AERIAL

by @peanutboyfriend
 Aerial

INDEX
The Finale // Part One…………………………………….………………...2

The Finale // Part Two……………………………………………………..40

The Pink Envelope…………………………………………………………85

The Encore………………………………………………………………..102

The Double Encore……………………………………………………….200

Here Comes The Sun // Aerial Magazine……………………………...379

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The Finale // Part One

You made your bed, now lie in it.

Inside of that large, white five-story building, past the blue trim and
reflective windows, there are squeaky, polished marble floors. Shiny,
pearly and reflective; depressingly quiet and brutally loud all-at-once.
High heels click and clack and click and clack while patients lurch
uncomfortably in half-drugged-out stupors, tubes shoved up their noses
as red Jell-O hardens on their bedside tables. Their wallets scraped
clean of savings. Distressed family members linger in waiting rooms
with folded newspapers in hand, a blunt pencil with a dull eraser held to
last week’s crossword, but they’re not focused on the clues. The clues
are an attempted distraction to anxiety; black-and-white boxes that
contain no gray area in their design. The only problem with anxiety is
that there are no inherent distractions for it because it vibrates just
outside of you, all along every inch of skin, trapping you inside of its
cage with birds frantically pecking at your bones for a breath of
freedom.

Freedom lies within certainties and sometimes there are no certainties.

So, what happens then?

Wandering obsession?

Cherry.

Inside of that large, white five-story building, past the blue trim and
reflective windows, there are unsettling questions that pair with equally
unsettling answers. The questions of what happened to me and who
am I now and what’s next, the kinds of questions that everyone dreads
but is forced to evaluate at some point. The kinds of questions that
people usually get the opportunity to ask themselves or their friends
and family with some sort of memory of how they got where they are,
armed with those inquiries.

Today, Sam doesn’t have that privilege.

The hum from the neon sign that cleanly hangs several feet over the
automatic sliding doors buzzes through Sam’s wide-open van windows,
cerulean and taut, high-pitched and hair-raising, memorable and not.

Mercy Valley Medical.

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Dried, caked blood stings beside a small open wound in his cuticle. An
old habit that creeps around when Sam’s stress is at his highest;
digging at tender skin until it becomes a hangnail and then picking at
the hangnail until it hurts to touch and then tearing the hurting flesh
from his finger with his teeth until it’s even more tender than it was to
begin with.

He runs his thumb over the callouses permanently etched into his
palms; the ones that he helped cultivate when he first started out in the
circus by using the secret industry technique of slipping into the
bathroom after practice and pissing on the bloody open wounds rubbed
raw by the trapeze bar. The salt and acids in urine helps to heal open
blisters quicker and creates a leather quality to the skin in order to
improve grip. It was something Indy had suggested to him right off the
bat and advice that he’d shelled out to you when you’d bellyached
about the pain after your first day on the giants. He took odd pride in
the fact that you didn’t seem appalled or squeamish as he assumed
you might have been, but rather trusted his guidance and listened with
perfectly unruffled feathers. With impartial tolerance. With gratitude.

With annoying innocence.

It made sense to him in hindsight, though; he’d figured you’d seen your
fair share of atrocity each time you pulled off a pair of pointe shoes and
inspected your bloody toes after rehearsals or practice for years as a
professional ballet dancer. The result of beauty is pain, after all. More
often than not.

Physically and emotionally.

Within the mayhem of his now-trashed van, Sam was unlucky in his
search for another pack of Crush cigarettes, so he stopped at a corner
market for a fresh carton on the way to the hospital. Even through his
rose-tinted sunglasses, the flickering fluorescent lightbulbs nipped at
his eyes as if he were a newborn seeing unnatural lighting for the first
time. And for the first time that he could remember, none of the snacks
shelved neatly in meticulously quaint rows with flashy labels seemed
appealing. Not even the peanut butter.

He hasn’t bothered to flick the ash from his cigarette since he lit it and if
he were feeling any sense of humor in this moment, he might laugh at
the inch-long granny ash skeleton sizzling down to his knuckles,
streaming a thin ribbon of pink into the sky before it depletes into
nothing but a memory of hot, wavering sugar.
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Memory. Okay, maybe this is just a bit little funny.

The red-hot heart-shaped locket lays splayed open in his palm, his
eyes glued to all the curves, angles and shadows of your face, the long
chain sagging limply between the cracks of his fingers. Even though
the photograph inside is black-and-white, Sam can still imagine the
shade of lipstick you must have been wearing that day. Tangerine or
Cherry or maybe Sweet Strawberry, the kind that would leave behind a
perfect painted pout on a scruffy, kissed cheek. Or a champagne glass.
Or a cigarette butt. The shade that he wishes he could smudge across
your flawless portrait right now, to cover up that innocent baby deer
gaze that reeks of penetrating judgment. The exact gaze that you shoot
him from across the room whenever he’s fucking around with his
friends on his smoke breaks at work. The same exact fucking gaze that
dissolves him when you unintentionally remind him of his former
partner; hardworking and serious, beautiful and potent. The precise
gaze that you insist upon when you trample all over his lunch breaks in
the courtyard with way too many fucking waffles for one girl. Cherry.
The very gaze you gave him when you saw the picture in his wallet in
the first place and the same one you gave him when he told you the
photograph was gone. The gaze he woke up to this morning. And
somehow, that gaze has also ended up here, supposedly months later,
in a locket in his palm, under completely muddled conditions.

He’s looked at this photograph more times than he can count. Late at
night when he’s screamed awake by a nightmare involving Indy’s blood
and bones; he’s no stranger to rolling onto his side and flipping open
his wallet for a little slice of comfort. Or when he slinks off from his
mates to take a piss at Hound Dogs, holding his cigarette in his teeth
and spacing out on your face in a room filled with nothing but the sound
of water running from the faucet. He honestly can’t explain it and that’s
exactly what he tried to justify in your dressing room argument, but
when Sam is red-zone upset, words don’t exactly unpack how he wish
they would. He never imagined he would awaken from a nightmare
beside the living, breathing version of that comfort wrapped up in his
sheets and kissing his lips.

A nightmare that’s worse than a nightmare, because when he opened

his eyes, it was still there.

How things have changed.

Pretty sure she’s the only one who can fill in the blanks now.

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Judging by the pile of cigarette butts in his ash tray, Sam can deduce
that he’s been sitting in his van in the parking lot of the hospital for
nearly forty minutes. Nothing further in terms of complete, sensical
pictures have surfaced since Tex began a wild scavenger hunt
rendition of connect-the-dots on his doorstep. His brain is merely
flashes of shadows and disintegrating faces, a handful of whispered,
spoken syllables cherry that cut through from ear to ear and leave him
wondering if he even heard them in the first place. A weak mist of rain
forming a tapestry of damp emotion in the air, a low-hanging cloud that
allows a burst of scorching, bleached light to blind him before it’s
covered up by fog so fast that he doesn’t even have a chance to
decipher it.

And he supposes if he wants these alien signals to cling to any sort of

logic or significance, he’s going to have to walk through those
automatic sliding doors and start asking those unsettling questions. He
never could stand the idea of vague notions cherry rattling around in
his own brain, taking up precious real estate and deterring him from
hindsight, the very building blocks of conscious life. And this is by far
the worst shit storm of uncool that he’s had the honor of rummaging
through, despite every impulsive wise-ass decision he’s made
throughout his lifetime. At least when Indy died, he was haunted by
very vivid but very real nightmares, ones that were cemented in fact
and had discernible outcomes when reflected upon. He didn’t have any
answers then and still doesn’t, but at least he had the applicable
questions. The memories of it.

So far this morning he’s learned, but not necessarily accepted, that
he’s sustained a serious injury. He’s learned that you’re going to lose
the one thing that means more to you than anything else in existence,
but he doesn’t know whether or not you’re aware and he doesn’t know
why it’s happening. He’s learned that time has passed based on your
vague screech when you exited his van a couple hours ago, on Tex’s
concise musing, and the library copy of The Illustrated Man he found in
the chaos of his home. It was a book that he doesn’t remember ever
borrowing or starting or reading three-quarters through, but a checkout
card slipped into the back envelope gave him the first small clue. It was
signed out in his own handwriting under his name, stamped with a date
indicating it was due back on October 13th, 1965. But he had no way of
knowing if it was cherry on time or past due, by days or possibly even
weeks. Or if he’d even planned on returning it or not.

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Another and more alarming clue was what he’d chosen to use as his
new favorite bookmark; a photobooth strip with four tiny colorless
pictures of you, immaculate Twiggy-esque wing-tipped eyeliner, sticky
lips. No date, no location, no writing. Just the photos. As if whoever
had slipped it into that book was certain they would never need the
reminder, like the impression of the events were strong enough to
withstand time and heartbreak.

They were wrong.

After stuffing the photos in his trousers pocket, the discovery further
spurred another reckless tear through his van for more pointers,
landing once again on a couple tattered yellow strips of fabric within the
mess of his own clothing. This was the second time he returned to the
torn material cherry with no understanding as to why, but he trusts his
intuition and tepid always has, so he also shoved them into his pocket
in the hope that some sort of recollection would seep through his pants
as if by diffusion. He sat still for a moment, spinning the red wheel of
your roller skates with the tip of his index finger. Recalling all of the
times he watched you leave work as he sat drinking Pearls with his
friends at the fountain, wondering what clothes you’d change into when
you got home and imagining your hair loose and free, pressed up
against your cheek as you slept.

