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He gave me a lopsided grin. It was a quiet smile, but it was a great smile, his blue eyes glinting like sea glass against his sunny skin. I did that, I thought, a thrill running through me. I wanted to do it again.
“What was your first kiss like?” I asked. The answer suddenly felt urgent. He didn’t speak for several long seconds, and when he did, it came out on a soft exhalation. “I don’t know. I haven’t kissed anyone yet.”
“Are you kidding me?!” I squeak. I don’t know if it’s Sam or the alcohol that has so thoroughly removed my filter. “A lawyer and doctor? That should be illegal. You two are, like, taking all the rich, hot people away from the rest of us.”
Once, he mailed me a worn copy of Stephen King’s memoir, On Writing. It wasn’t a special occasion, but he’d wrapped it up and left a note on the inside cover: Found this at the secondhand store. I think it was waiting for you.
Sam Florek, the man that you are
I lean in to give him a hug, and it feels like coming home and saying goodbye and four thousand days of longing.
“She told me to call you,” he says, serious again. I stop breathing. “Before she died. She said he’d need you after.”
sobbing.
