Page 21 of A Mountain Man Walks into a Library

They’re funny people. And they’re a funny couple, but I don’t think I’ve ever known two people so devoted to each other. I’ve been lucky to have them.

When my mom finally lets me go, Dad reaches out for a handshake like he always does.

All the while, Sam lingers behind us in the doorway. My skin prickles with the knowledge that he’s back there. I have a thousand things to say to him, and I don’t want to say anything at all. This is why I didn’t want a birthday party. This is why I wanted to spend my weekend alone. And, God, he wasn’t supposed to show up at all. He definitely wasn’t supposed to stay all weekend.

He wasn’t supposed to kiss me.

Just hours ago, I had imagined how this evening would go. How we would finally get the privacy to talk. To figure out where we stood with each other. If any of this was real. If we wanted to keep going.

I have so many questions for him, but now they’re all buried under a thick blanket of shame.

Now my mom is telling me about a fellow student in her yoga class back home. My brain is still fuzzy enough that I’ve lost track of the story thread, and in an attempt to get this visit to end, I reach for the suitcases.

But Sam is already there. I didn’t even notice when he swooped in. He’s got both suitcases scooped up in one of his big hands, and my mom’s rolling cooler in the other, as if he knew exactly what I was going to do before I did it.

“Sir, ma’am,” he says, the perfect northern gentleman, “it was so nice to meet you both.”

And I have to bite against a smile, because I know that he’s ushering my parents out of my house but he’s doing it in such a charming way, that they’ll only remember how much they enjoyed being around him. I think Sam just has that effect on people.

He follows them down the porch steps and out to their car. He opens the hatch and places the suitcases carefully inside. Next, he lifts up the cooler and settles it in beside the cases. He shuts the hatch and turns to my parents with a broad, handsome smile.

My knees go a little weak at the sight.

But I rein that feeling in. Rein it in and bridle it up tight.

Sam shakes my dad’s hand and accepts my mom’s fierce hug. She holds him to her for several moments longer than necessary, his big body bent and folded around her tiny frame. When she finally lets him go, she plants a big, firm kiss on his cheek.

“It was so good to meet you, Sam,” she says. “Next time I’m up, we can do some practice injections if you’d like. And if you want a refresher before then, stop in at the pharmacy, and someone there will be happy to show you.” She casts an accusatory glare at Remy. “I can’t believe my son hasn’t shown you already.”

And then Sam looks at me with an expression that says very clearly,Me either.

I hug my parents both one more time, and then my mom starts the engine, and their little station wagon pulls out of my driveway, heading down Harlow Mountain, back to civilization.

Sam stands next to me. He’s quiet. Waiting, I think, for me to speak first. I associate Sam with all of his nervous rambling from the library, the stories and book summaries and impassioned arguments for why the library should order this book or that one. His adjective-laden descriptions of the sweet treats he brought me.

But this weekend, he’s been silent a lot. Not with my parents, of course. With them, he was his usual exuberant, charming self. But with me...with me, it felt like he wanted to follow my lead. Which only made sense, I guess, since I was the one to get us into this mess. Sam, however, hadn’t seemed to mind.

He’s so good. He’stoogood, and when I glance at him out of the corner of my eye, I can tell he would be willing to take this all in stride. My pushy family, my medical condition, the fact that I probably shouldn’t be living alone in an off-the-grid cabin on the side of afucking mountain. He would take it all and carry it, and I am so, so tempted to let him.

But I keep springing things on him. It’s not fair. I’m not being fair to him. And if he’s not willing to ask for what he needs, then I may just have to enforce it.

Sam’s got that soft smile on his face again. I’ve gotten so used to it this weekend. So used to it turned toward me. And right now, it’s sowarmthat I almost can’t stand it.

“Your parents are great,” he says, his voice lower than usual, deeper—and isn’t that the hottest thing ever? Like his usual lighter tone is for everyone else. But all that grit and gravel? That’s forme.

“They are,” I say. Because it’s true. Because I’m distracted watching his mouth as he talks.

Then Sam draws in a long, slow breath. His broad chest expands with it and lowers when he exhales. He reaches out to wrap his fingers around my wrist, and he strokes his thumb back and forth over the bones there.

“We’re gonna have to talk, aren’t we?” he says, more a statement than a question.

“Mm,” I half-agree. I rub my free hand down my face. “Thank you, Sam. For this weekend. It meant a lot. To my parents.”

Sam’s brows draw together. “To your parents,” he repeats. He squeezes my wrist. “And what about you?”

My heart catches. Carefully, I extricate my wrist from his grip. I slip my hands into my pockets.

“It was a good weekend,” I say, “thank you again.”

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