Then without thinking, he then dropped to his knees and tore open the
cabinet beneath the sink warm and swiped a box with handcuffs and
various toys aside, before pulling out a stack of books, newspapers,
magazines and notebooks filled with thick expanses of black, felt tip
ink. His eyebrows ruffled when he realized he’d somehow gotten back
into a lovesick poet’s habit he hadn’t seen in ages. He’d wondered if he
ever shared them with anyone hot, such as the person who he was
mentally flattering cherry when he scrawled them in the first place, but
he shoved it all out of his mind by physically returning them into a hasty
pile with an ensuing flick of the cabinet lock. Cold. Frigid. Ice. You’re
naked in the arctic circle. Butt-ass naked.

Unsurprisingly, the loudest thing about you that’s driving Sam

absolutely bloodthirsty with obsession is how the two of you woke up
together this morning. Before he left Tex’s place for the hospital, he’d
tried lying back down in bed and closing his eyes, hoping to rewind to
the moment just before you kissed him awake. To siphon up any
dreams that had occurred or force a memory from his sheets for a
breath of history. Assuming it was yours, he held a slinky, white slip in

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the air by the skinny straps, bringing the fabric to his nose and keeping
it there for a few moments. He groaned in annoyance when nothing
was revealed, then crumbled it up in a ball to cast aside. He even tried
sniffing his pillow cases and rolling up in his comforter like a burrito with
his shoes still on, begging the universe for even a whisper of
recollection. But it just wouldn’t cooperate yet. Or he wouldn’t
cooperate yet. He couldn’t tell.

Sam remembers reading somewhere that denial is a very strong

emotion. Most humans live there quite steadily in the midst of trauma
and suffering, as a tactic of basic animal instinct, in order to protect
oneself from harm. And the way that Sam typically protects himself
from harm is by not allowing anyone to be close enough to affect him in
the first place. The only people allowed in now are the ones that he
could easily dismiss with a line of “you’re the one for me” with his eyes
directed at his lap before promptly tossing their crumpled-up phone
number from his window for the wind to eat as he careens down the
PCH.

Always on the verge of escaping what frightens him.

With that, Sam cranks up his windows, snaps the locket cherry closed
and stuffs it into his trouser pocket before ruffling through his piles of
crumpled clothing and assorted, skewed personal items to grab the first
presentable button-down that he can find. He tucks in his wifebeater,
tosses the shirt on and stumbles from his van with his eyes squinted
behind his heart-shaped sunglasses to keep the sun from washing out
his vision. Standing apricot and plum in color from top to bottom, the
hue of his sweet smoke and the hue of his outfit blend like a portable
sunset on his jaunt across the parking lot. The metal hoods and
emblems from the rows of cars reflect blazing white light, heat rises up
from the pavement to nip at his ankles, seagulls circle overhead in an
endless blue sky like vultures for a taste of his bloody stupor. Black
asphalt turns to puffy clouds of cotton before picking up and whirling
away with the wind. Palm trees rustle like a forest of bamboo. Silence
envelops him cherry and then rings back to life with a deflated hiss of
tart fruit.

Sam’s only tripped on acid once, but this is no fucking different.

Just before he arrives at the automatic sliding doors, he pauses to light

a new cigarette as he’s granted access with a smooth swish of metal
and glass. The smell of septic cleaning chemicals burns and stirs

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something inside of him, but he still doesn’t have any appropriate

questions. And with a cleansing inhale of cotton candy, he sets his
sights on the u-shaped front desk and marches forward in the only way
he can: one shaky foot in front of the other.

The nurse manning the desk doesn’t even bother to look up as Sam
approaches, with the receiver of a telephone pressed to her ear and
her jaw working a piece of chewing gum. He waits patiently for a little
less than three seconds before leaning his forearm on the counter and
pitching forward to speak in a private voice. Although Sam’s volume of
private is much different than most peoples; it could best be described
as a mighty whisper, “hi, ’scuse me, I’m kinda havin’ a nervous fuckin’
breakdown—”

Without even bothering to raise her head, the nurse gestures for him to
wait with her index finger. Sam swallows his bitterly sarcastic retort and
instead starts drumming his fingertips, a little fireball of irritation
sparking inside of him when he raises his eyebrow in impatience and
stubs his cigarette out in the ugly spider plant minding its own pointy
business next to his elbow. The cherry hisses upon contact with the
wet soil, the crushed red heart cut out of the filter glaring at its rebuffed
owner, sadly. The little passing image seems to make sense;
squashed, defeated and murky. A pulverized heart and pink sweet
smoke slipping into nothing before snuffing in an instant. Ruining the
chance at life for no good reason at all, aside from Sam’s misfortune
and carelessness.

Apparently, that was enough to collect the nurse’s attention for a

moment. She first looks at the rude cigarette butt in her favorite plant
and then at Sam’s stoic face covered up with sunglasses and promptly
looks away, calmly pecking away at her typewriter. Sam correctly
assumes that his act of microaggression worked in opposition to his
motive, and instead drove her into an act of passive contempt.
Annoyed by her indifference, Sam reaches over and swipes the paper
from her typewriter and helps himself to one of her pens, flipping the
sheet over to scrawl a large, hasty message on the back. He spins it
around and slides it underneath her nose.

Brain on fire — spare straitjacket?

The nurse’s eyes flit from his face to the paper and back again. She
blows a bubble and sucks it past her teeth before slamming down a
clipboard with a form and pen attached to it, then cups her palm over

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the mouthpiece and leans forward to write a return message upside

down for him.

Sit down.

Sam scoffs, “far out. Oh yeah, no big deal, he’s just lost his entire
fuckin’ mind is all. Can’t beat the American healthcare system, can we?
Fuckin’ major egghead zone. Unreal.”

The conversation is finalized by a flick of her manicured fingernail

towards the waiting room.

Sam swipes the clipboard from the counter, the wood clapping against
his hip loudly enough to garner the attention of everyone else sitting in
the crammed, stuffy lobby. With a room full of eyes on him, Sam spins
on his heel and flops down in the first chair he sees, his elbows grazing
the person on either side of him when he settles into place. Someone
clears their throat then sniffles loudly, but the exact source is
anonymous. The room is ushered back into silence except for the news
playing on the small black-and-white television set in the corner, the
signal cutting in and out until somebody stands to adjust the antennae.

Anti-Vietnam war protests draw one-hundred-thousand people across

eighty U.S. cities; the six-hundred-thirty foot steel Gateway Arch in St.
Louis, Missouri has completed construction; the Dodgers beat the
Twins to take their fourth World Series title; Pillsbury Biscuits have a
new mascot, some blobby stop-motion fuck in a chef’s hat with a
pedophiliac gopher voice. All of the information plays like a droning
alarm clock slowly pulling him from the thick fog of sleep; Sam has
missed all of it, sheltered within the confines of a rebellious, months-
long fever dream.

Pulling the cap from the pen with his teeth, he holds it there as he
starts to fill out the form, his eyebrows raising over the frame of his
sunglasses in deliberation every once in a while. When everyone’s
stares eventually fall away except for one, Sam darts his sight up to
find the person sitting opposite him glaring back with a single eye, the
other covered up by a dishtowel filled with ice. Blood runs from his
nose to his downturned, mean pout.

They hold stares until Sam’s shrinks and slowly floats away, his mind
struggling against the chilling, fuzzy memory of a cool compress being
pressed to his cheek by another set of hands. Hazy mental pictures
from an old, burned photo album. Singed like smoked honey, shriveling

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like cherry sun-ripened summer fruit. He taps the bruise on his

cheekbone. In his mind’s eye, the apprehensive image that’s blurred of
any recognizable faces curls at the corners, then turns to ash before
vanishing into thin air, forcing a loud, exasperated groan from his
stomach.

It’s like playing whack-a-mole, but with memories. But with reality. But
with sanity.

And he keeps fucking missing.

Not three seconds after his face has fallen to his palms, a gentle voice
rings down the hallway and happily hops from wall to wall, “Sam!” Sam
pushes his sunglasses onto the top of his head and springs up out of
his chair in time to see a nurse quickly approaching in her high heels
from down the hall, “are you alright? Please don’t take this the wrong
way, but I was hoping I’d never see you again.”

Eyeing him from head to toe, Bunny can see no physical damage and
that brings her just a small hint of relief. Sam had been under her
explicit full-time care for two weeks after his accident until the doctor
deemed him hearty enough to continue his healing process at home
with a friend. And during that time, he’d made more than an
appropriate number of cheap passes at her, considering she’d
reminded him on several occasions of being off the market. After a
while, she began to realize that the flirting seemed to come from him
deriving enjoyment out of being obnoxious above anything else, so she
readily let it slide off her back.

