stood Sam in all his five-foot-seven intimidating glory. The room began to slowly fill with hushed voices. Sam’s back stiffened, but he pointedly ignored the whispers and hissed insults.
He repeated the routine I’d seen once before—the barked order, placing exact change on the counter, and drinking his coffee the instant it was handed to him. But instead of walking out after finishing his drink, Sam locked eyes with me and headed toward the counter by the window I was sitting at.
“Are you stalking me?” he asked, amusement seeping through his deep voice.
“No! I was here first!” I sputtered out. My face flushed when he laughed at me.
“Calm down, kid. I’m just messing with you.”
I hope the shudder I gave wasn’t too evident. “Please don’t call me kid.”
Sam arched an eyebrow. “But you’re a kid.”
“My name’s Eric.”
“Sam.” He extended his hand, and in my panic, I completely missed.
“Yeah, I know,” I blurted out before I could stop myself. I felt my face flush again.
“Oh?” Sam arched his left eyebrow again. “Do you now? Because you’re stalking me, right?”
“Uh, no, no, I heard the barista call you Sam, and I…” I met Sam’s gaze and saw amusement evident in his dark eyes. “Oh. You’re messing with me.”
“Damn straight.”
We stood there in silence for a few minutes before I stood.
“I, uh, I’ve gotta go.”
Sam nodded and turned his attention to something outside the window. I threw away my cup, crossed the room, and felt someone behind me. When exiting, I turned around to hold the door.
The look of shock on Sam’s face will stick with me forever.
“H-have a good day, Sam,” I stammered, feeling my face flush once again.
The look that crossed his face wasn’t exactly a smile, but I felt with alarming certainty that for Sam, it was pretty damn close.
*****
Sam is dead. He will never again smile at anyone who had the nerve to hold the door for him, and he will never again slam the door in anyone’s face.
Sam is dead.
And it’s all my fault.
Chapter Four
Sam is dead.
The moment I allow myself to be happy, that fact—a fact colder and crueler than death itself—reminds me why I cannot be.
Sam is dead, and if I am the only one mourning him, then I will mourn him enough for everyone.
I miss Sam.
This is the first time I have allowed myself to think that. I wish it wasn’t so. I wish I was just like everyone else in the town, content to hate a man, a murderer, that they did not know. I wish Sam didn’t intrigue me after our first three encounters. Maybe then I would be free of the terrible guilt that crushes me when I try to slip into sleep’s release.
God, I wish I could sleep.
But Sam continues to find his way into my dreams. At first, I slept so that I could see Sam. Now, I stay awake so that I cannot. Every time I dream of him or hear his name, I feel a seed of guilt panic in my stomach.
Sam is dead. He has been for three months as of today, and I still cannot come to terms with it.
*****
After our last encounter, I didn’t see Sam for a few weeks. I tried to tell myself I wasn’t looking for him, but as I’ve never been in the business of lying to myself, I couldn’t.
Sam was the most interesting person I’d ever seen or heard of. His complexity rivaled that of a fictional character. Before, I did not know that humans could be so complex.
It was a cold day in February when I decided to walk to the library in hopes of finding a new book to read. When I found one that piqued my interest, I settled down onto the uncomfortable couch to see how it read.
It had a slow beginning, but it was starting to get interesting when a shadow crossed my page. I glanced up and flinched in surprise when I met Sam’s gaze.
“What the hell? Say something next time!” I yelped, much to the chagrin of the librarians who proceeded to shush me.
Sam laughed quietly, and I realized that it was the first time I’d heard him really laugh. For such a scary man, he had a nice laugh.
“Lighten up, kid. Where’s the fun in that?”
I shook my head. “I don’t like people sneaking up on me.”
Sam arched an eyebrow. “Oh?”
I set my jaw and did my best to stare him down. “Oh.”
He nodded in what I hoped was understanding. “So what are you reading?” he asked, seemingly anxious to change the subject.
I flashed him the cover, not trying to hide the annoyance at being disturbed. His eyes lit up.
“Catch-22?”
“Yeah.”
“Do you like it?”
I sighed.
“Well, I don’t know. See, someone named Sam keeps interrupting me while I’m trying to read it,” I snapped.
To my surprise, he laughed. “All right, kid, point taken. Calm down. I’m just trying to make some conversation.”
I put down my book, exasperated. “Why me?”
He made direct eye contact with me. “Because you seem to be the only person in this goddamn town who doesn’t hate me for one reason or another.”
I blinked, and in my hesitation, Sam managed a weak smile, and all but ran from the room.
*****
To this day, I haven’t been able to finish the book. Every time I see the cover, I remember Sam’s failed attempt at concealing the pain in his voice. As tough as he was, I know it got to him just how alone he was.
If I could go back and say something, anything to make him turn around again to stay, I would. I wish I’d been able to find the right words to tell Sam that I didn’t hate him, and that I found him to be kind at times—albeit difficult to get along with.
But I cannot turn back the years, and I can never tell Sam what I wish I’d said three years ago.
Because
