Page 82 of All In
His brown eyes pierce mine with so much intensity that I can’t help but feel vulnerable. We stand in silence for a second or two, the tension between us palpable, until he finally breaks it with a nervous throat clearing. “Um … so, how are your kids? Brielle and Mason?”
My toy bobble head returns. “Good. Great, actually. Getting big.”
“Crazy how that happens, huh?”
“And how is Mikey?” I want to add ‘since his mom’s death,’ but I stop myself.
“He’s good. I mean, the move has been really great for him. Living in Georgia became”—he stops, gathering his thoughts—“too hard.”
“Too many memories?”
Sam tears his eyes away from me, a flicker of sadness crossing his face. “Something like that,” he whispers. As soon as he says those three words, he furrows his brows and his shoulders tighten, revealing his unease. Every word carries a weighty significance and a hint of sorrow.
I hope one day, he will share with me the untold story that has been haunting him. I mean, if we continue to talk after today.
“I was sorry to hear about you and Nate,” he says, directing the conversation back to me, each word sounding forced and unnatural. There’s no doubt in my mind that he loathed Nate. Our emails from back then showed as much. But his sympathy is sweet, even though I know he’s just saying it out of kindness.
A playful grin spreads across my face. “No, you weren’t.”
He breaks into laughter. “You’re right. I’m not.” Our eyes meet, and a spark of connection passes between us. “He wasn’t good enough for you.”
Sam’s right. Nate wasn’t good enough for me. Of course, Nate wouldn’t agree with that. According to him, I should have woken up every morning, thanking my lucky stars that I was his wife. But all I have ever wanted was to wake up with the prize of a man standing in front of me.
The worst decision I ever made. Letting Sam go.
I can’t decide if I should tell him that Nate cheated on me. Maybe he would feel like it’s karma.
It probably was.
And besides, now is not the time.
Immediately, I am catapulted to that fateful day when I was standing in front of him, just like we are now, and I handed him the Dear John letter. Looking back, I can’t believe I was that stupid. There is nothing I want more than to rewind, go back in time, and warn that terrified girl. My heart aches to scream at her, to plead with her not to let Sam go, to prioritize her own well-being, and to caution her about what’s coming.
But I can’t.
Before I word vomit all of this out of my head, I decide we need a swift subject change. Because like everything Sam and me, we always veer off course into the realm of guilt, shame, and shared history. I can’t do that this morning.
“So, do you work here?” I flick my thumb at the hospital behind me.
“I do. Since we’ve moved back. Almost two years now.”
“And you work as a psychologist?” I bounce up on my toes, anticipating his answer.
He glances down at the ground and nods in agreement, not wanting to brag on himself. “Mm-hmm.”
A surge of pride courses through me, causing my face to beam with happiness. “I am so proud of you, Sam.”
His cheeks turn a rosy shade, and there’s a sense of joy knowing that I caused it. “Thanks. I owe it all to you.”
“Stop it. I just nudged you. You did the work. You deserve the credit.”
My phone buzzes in my purse, and I know it’s Richelle wondering where I am. Or knowing her, wondering who I’m talking to because she is probably watching me from the breakroom window. I glance at my watch to see the time and to get an idea of how late I’m going to be. I can feel Sam’s stare tracking my movements.
As I move my hand downwards, Sam’s fingers curl around my wrist, pulling my hand towards him. I step closer as he carefully examines my watch. In a tender reminder of our past, he runs his thumb under the watchband, the sensation instantly bringing me back to that dance floor at Dexter’s eons ago. The gentle caress causes goose bumps to erupt on my arm. I gasp in surprise as this brief meet-up takes an unexpected twist. As it always does.
“You still have it?” he asks, his eyes glued to the watch.
A pit forms in my stomach. “Y-yes.”