But aside from that and most truthfully, she looked forward to their time
together. She would talk to him often while he was under a medically-
induced coma, sensing that he needed the mental stimulation and
benevolence. After he was conscious, she would find herself visiting
his room more than protocol required to play games of tic-tac-toe and
thumb wrestle or merely just converse. Beneath his aggressive grit,
there is an obvious layer of intelligence and wit, demonstrated by how
quickly he tore through four of her husband’s novels that she’d brought
from home to help keep him occupied. She could feel his buoyant,
wise, restless nature even through his weakened state, since a
slathering of charm as thick as Sam’s simply can’t be jaded by an
unfortunate casualty.

What she loved most about his charm was that it easily reigned in
when necessary, that it seemed to be more of a natural tendency that
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helps him test the waters of the room, rather than a sharp tool that’s
turned on and off according to selfish needs and whether or not they
were attained. No; Sam’s charm was more of a birthright. Something
that wordlessly eases those in his presence because the benign
energy is palpable, something that paints him as both colorful and
effortless. Something earned and merited. A gift that was given to him
by a higher power with confidence in order for him to obtain everything
that he deserves in life, through all of his hard work and the tumultuous
paths he’s forced to walk barefoot.

But she also fears he was gifted belligerence for all of the opposite
purposes, and that one isn’t so cute to be around.

Based on this interaction alone, Sam knows and can accept a few
things for certain: he doesn’t recall who this person is even though she
seems to know him quite well. Therefore, Tex was not bullshitting
about him being hospitalized and that means he’s actually had an
accident. So, that means he’s indeed missing four or five months of his
life and if he continues to follow Tex’s narrative, that means those four
or five months were definitely spent dropping everything in his life to
date you.

He dropped everything in his life to date you. For months.

How the fuck could he let you in that easily, knowing how painful it was
to let Indy slip through his fingers? He swore he would never, ever
allow it to happen again, neither at work or in his personal life. He
thought that he couldn’t possibly survive another death, whether it be
physical or emotional. And yet he gave everything up for you? How?

He knew better. He just knew that he would destroy you and himself,
because he destroys everything good.

He’s really starting to worry about the whole masochist thing now.

Bunny pulls him in for a hug and rubs his shoulders when she looks
into his icy, blank stare and frowns, knowing instantly the cause for his
visit but asking anyway to be professional, “what do I owe the
pleasure?”

“Um….. hi.” Sam coughs a puff of air into his fist, then scratches the
back of his neck, “my buddy said I had an accident and I’m not
remembering it. I’m disoriented a… d... I’m shittin’ bricks.”

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Bunny’s trained, cool demeanor keeps his heart from exploding out of
his chest, and also does a pretty decent job of hiding her own inner
sorrow on his behalf, “okay. So….. do you remember who I am, by
chance?” Small and confused, Sam shakes his head and the nurse tuts
in response, “it’s okay, honey. You’ll be okay. You can call me Bunny.
We’ll get you checked out. Just fill out your form so we can get you
processed—”

“I started to….. but I didn’t know the date. So, I stopped.”

Her heart sinks further, “that’s fine. Just have a seat and fill out what
you can. I’ll be right back.”

He doesn’t even begin to bother. Instead, he drops back into his seat
and reaches across the person’s lap beside him, muttering a soft
“’scuse me” as he swipes a copy of Rave Magazine from the side table.
Entertainment and music articles, words blurring across pages, a
Flying Marvels advertisement nestled into a margin, more words
blurring across pages. Sam freezes and flips back a page, zooming in
on the image of the two of you pictured side-by-side before staring at
your face, free falling into the grainy, black-and-white impression of
your eyes until the room starts to whirl in violent circles around him.
Time is sucked away in a vacuum and the moment he swears he sees
your mouth move with the words nous sommes amoureux de l’autre,
he slams it closed.

“Okay, Sam. You can follow me.”

Sam springs up and follows Bunny with her clipboard down the glossy,
stark hallways into a small examination room, scooting back onto the
starched bedsheets and answering questions with a simple yes or no
response as she checks his vitals. She leaves in him silence while he
waits for his doctor, staring at the space between the curtain and the
floor for a pair of loafers to appear. Similar to his persona during
auditions and the first couple weeks you practiced together, he doesn’t
say much. There’s simply too much uncertainty cherry and rivaling
emotions cherry moving through him to verbalize anything rational. His
head spins when he looks inside of it for too long. His stomach churns.
His heart does something unrecognizable.

When the doctor whips the curtain back several minutes later, his
circular glasses balanced on the tip of his nose and his hair swept to
the side to cover up his male-pattern baldness, his reaction to seeing
Sam is quite the same as Bunny’s and leaves Sam to wonder if all
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medical personnel have the same sense of humor, “you again, huh?
Not for nothing, but I was hoping our prior interaction would be the last.
My name is Dr. Wright.”

Sam pushes his hair from his face with his sunglasses, “killer, good
one. That’s way helpful. Cool if I light up?”

“No.” The doctor grabs Sam’s clipboard from the mounted wall file and
flips through a couple loose leaf pages before approaching him with a
pen light shining into his eyes to gauge the size of his pupils, “Bunny
tells me that you’ve had a slight memory set back. Follow the light?”

Light of love, Honeycomb. Light of love.

“Uh—” A resounding whisper you told me to keep goin’, was that too—
sneaks through all of the nooks and crannies of Sam’s brain, a jilted,
hot memory of his hand cupped alongside his mouth as he leans
forward to whisper a secret into soft cherry hair. The doctor’s light
burns his retinas and makes his stomach toss even more violently than
before, “yeah, if you call a five-month-blackout slight.”

“Your pupils are dilated.”

“Makes sense since I can’t see shit.”

Dr. Wright turns off the small flashlight and tucks it into his breast
pocket, “you can’t see anything?”

Sam unrolls the soft pack of cigarettes from his sleeve and lights one
up anyway, correctly guessing that his doctor wouldn’t bother to
condemn him aside from a weak, stony glare, “’kay, that was an
exaggeration. It stings like hell to look directly into bright lights and I
feel like a fuckin’ burn out. Am I cooked?”

Pulling up a small rolling chair, Sam’s doctor scoots close and leans his
elbows on his knees, “you’re far from broken. The resulting impact of
severe head injuries varies greatly from case to case and are, frankly,
mysterious and inexplicable. However, most seem to resolve on their
own volition over time, sometimes with a one-step-forward, two-steps-
back motion in the beginning. That’s probably not very comforting to
hear, but it’s the farthest that science has brought us thus far. You
don’t remember this, but it took you the better portion of twenty-four to
forty-eight hours to recover the majority of your memories after you
rallied from your medically-induced coma. I see that you have a

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contusion on your face. Have you suffered any additional severe

injuries or is this an unprovoked memory lapse?”

“Do aliens exist?”

“I….. don’t know.”

“Ditto. My memory’s shucked, remember?”

Doctors say a lot of needless shit, like “the brain is unpredictable” and
“trauma is mystifying”. They use words like “dissociative fugue” and
“swollen brain tissue” and “medically-induced coma” and “vivid
hallucinations” and “terribly sorry”, then throw other cases at you in an
effort to assuage your fear, but instead invalidate it. As if “sometimes
people wake up and start speaking in non-native accents” and “once a
man thought his wife was a hat” were the slightest bit encouraging.
Suddenly remembering why he avoids doctors in the first place, he has
a strong urge to flee, convinced that he’s made the wrong decision in
coming to such a hollow setting for such heavy answers.

The doctor tugs a pen from his breast pocket and scribbles notes onto
Sam’s file, “how long have you felt disoriented?”

As easily distracted as ever, Sam’s already lost interest and is glancing

towards the exit, “couple hours, ever since I woke up. Hey, M.D. You
married?”

Dr. Wright’s eyebrows tug together in curiosity as he leans back into

his chair and crosses his arms over his chest, slowly plunging the ink in
and out of his pen, “yes. Why?”

Sam exhales a thick cloud of pink before a small smile curls into one
corner of his mouth, “so, you could say your wife found Mr. Right?”

The beat of silence is crumbled by Sam’s doctor clearing his throat and
then rising from his chair, “I’m going to ask that you stay here for an
hour of monitoring.” He ignores Sam’s groan at the mention of an hour,
“I’ll send Bunny in to check on your comfort and connect you to a heart
monitor for further observation. If all is clear when the hour is up, you’ll
be discharged with further outpatient care instructions. Let’s see what a
little time can’t do. In the meantime, test your jokes out on Bunny.
She’s a better audience.”

“Tough crowd.”

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As soon as Sam’s left alone in silence again, he lies back on the itchy
sheets and holds his cigarette between his teeth, digging the heart-
shaped locket from his pocket and flipping it open to stare at your face.
He wants to know if the comfort is still there in your gaze. In your shiny
hair. Your pouty lips. Your big fucking baby deer eyes. He clears his
throat, plucking the smoke from his teeth and breathing out a curious
word along with a thick spool of cotton candy, “…..Cher… y...? Tell me
somethin’.”

Sam.

Big, innocent eyes flooded with appetite and appearing black in the dim
lighting. That fucking yellow dress bundled around your middle that he
wants to shred to pieces with his teeth.

That he did shred to pieces with his teeth.

