“Oh shush.” Sam blushed as she joined Margaret in the kitchen.

There was a large pink box on the counter, and Margaret pushed it open aggressively with one finger. “Peter is the devil,” she said under her breath. “If I don’t fit into my dress tomorrow…” but her words trailed off as she picked up what appeared to be a glazed croissant with a ribbon of raspberry peeking out between the buttery layers. Margaret’s stomach audibly gurgled, and Sam’s did something similar, but for the exact opposite reason. Her hand fell to her abdomen, and she walked over to the sink trying to soothe it. She hadn’t been able to tolerate much of anything for days. Nerves consumed every thought, making food one of the last things she wanted to think about. “Have you heard anything of Mr. Covington’s plans for tomorrow?” Sam asked, taking a glass from the cupboard and filling it with water.

Margaret leaned back in her seat, her eyes fluttering closed as her teeth sank into the delicate pastry. “What I know is we need to be ready by seven,” she said with a mouthful. “Our presentations are scheduled to start around eight.”

Samantha gulped what was left in her glass. “I chose art so I’d never have to participate in public speaking?—”

“Sam?” It was Peter. He was poking his head around the stairwell. “You busy?”

Her eyes met his, and something about his urgency made her back stiffen. “Not really.” She set down her glass. “What’s up?”

“There’s a man downstairs asking for you. Seems pretty impatient.” Peter’s stare was intense, and an uneasy feeling settled in Samantha’s stomach.

“What does he want?” Margaret asked between bites of her croissant.

Peter shrugged. “He wouldn’t tell me.”

“Did you ask?”

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