Holding his breath and holding on tight to whatever it is that’s creeping

up from the dirt, his eyelids fall shut, carefully untangling a single
thought free from its spell. A fever reduces in the blink of an eye, his
skull cooling just enough to allow more images to slip in. Every version
of Sam wrestle with themselves.

Your neck, your shoulders, your mouth, your hair swept off to one side.

And finally, finally, whole, albeit fleeting, images accompanied with a

soundtrack of his favorite Zombies album and little plumes of feathers
bloom down his spine. And they hang on, just long enough to paint a
clear picture for a few seconds.

A tattered sign that reads Bunny Hill. The Pacific Ocean laid out below
his van. Palm trees kissing the stars. You wedged between his knees.

Little creases form at the corners of his eyes as he pinches them

closed and struggles onward; the sensation of your warm, wet tight
mouth swallowing him whole. He squeezes harder in an attempt to pull
the memory back before it leaves, like hanging onto a loved one with
one sweaty hand as they dangle from the edge of a building over a
street streaked with high beams of traffic. A pounding heart, a rush of
blood. A whimper in the darkness, a cloud of condensation on a
window. A little coquettish voice sparkles in his eardrum.

Comme ça?

15
 Sunny

“Hi, Sam!” Bunny whips the curtain back and clatters into the exam
room, “how are you feeling? Dr. Wright sounded optimistic—”

“Fuck me!” Sitting up so quickly he can see stars and explosions and
fireworks, Sam takes a sweeping glance at his crotch to check if his
semi is noticeable before clearing his throat and dropping his shades
back down to his nose, “Jesus. How’s it hangin’?”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“You’re cool. That was a close shave though. Scared the shit outta me.
I almost caught on to somethin’….. I,” He slows down, twisting the filter
of his cigarette then tossing it into the nearby sink, “I think I’m still at the
bottom of the ocean. How am I supposed to know if I’m alive or dead?”

“If you’re dead than I am, too.”

“The fuck? That’s….. not helpin’.”

“You’re alive, I’m alive. We’re alive. I promise you. Do you want me to
see if Dr. Wright can give you a few very low-dosage Quaaludes? Just
a couple days’ worth, especially if you’re planning to sleep any time
soon. It would calm your central nervous system enough so that your
mind can start to breathe, settle and organize. Help you find your
place. Can you take your shirt off for me?”

“I usually get offered a shot of rum before hearin’ that question.” The
glare that Bunny delivers is enough for him to remove his clothing
without another word, then reverting back to the suggestion of
medication, “that seems counterintuitive. Shouldn’t my brain work
through its natural cycles without bein’ subdued? What will you
prescribe to clear my head next, magic mushrooms? Who gives you
people your nursin’ licenses?”

Bunny defends herself with a perfectly cool authoritarian tone while

attaching electrodes to his bare chest, “The Board of Nursing, after
years of schooling, hard work and field hours. Don’t be rude, Sam. I’m
here to help you. Your stress and emotions are like the fur on an angry
cat’s back at the moment and you might find yourself in a position of
being triggered into even more alarm at any given moment, without any
tools to soothe your guard. You don’t know what it’s going to feel like
when your memories start coming back. You don’t have to take them,
but it could be relieving to know that you have them. It was just a
suggestion. And a good one that I stand by. It wouldn’t be enough to
put you in an unguarded state of mind, just enough to help guide you
16
 Aerial

through an exorbitant amount of stress in the short term. Which you

have. And which could increase. Actually, which will increase, once you
go back to work.”

“Fine.” The locket starts burning a hole in his palm as if it were heat-
activated by Bunny’s supposing, “hey, d’ya know who this person is?”

Soft mechanical beeping of Sam’s heartbeat begins to fill the room.

Bunny slips the locket from his fingertips and pops it open, studying the
photo in her hand before looking at him, “do you?”

“Yep, I know exactly who she is. She’s my irritating-as-fuck trapeze

partner who I woke up in bed with this morning.”

“She’s beautiful. Stunning.”

Sam remembers your face this morning when you stirred him from the
abyss of a chromatic schizophrenic dream that he’s still trying to shake;
the curve of your lips, the velvet of your skin, the muss of your hair, the
softness of your expression that displayed serenity and regard. The
sort of contentment that is only possible with intimacy — long stretches
of it — with many opportunities to refine it. The sort of contentment that
signifies severity and sprawling, lush meadows of trust. The sort of
contentment that he’s only dreamed about. Which was then followed by
the radical transformation into devastation as soon as he’d opened his
fast fucking mouth. The big watery eyes. The quivering lip that you tried
to tuck away. His fucking wifebeater, his briefs, his ghostly handprints,
love bites and dried sweat and the smell of sex all over you. All over
the both of you.

Yes. Hauntingly, dreadfully beautiful. Painfully stunning.

But Sam doesn’t respond, because sometimes when things feel good,
actually feel good, he doesn’t trust them enough to regard them as
true. And sometimes when things feel good, actually feel good, he can’t
even feel them. Because he’s a murderer and shouldn’t be allowed to
have them.

“And yes, I do know who she is. Vivienne Surefire.”

Vivienne fucking Surefire.

The fact that Bunny can recall your first and last name without
hesitation forces Sam to pause, his eyebrows perking up and his lips
puckering in curiosity. Has your level of fame risen during these last

17
 Sunny

few months? As a partnership, as individuals? What lengths did you

travel to achieve that? How big has everything grown around him, how
many weeds does he have to chop down before he can start to see
any rays of light?

Did you really brain him in his van?

How can he tell the difference between memory and fantasy?

Medically-induced coma dreams? Nightmares? Psychedelic-induced
flashbacks?

In an innate spurt of denial, you had told Bunny that you weren’t Sam’s
girlfriend but she could see something more there. Worry, upset, grief,
guilt. A type of distress that goes beyond that of a casual coworker,
regardless of how much you tried to deny it.

“Your friend, I can’t remember his name, mentioned that she may have
been a stressor for you and advised her not to spend too much time
with you until you were healed. Although she did visit twice against his
warnings, once while you were in a coma and then again with a bag of
gum, green apples and peanut butter which she left by your bedside
while you slept. She told me not to tell you who it was from, but I
figured she would’ve fessed up to it by now. Can you remember eating
that, honey? I think you ate the entire bag in two days.”

Honey.

Honeysuckle. She’ll be home by midnight, mum. Ready, Honeyfox? I’ll

buy you ice cream, Honeycomb. Five minutes, Honeybunny. You’re
fresh, Honeyfuck. Hun.

“Uh—” Sam collects the necklace from Bunny and then lays back on
the stiff bed, placing the locket on his bare chest and trying to dispute
his breathing against the accelerated pace of his heart monitor, “can I
have a minute—”

“Are you okay? Dizzy? I can get you a cool compress.”

He’s having trouble hearing anything that she’s saying now, but he
gently ushers her from the room with a rickety piece of driftwood.
Blanched and frail, “” kay, yeah. Thanks. “

When something heavy and unstoppable starts to roll down a long,

winding hill towards a cliff which careens into the ocean below, it’s
bound to crush everything in its way. Grass, plants, insects, fences,

18
 Aerial

trees, hills, mountains; carving a permanent destructive path in the

landscape before it heaves itself from the precipice and spirals in
curious space for a handful of breathtaking seconds. Then it drops.
Hard, dense, fast. Inarguably. And as if absorbed from the walls of this
hospital room, a sober voice permeates both of Sam’s ears at once.

I’d give anything for another chance.

The words echo back and forth violently like a rabid ping pong ball,
hollow, high pitched and aimless, no intent on settling. Sam sits up so
quickly that an electrode pops off of his chest, the heart monitor
practically squealing in alarm. But he can’t hear it over the ringing crack
of thunder, the tenderness, the repercussions. Had he said that, or had
you?

In a different universe, I could see myself falling for you and I think
that’s why your unfounded distaste for me hurt so much.

Hazy yellow light from a refrigerator sweeps over him at dawn, the
sweet tang of orange juice cools the back of his throat. Your entrance
is announced by soft cherry tip toes on linoleum, your body closes in
on him before a creamy kiss is sponged to his shoulder, your palms
smooth up his bare stomach. Melting him into daylight then. Melting
him into daylight now.

Have me. Fais moi l’amour, s’il te plait. You cannot call a child a bitch.
Who are you, Henry VIII? I’m terrified of being ordinary. You’re so
much. The Panthermobile? Sam, please go wait on my porch.

Memories begin to overlap from various times and places; impressions

of sensations, figments of color, whiplash emotions. A car window
breaks open from the force of his skateboard, Sam pops his head in
through your bedroom window for a kiss at midnight, his palm presses
to his car window in passion as you swallow him whole, you stand in
front of your window in your underwear at sunrise regarding him
regarding him regarding him.

This will pass. It will come back again, and it will pass again. Each tide
will be weaker and weaker once you’ve wrapped your head around the
rhythm of the waves. You can do this; you have been doing this. And
you are not alone.

It’s all there, you’re all there, somewhere, but it’s all too tangled to see
and he needs to leave this room and this hospital right fucking now for

19
 Sunny

some clarity. He needs more. He needs you. He needs wind. He needs

sun. He needs his god, the ocean.

Had he said that, or had you?

What alerts you alters you. When understanding occurs, you’re left with
nothing but facts.

“M.D. Wright!” Sam rips the electrodes from his chest and scrambles
from the bed, poking his head out between the curtains in search of his
doctor or his nurse or anyone, “Bunny? Where the fuck— hello?”

Maybe he’s made a terrible mistake, maybe his impulsive nature and
propensity towards reacting first and conceptualizing later has finally
bitten him in the ass. Maybe he’d gotten something he’d wanted
l’amour but was always too terrified to ask for and as soon as he got it,
he fucking demolished it. Sam’s wild thoughts breed impatience and he
scrambles back into his room to buzz repeatedly for attention, not
pausing for a breath until Bunny reappears with a damp washcloth and
a frown, “Sam, you’re not supposed to—”

Sam is suddenly ravaged with impatience, “I feel mint. I just

remembered I have a….. thing. A thing? To do, so. Am I cool to
cutout?”

“No. You’re not. I want you to lie back down on that bed and wait a full
hour like Dr. Wright suggested.”

Sam grabs onto both of her shoulders and exhales slowly in order to
unravel his thoughts as briefly, sanely and significantly as possible,
“Bunny, listen to me. I feel okay. There’s someone I need to see who
can help me. Right now. Now. Right fuckin’ now.” He licks his dry lips,
“Bunny. Bunny? Please. Bunny. Please.”

Regardless of whether or not Sam’s fingers were digging flames into

Bunny’s shoulders, she’s well aware that the timing and intensity of his
reaction isn’t one to be tampered with. Besides, he brought himself
here on his own accord under mostly healthy conditions, so technically
he can dismiss himself in the same manner. And she’s never been the
one to stand in the way of passion, “has something popped up?”

“Oh, yeah. Big time.”

“I’ll be right back.”

20
 Aerial

Amidst his pacing from one side of the room to the other, both Dr.
Wright and Bunny return, one with an expression of concern and the
latter with googly heart eyes and an awareness of Sam’s process.
She’s in love with a hopeless romantic herself, after all. She gets it.

“Mr. White, I really think—”

“C’mon. Just gimme clearance to perform tomorrow and I’ll be outta

your hair.”

Dr. Wright and Bunny exchange glances before he clears his throat
and perches a hip on the table, “slow down a minute, son.” Sam pulls
his wifebeater and shirt on, checking his pockets to make sure he still
has all of your reminders, unconcerned and unhearing of his doctor’s
instruction, “your health is more important. Can’t you cancel or
reschedule it?”

Sam mulls it over and logically knows that it would have to be canceled
if his doctor demands it, but it would also be a huge disappointment to
thousands of people, including himself. His last circus career ended
abruptly due to an accident and Sam decides he would feel stagnant
and defeated if he allowed something like that to happen again. Due to
another accident. Of his own making. Again.

I’m not gonna fuckin’ drop you.

Also, he needs to have a reason to see you. He can’t understand the

full, heavy weight of it just yet, and even though it leaves a fruity cherry
metallic taste in the back of his throat, he just knows that he needs to
see you. Hasty as ever, Sam makes his decision without much
rumination, “nah, that’s impossible. It’s the season finale. There’s too
much ridin‘ on it. I can rest after tomorrow.”

“You haven’t had another injury, correct? This is exclusively a memory

slip?”

Sam mulls it over for approximately ten seconds; he woke up in bed

naked with you this morning. Surely you wouldn’t have slept with him if
he’d just suffered a serious injury. And surely you would have warned
him this morning if he’d just suffered a serious injury. Sure, he didn’t
quite give you the opportunity to explain much of anything and sure, he
has a gnarly black eye. But he’s has plenty of those in his life and
nothing on his body particularly hurts, so he opts for likeliness, “no
injury, just the slip.”

21
 Sunny

“Alright. I would advise against it, but I can’t impose my will on you. Do
you feel like you can manage it? You can recall the routine and have
been actively performing as of recently?”

“Yep. I think so, yep.”

“You think so or you know so?”

The routine that you’ve driven into the ground together flickers through
his imagination in order; the plucking of guitar strings in the first
measure of “California Dreamin’”, your solo routine on the rope, his
solo routine on the trapeze, your flying stunts, your paired static routine
on the trapeze bar in the center of the ring, your final bow, a
thunderstorm of praise. Unless anything drastic has changed in the last
four or five months, aside from the obvious, the muscle memory of the
routine all seems to be in place. And if it’s not, he could figure it out and
perfect it in an hour flat. But you’re the only person who could verify
that for him. He has no idea what to expect of your interaction, but
you’re the only person who could verify anything for him, so he just has
to fucking see you right now, “I’m fuckin’ positive.”

Can’t help it, it’s in my blood and my muscles. Kinda like you. My
regimen.

“Well….. break a leg, Mr. White.”

Merde.

“’Kay, killer. Thanks, M.D.”

“Bunny, get him discharged while I get Mr. White a prescription for
Methaqualone and some follow-up instructions. Sam?”

Sam’s attention flittered off as soon as his permission was granted, but
he does manage to pause long enough to cover his eyes with
sunglasses and light a new smoke, his body halfway through the
curtain as he pursues escape, “what’s up?”

“Take care of yourself and those around you with as much

responsibility as you can manage.”

“Naturally.”

Bunny’s graveyard shift must be coming to an end because on Sam’s

escort towards the exit, arms full of Quaaludes and handwritten care
instructions that he’ll never read, he catches a glimpse of Bunny’s
22
 Aerial

husband there to pick her up. Sporting long wavy hippie hair and flared
corduroy trousers and a soft demeanor, leaning on the front desk to
talk to the same nurse who was an asshole to him, making her light up
with a type of joy that was lost on Sam. He has the inexplicable desire
to kiss him and stick his tongue his mouth, then squish him like a bug
under his shoe and flush him down the toilet or something. But he
doesn’t have time to think about that right now, with memories flooding
his brain with disorderly debris like the wreckage of a tsunami.

Sam scrambles through the automatic sliding doors. A green Ford

bronco idles by the sidewalk. His eyes start to burn as tears push
through. Sunlight soothes him. A flood of memories starts pouring in
clips and fractions as if squeezed through a pinhole and blown into a
tangled empty lake, filling and rolling and swimming and curling around
seaweed and muck and dead branches.

His clammy palms clinging to a pink fiberglass table, leaving little

breaths of fingerprints beside discarded paper straw wrappers, his
bottom lip catching yours in an uncharacteristic, timid kiss.

His curls are sticking to his salty, wet cheeks.

His eyes lower to the slow slip of flimsy fabric, two soaking wet
embroidered cherries, a flash of light bursting to life in his peripheral
vision.

He fumbles for his car keys in his pocket. They slip from his hand and
splay open like a dead starfish on the hot pavement.

He inches closer to you through the grass and rests his head in your
lap, your fingers slipping into his hair before you scratch his scalp,
dragging a comet tail of goosebumps down his back.

Swiping the keys from the cement, he piles into his car, tosses all of his
hospital vittles into the back and fishes around for the ignition.

His cheek nuzzling into your open palm, just before you squeeze his
cheeks and puff his lips out, leaving a kiss and a grin painted on his
lips.

He needs to see you. He needs answers. He needs this painful hole to

seal up and stop releasing air. Or maybe the painful hole needs to be
torn wide open so that all the air can spill out. He needs to see you. He
needs answers.

23
 Sunny

His biceps burn as he swings you up onto the trapeze bar before
joining you for a final hair-raising shower of applause from the
audience. A blistering snowy spotlight that bleaches the audience to
black, disappearing with you behind the backstage curtains. Checking
the scene for clearance before pinning you to the wall for a sweaty,
stolen kiss.

The locket glows to life in his pocket, a faint red electric light peering
through the fabric of his trousers pocket. He tugs the necklace free and
slips it over his head, tucks the locket into his undershirt, roars the van
to life and starts to drive to your house, but stops.

Where in the fuck do you live?

But then more dominoes fall.

The locket; your headshot. The headshot; your resume. Your resume;
your address. Your address; the theatre. With a flick of his wrist he
whips the sun visor down, peeling from the parking spot with the heel
of his hand on the wheel and his free thumb between his teeth,
chewing on a new hangnail. This is a wild goose chase at best, but
Sam has always loved puzzles, loved a challenge, loved a secret,
loved a chase.

He’s nothing without constant deliberation. He contemplates; therefore,

he is. He loves; therefore, he persists.

“I wish I could forget, too.”

Nettie lies beside you on the shag carpet in the living room, hovering a
Margo Guryan record sleeve over her face as she studies the art on
the front and back. She hasn’t left your side since she’s come home,
pulling you out of dark spaces when reality washes over you and also
allowing you to sink, helping you fold laundry and doing her damndest
to just keep you afloat. Admittedly, it has felt like the longest handful of
hours of her life, so she can only imagine how you’re feeling.

For some reason you can’t shake the contrast between the feeling of
Sam’s bed sheets while you were falling asleep versus how they felt
when you awoke this morning. Once a silken dream of gossamer
threads and tangible sunshine turned into starched paper-thin hell,
scratchy and reeking of dejection and failure. Every so often his angry

24
 Aerial

eyes glow to life; the tug of his eyebrows and the tight pull of his mouth.
Your blood runs cold. The fire has gone out and now it’s dark.

You’d reluctantly forfeited the one thing you’ve fought for your entire
life, the one thing you feel the need to hold on to, the one thing that
acted as your tool for anxiety stress consistency routine drive success
love passion: control. You forfeited it to Sam and he turned around and
ran off with it. Losing someone slowly, painstakingly, harrowingly
versus losing someone in the blink of an eye may seem like an easier
condition to cope with. Maybe yes and maybe no; the sensation of
residual pain is the same, but the only difference is the questions
you’re left with after they’re gone.

You’re both ghosts now, both to one another and to yourselves.

Whether or not true death is involved, mourning will do that to a
person.

And what do you do when you want the hunger pangs to stop, but you
don’t have the energy to feed yourself?

“No, you don’t. It might feel like that right now but trust me, Sam is
suffering a major loss right now. Think of all the amazing and wild
things the two of you have done together. How could you want to erase
all of that?”

Your legs are hugged to your chest, your cheek resting on your knees.
A pile of socks that still need to be paired lay in a pile between you and
your best friend, “it’s different now. Those things don’t feel amazing or
happy anymore, because now they’re tied to a person who doesn’t
want their reality to be real.”

You’d thought the tide had recessed. You’d thought there were
gemstones there. A rainbow of them, shiny and smooth. But you were
wrong. It’s phantoms. Nothing but phantoms. Lots of them, surrounded
by shards of broken jagged sea glass. They’re cutting into your feet as
you attempt to navigate your way back to an abandoned paradise.
There’s blood. Carnage. Everywhere. All you can do is stare,
wondering how gemstones can turn to coal without even blinking.

“Maybe not now, but what if his memory recovers—”

“No, Nettie, we’re done. Everything about us, even if his memory
recovers. It was nearly impossible to crumble those walls we’d both
had up the first time. I can’t climb that mountain again. I can’t do this
back-and-forth blind trust fall; it feels like a pop quiz I’m not prepared
25
 Sunny

for and it’s scary. And who knows if he’ll ever come back? This is his
brain trying to protect itself from me, again, because something inside
of him knows better and has known all along.”

Like a sealed envelope that someone tried to carefully weasel open

and reseal in an effort to hide their sneaking around for stolen
information. The end result isn’t fooling anyone. And it’ll never be the
same.

“Yeah, I totally get it. It’s impossible to conclusively know based on

current events what’s going to hurt or what’s going to feel great in the
future. But also, nothing says things have to be a certain way. Please
don’t decide this yet. It feels pessimistic.”

“I’ve decided. It’s not pessimistic, it’s realistic. It can happen any time,
any place, again and again. It scares the crap out of me. I can’t keep
going through this same cycle or live with the fear that he might erase
me at any given moment. And our jobs? Our jobs can’t withstand that
seesawing either. This is a sign. It has to stop.”

Black-and-white. Harsh lines. Self-protection and preservation. It was

hard enough to watch your dignity squish between your toes as you ran
barefoot from his van like an escaped attempted-murder victim, your
blood drying in his briefs and phantom tears streaking your face,
tangled hair from where his hands ran through it all night, the fog of
your dream mixing with crumbs of the evening prior mixing with the
twist of his betrayed features. As if you’d planned every second of this
to intentionally hurt him, instead of the other way around.

And now, you’re suddenly and overwhelmingly worried for his current
well-being. Sam with half a brain, wandering around Malibu for
answers. Sam with half a heart, wandering this lifetime with no oxygen.
You’re starting to imagine him crashing his van or getting drunk or
going as far as sleeping with a burner just to smother your scent.
Sunny wouldn’t dare do something like that, but with Sam, it’s hard to
know exactly how much he’ll test the limits of his self-destruction.

But then again, they’re the same person.

Rising to your feet with a groan of exasperation, you raise the volume
of the music with a flick of the dial, before pacing into the kitchen for a
new lollipop, “I hope he’s okay, Nettie. It’s a big world to be lost and
scared in. I wish he would’ve let me try harder this morning. He could
not have gotten me out of his van any faster.” You pop the lollipop

26
 Aerial

between your teeth and lean against the wall with your arms crossed
over your chest, “is it technically cheating on me if he sleeps with a
burner and he doesn’t remember that he has a girlfriend?”

Nettie glances at you upside down, “baby….. I don’t want you to think
about that. This recuperation is on him. You can’t control his actions.
And apparently, neither can he. He’s managed himself in the past, he’ll
be okay.”

“He hasn’t always. He’s suffered, a lot, in the past. Oh god…..” You
drop your face into your palms and then rejoin Nettie on the ground,
remembering what had happened the last time the two of you got into a
big fight and he decided to blow off steam by surfing, “now I’m scared.
Where is he?” Nettie’s hand squeezing your shoulder in a couple
soothing pulses is enough for you to flip the direction of your thinking,
“can you tell me some Honey Princess Hour tidbits?”

“What? I don’t think that would be helpful—”

“Please. Tell me something devastating. I want to hear it all now so that

this doesn’t drag on for months and months, like a wound that keeps
reopening before it can scab. Kind of like ripping the bandage off. I
want to air out all the pain now so I can spend my time processing it
and then promptly forget it.”

“Fine. He wants your babies, Vivienne. Don’t give up on him yet. And
don’t act like this is something you’ll forget.”

Sam’s eyebrows raise slowly before he cups his hand along the side of
his mouth, leaning forward and dropping an earth-shaking, whispered
bomb directly into your ear.

“Make love to you on the beach. Knock you up, Cherry baby. Keep you
forever.”

Your cheeks pool with red fire in the aftermath of his detonation.

“More?”

The lollipop in your mouth is just small and soft enough now for you to
bite into it, the hardened sugar molding to the crevices of your teeth
and artificial cherry diluting from the flavor of the paper stick, “I already
knew that, Nettie. But I don’t want his or anyone else’s for my own
personal reasons. Especially not now. He’s gone. And if by some

27
 Sunny

sacred miracle he’s not completely gone….. I don’t know how or if I can
ever trust him again. I can’t help but view him differently now.”

Nettie climbs to her knees to position her at eye level with you, silently
conveying the depth of her next statement with merely body language.
Although her speech does slow down a bit from its typical ringing,
clipped dryness. She allows her next statement to drip like hot honey, “I
hear you. I really do. And you’re saying nothing but facts. But
remember there was a part of Sam that died when Indy did. The part of
him that was always happy and loved love, that trusted others and
wanted their connection. He changed after that, any of us would, but
his mind wouldn’t let him forget that it ever existed. His surfing accident
allowed it to leak back out because he felt unguarded and safe, running
a trial of forgiveness and chasing a pursuit of happiness again. A way
to move forward because he was so stagnant and heavy carrying all of
that baggage around. Let him pick up the pieces before you punt him
from your life forever. He’s a good one. He really is.”

Both you and Nettie hear the pounding of footsteps up the stairwell that
leads to your apartment at the same time. Nettie is on her feet one
whole second before you are, her jaw hanging slack as she flounders
and tries to do damage control on a situation that hasn’t even begun
yet, “Vivienne, don’t—”

It’s hard to tell which sound comes first, the pounding of a fist against
your door or the raspy, frantic shout that lies somewhere between
molten lava and peppermint ice cream, “j’ai foiré! Cerise!”

Your love language and your nickname and your love language and
your nickname — what the fuck is happening?

You’re whispering. You’re whispering but it’s originating from

somewhere uncharted and strange inside your guts, “Nettie, Nettie—”
Hot tears carve bloody cuts down your cheeks and you’re just
cognizant enough to feel your hands trembling, “no, no, no. I can’t talk
to him yet. I can’t see his face. I’m not ready to hear anything he has to
say. Does he remember? I don’t know what to say to him, I’m too
confused. Please—”

“I got it.”

And from the other side of your door, “-please talk to me. Please,
please, please talk to me. I’m wiggin’ the fuck out. Cherry—”

28
 Aerial

You know that Sam allowing himself to be seen during such a big
emotional moment is hard for him. Or maybe this emotional moment is
just so big that he has no control over whether or not he’s seen. And
you know how much he hates that, too.

Your surroundings are blurred by tears, by anxiety, by heartbreak. You

hear yourself ask, “what if he doesn’t remember you? What are you
going to say?”

And from the other side of the door, “-just lemme see your face for two
seconds—”

“I got it. Don’t worry. You don’t have to face him and you shouldn’t yet.
You’re just going to bite each other’s heads off. He’s not calm. He
hasn’t been calm since he woke up this morning and you haven’t had
enough time to shoulder this. He won’t be able to hear anything right
now because his need to be heard is too strong. He needs neutrality.
Let me talk to him.”

Nettie steps towards the door but you drag her back, trying to hear
yourself think over Sam’s tearful and desperate pleading barely muffled
by the feeble barrier of your apartment, “wait. Can you ask him if he
remembers our performance routine?” Her facial expression twists in
shock and bewilderment, “don’t look at me like that. Any little thing that
could smooth even a single shred of anxiety right now, Nettie. Please. I
need a hint of how tomorrow is going to go. It’s extremely important to
me.”

And from the other side of your door, “-it hurts so fuckin’ bad—”

“Go pour yourself a massive glass of wine and take a bath. Or just
drink straight out of the bottle, whatever.” Nettie cups your cheeks and
pulls your sight away from his palm meeting the door, hard, with two
loud smacks, “listen! You take care of your own thoughts and your own
body right now. Don’t psych yourself out on what he’s doing, it’s okay
to want to get your head as straight as possible before you interact.
He’ll wait. It’s inappropriate timing for him to be here, you’re both too
raw. You’re not ready and he’s just going to have to be okay with that.
I’ll be right back. Try not to worry, okay? Just be glad he’s alive and
picking up some memories. Things will be better tomorrow. Bath, now.”
She dashes into the kitchen and pulls a bottle of rosé from the fridge
before guiding you into the bathroom, “I’ll be back in an hour.”

29
 Sunny

Nettie waits. Through the tap of the Kit Cat clock and through Sam’s
miserable sobs and through the muffled whoosh of water filling the
bathtub behind the door, she waits. This isn’t exactly what she
predicted may have happened by agreeing to be your roommate, but
she supposes that you never anticipated this outcome for your life in
Malibu either. One notion that she can safely agree upon is that when
someone gets involved with Sam, they’ll never have a dull day to cross
off on their calendar.

And from the other side of the door, weaker now, “-if you have any
feelings for me anymore, or not, please, just—

When she is fairly certain that you’ll keep to the bathroom, Nettie goes
on a quick little hunt through the apartment. She gathers some of your
personal items; Nina Simone and Françoise Hardy records, a fistful of
cherry lollipops, one of your half-burned candles, Sam’s love note on
the kitchen counter that you couldn’t bring yourself to clean up. A hair
ribbon. Several tissues. Trying to hit all five of his senses in order to jog
the process of recovery.

She piles it all into the box of his things that you’ve left in the entryway
and with one big calming breath, she runs her fingers through her hair
and pops the door open, just a crack, “Sam, baby, I need you to take a
big ol’ breath and two small steps backwards.”

Upon hearing her calming voice, the color yellow as it pushes through
clouds and strikes the ears, Sam manages one step back but forgets to
breathe. If she were a flavor of Crush cigarettes, she would be
pineapple. Sam’s second favorite. The kind that he gets when the shop
runs out of cotton candy.

He studies her face for a moment and then looks down at the splotches
of yellow nail polish on his fingers before locking eyes through the
space in the door, “Wynette. Hi.”

Nettie pities him. Nettie pities him more than she’s ever pitied another
person, including you. And the sight of him before her; undershirt
partially untucked and hair a tangled ball of yarn, face wet with tears
and a shiner turning green under his eye, bloody hangnails and
trembling hands, a heartbreak so strong she can smell it, it all forces
her to step into the hallway and wrap him up in a warm, tremendous
hug.

30
 Aerial

Sam’s body sags and melts, his grip on her almost enough to squeeze
every pinch of air from her lungs and his lips stick to her hair when he
bursts out a wretched sob, “everything’s so loud.”

“Yes, you’re definitely loud. Both of you. And on a Sunday? What

would Jesus think?”

It’s clearly sarcastic, the tight-lipped hum of peeved amusement that

warms her hair next.

Pulling away, Nettie gathers his box of belongings and closes the door
behind her, “come on, let’s go for a little walk.”

Sam stares blankly at the box in her hands, instantly recognizing his
clothing and his records and his books, his half-empty packs of
cigarettes. He doesn’t exactly see anything, but rather stews over
everything. Contemplates it. All the while, hot memories from your time
together continue to worm through all of the dead parts of his brain.

The view of you through your curtain in a little cardigan and pleated
emerald skirt while his van idles outside of your duplex, smoking a
cigarette in the moonlight, waiting for you to come down but you never
do.

He silently curses your self-imposed emotional suffocation, the

necessary flip of a black-and-white switch in order to protect your heart.
The heart that you’d tried to fiercely protect since the very beginning,
long before he started pursuing you. The one he promised he would
take care of and preserve in a fancy jar of sweet pink solution corked
up on a high shelf, the one he begged you to hand over until you
reluctantly did, but that all ended up being an unfortunate deception.
But he supposes he can’t blame you, considering he’s done exactly the
same.

Dancing, dancing at Chubby’s, his nose tucked into the open placket of
your blouse. Dancing in your living room while he watches your
shadow through the curtains, spray painting the window with streaks of
sappy pink romance.

He hadn’t thought to return your items that he found in his van; he

assumed that he would earn your favor again with his heartfelt
heartbreaking declarations spoken through heart-shaped lips, that you
would still be there for him regardless of if he’d unintentionally or
maybe a little intentionally hurt you with his words, that you would waltz
right back into his life and accept his faux pas for what it was, a faux
31
 Sunny

pas. Even if it was a rather violent, abrupt and scary one. But trust isn’t
something easily gained, so once it has been disturbed, it’s messy and
dangerous to dance with. Especially when it comes to you.

Shooting pool, his cheek meeting yours as you both hover over the red
felt pool table. Chasing you in the sand, tackling you as you trip and fall
into the soft, burning dry ground.

Sam doesn’t remember every single thing from your romance yet, not
even close, but the main points have resurfaced as far as he can tell.
He knows you dated for months. He knows you had sex. He knows you
speak a bit of French. He knows who Nettie is and he remembers your
duplex and he knows you spent a lot of time dancing together just past
the threshold of this door that no longer welcomes him. He’s certain the
rest would return with time and patience and a little love if only you
were present enough to provide him with that time and patience and
love.

Kissing you with his hand wrapped around your throat, shower water
beating down, wet hair clinging to his cheeks and your neck as the pink
tile chills your back.

Kissing you in bed after slipping a sleep mask away from your eyes,
your sleepy smiles egging the other on as his hand disappears under
the sheets.

Kissing you after checking that the coast is clear, hiding you around a
backstage corner and ignoring the small sting in his shoulder from your
playful smack.

Kissing you on the back of a red vinyl couch, record spinning in the
corner of the room beneath a hanging swag lamp, empty wine glasses
rest with wet rings woven on the coffee table in his peripheral vision.

Kissing you in the front seat of his van, your legs straddling his lap as
the electric lighter on the dash pops to signal its readiness.

With a tuck of his cigarette between his teeth and a flippant flick
through his belongings, Sam pulls the box from Nettie’s hands and
drops it to the ground, “I don’t want this shit. I don’t need it. I need her!”
And just like that, he’s the flipside of calm again and squeezing past
Nettie to jiggle the door handle and pound his fist again, “Vivienne! Ne
fais pas ça!”

32
 Aerial

Nettie rushes behind him and pulls on his shirt, finally gaining enough
traction to grip him by the shoulders and tug him away from your
apartment. She presses her palms to his chest, trying to see into his
eyes and absorb any pain that he’s oozing, “Sam, Sam, Sam, shh…..
please try to take a breath. I know this is awful, but we still need to try
to be rational.”

“No, no, no, I remember. Nettie, I remember. Maybe not every little
fuckin’ speck because I— I don’t know how to….. know. How does
anyone know? I lost her for a sec, that’s it. Trust me. I have to talk to
her. Please, please, please fuckin’ god, please let me in there.”
Paranoid that you’ll overhear him and be tempted to relieve him of his
suffering, Nettie grabs his hand and tries to pull him towards the stairs
while he unspools a thread of lament, “I can’t breathe! Please tell me
this isn’t happenin’. Please. Why did this happen to us? I’m gonna lose
my fuckin’ mind. She’s never gonna trust me again.”

Especially not when you lose your job in twenty-four hours for reasons
that have not yet become clear to him, but the obvious answer is
you’ve been caught in your tryst and since Sam’s position is held in
higher regard than yours, it makes unjust but common sense that you’d
be the one who’s punished. He has no idea if Tex was talking out of his
ass or not, but he’s got this hollow pit between his heart and his
stomach that refuses to relent. The truth, perhaps. Buried deep.

“It appears you’ve already lost it, Sam.” Nettie reaches into the box and
pulls out just a few items, shoving them into her pockets and holding
the records to her chest, “you can’t go in there right now for several
reasons. You’re both traumatized. You hate dealing with important shit
in the moment, remember? Your words. I think it would be a bad idea
to try and work things out as a couple when you’re both still working
things out internally and individually, especially for you. This just
happened. This is still fresh and it’s still confused. Let your brain
smolder and then smooth out a little bit. Be gentle with it; it’s on fire and
needs to cool down. You’re going to end up fighting and making each
other cry. You can’t expect the person you’ve hurt to help you with
recovery. You’ve got to do that on your own first. It’ll be like Pangea
exploding….. or the opposite? Whatever. Smother your impulsivity for
as long as you can possibly manage. You will see her again soon,
okay?” She takes his hand and weaves their fingers together, “c’mon,
let’s go to the beach.”

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 Sunny

Sam whips his hand from her grip, “no! Why are you helpin’ me
anyway? Shouldn’t you stay with Vivienne?”

“She’ll understand. She’ll be okay on her own for a little while. She’s
taking a bath anyway, it’s okay. Come on.”

“Does she even like baths?”

“You see, that’s something Sunny would know. Let’s go try and get him
back a little bit first.” Nettie hooks her arm through his and tugs gently,
“come on.”

The word “Cherry” makes it down the hallway in a gravelly shout, but
the little whimper that Sam emits doesn’t quite reach your ears.

Much like a Great Dane puppy, Sam’s feet slap on each step as he
reluctantly shadows Nettie outside, from the stairwell of rejection to the
salty air and the palm trees and the too-bright sunshine, “well, does
she?”

“No, not really. She gets sweaty and restless. But don’t worry, I gave
her a bottle of rosé.”

Struggling with the force of the wind, Sam pulls the cigarette from his
mouth before he has a chance to properly light it, “what? What if she
gets drunk and falls asleep and drowns—”

“Sam, have you ever seen her drink too much or be out of control in
any way?”

I wish I could lose control.

His face falls into his palms to muffle his frustrated shout. When he
looks back up at Nettie, her eyes are wide enough to absorb the solar
system, “that happens sometimes. And I dunno, I’ve never seen her
drink a bottle of wine in a bathtub while heartbroken before. I don’t
think. Have you? ’Cause of me?”

“Nice try.” Nettie removes her sandals and sinks her toes into the sand
as soon as they arrive on the beach. But Sam’s comfort near his god is
a little more natural, judging by the way he pulls his shirts off and
ditches them in a pile with his shoes, taking off in a jog and then
crumbling near the water. Splayed out in the sand, sand sticking to his
sweat. To his hair. His grief. After half a minute, Nettie joins him but in
a much smoother manner, “phew. We were about to make missing

34
 Aerial

posters with your face on them. ’Have you seen the Sun?’ That kinda
thing. Do you remember that she calls you that?”

Watch out, Sunshine. Totally saturated in stunning, bright pink

Sunshine. I’m sorry, Sunny. Keep going. I’ll behave. Not here, Sunny.
Please. You’re so sweet to me, Sunbaby.

The sun frosts his skin with layers of lemon and meringue, his god laps
at the shore, “mmm….. mhm, yeah. I do now. Sunbaby.” The memory
pulls a smile onto his cheeks, “can you tell me somethin’ else? Feels
good. Like the clouds are breakin’ up.”

Carefully placing the records down, Nina Simone’s face greeting the
sun, Nettie drags her fingers through Sam’s hair and watches his pink
smoke form broken hearts in the air, “there was one night when I was
supposed to be staying at my boyfriend Asher’s place, but I wasn’t
feeling well so I decided to sleep at home instead. I came in around
midnight, it was a Saturday, and you and Bibi were slow dancing in the
kitchen. Like, a proper mom-and-pop slow dance. You dipped her and
everything. I stood in the doorway watching in awe for a minute before I
even announced my entrance because it felt too perfect to interrupt. I
think you were listening to ’Goin’ Out of My Head’. She was so happy
that her cheeks were glowing pink. You were singing the back-up
vocals in the chorus. I almost turned around and left because it
seemed like I was interrupting a delicate process of nature. Romance
like that is rare, ya know.”

Sam faces the sky with tears streaming off the sides of his cheeks to
his ears, “it was ’Goin’ Out of My Head’ first, then I put on ’Problems’ by
Lee Fields. I remember because we had to speed up our tempo. That’s
when I dipped her. And spun her ’round. Then your big fuckin’ mouth
popped our love bubble.” He rolls onto his side and props his wet
cheek on her knee, his legs curling around hers, “what did you say
again?”

“I said it was past your bedtime.”

“Dork. Can I see her now?”

“I think you should wait.”

“Be honest, yeah? You don’t want me to see her because she’s done
with me?” Nettie doesn’t answer and his heart stutters within the tense
pause, “I just tap danced all over her biggest fuckin’ fear. I don’t blame
her. Can I just see her face?”
35
 Sunny

“You’ll see it tomorrow. Utilize this,” she tugs on the chain around his
neck, “for now.”

“At work? Fuck that! It’s gonna be a disaster. We need to talk right
now.”

“Oh, yeah….. are you going to be able to perform tomorrow?”

Sam frowns in accusation, knowing damn well where this question is

coming from. Both based on the shift in her tone and also because he
knows how you operate very, very well, “did she tell you to ask me
that?”

“Um…..”

“Is that the only thing she told you to say to me? That and to shove a
box full of shit at my chest that means nothing to me?” Their eyes
dance together for a moment of silence before he digs his fingers into
his scalp and growls, “sounds just like her. Fuck, she drives me up the
fuckin’ wall. I won’t give her the satisfaction of an answer. She can be
sick to her stomach all night just like I’ll be.”

“Sam! Did you think she wasn’t going to feel like that regardless?
You’re both childish when you’re hurt. Do you know the fucking routine
or not?”

“Of course! Fuck. If I remember what her peach tastes like, I remember
how to spin in a fuckin’ circle. Besides, M.D. Wright gave me
clearance.”

“You saw your doctor?” He nods and she pouts her bottom lip,
returning his nod in a gesture of surprised approval, “I’m impressed.”
Nettie reaches into her pocket and pulls out the love note that Sam left
for you just a day ago, a day that feels so long ago that everyone
involved could swear that it’s been an entire lifetime. She unfolds it and
hovers it over his face, “does this ring a bell?”

Squinting at it, Sam reads the greeting first before sitting up and
swiping it from her hands, his sandy curls falling in his face as reads
and mouths the words at the same time, “when’s this from?”

“Yesterday morning.”

“Jesus. ’Tu ne quittes jamais mon esprit.’ Say what? Is that a sick joke?
Fuckin’ definition of irony. I’m a walkin’ parody of my goofy-ass self.”

36
 Aerial

“I don’t know what that means.”

His attention is still drawn to the crinkled paper held tightly in his hands,
“she was a virgin last time I checked, y’know. Do you know how long
we’ve been rubbin’ bellies?” Nettie merely gives him a sad glance, little
reflections of light in her soggy eyes and her silence is the only answer
Sam needs. The silence fills in the gaps. The silence picks at that hole
in his chest where everything is leaking from until his nose burns and
his eyes burn and hot streaks of salt water pour down his splotchy
cheeks, “no. Fuck no. Oh my god. That was-?” Nettie threads their
fingers together and squeezes his hand tight, his head knocking back
as he cries with fearless sympathy. For you, for him. For you, “what the
fuck have I done?”

“Nothing, Sam. It wasn’t a flippant decision. You’ve done nothing wrong

by expressing your love. It’s just awful, horrible, bad timing. For the
both of you. Do you want advice or do you just want to me to just
listen?”

“Advice. Direct instructions. Please. For fuckin’ fuck’s sake.”

“Go home and write it all down.”

Carefully folding the note up and adding it into his pocket beside his
little collection of your special items, Sam chuckles at her suggestion
and swipes a palm down his face, “apparently I have been. A lot. I
found a fuckton of blackout poetry in a locked cabinet—”

“You found what? Love poems? Love poems that you wrote? Love
poems that you wrote about Bibi? And you didn’t bother to look at
them….. why?”

“I couldn’t handle it yet.”

“Sam…..”

“Nettie.”

“Oh my god? Are you-?” Nettie plucks his cigarettes from the sand and
wiggles her fingers in a request for his book of matches. But like the
true gentleman he is, he lights it for her and she takes her times
inhaling and exhaling before imparting wisdom, “okay….. go home and
read them all. Right now. And then grab a notebook and write more.
Write her a letter, write her a hundred pages, write until your fingers
bleed. Anything that comes to mind. Don’t question it. I know she’s still

37
 Sunny

inside of you, every bit of her. This is your process; it’s practically
spelled out for you with a neon shout. You’re a poetic speaker, in your
own way, so I know you’d be a poetic writer. And I’m not surprised at
all that you hid your true feelings from yourself and then when you
found them, avoided confronting them, by the way. And yes, that was a
burn.”

“I dunno if I’ve ever showed her?” Tepid. Warm. Hot. Cold. Frigid. Ice.
You’re naked in the arctic circle. Butt-ass naked. Do you really think I’d
fuckin’ tell you? At the recollection, Sam erupts into bitter, dry laughter,
“nevermind. Yeah, I haven’t. Roasted. I’m a dumb fuckin‘ stunned
fuck.”

“Well….. you make a better surfer than an undercover special agent,

so at least none of us are bewildered.”

“Sit on it, fuckface.”

“No, thanks. Listen to me. Go home, drive somewhere unusual for you
and clean and compose your van. Every time you get hit with a little
slice of memory, try to hold onto it as much as you can and write it
down. As you write, it’ll help expand on those memories and get you
digging and organizing. That’s what you need to do right now, okay?
Tear apart the closet, sort it all and run it through the wash, then tuck it
all back away neatly. You can do it. It has to run its course. It’s all
there, it’s just a mess. Just start and then maybe you’ll get someone
else’s input soon and it’ll help fill in some of the empty hangers.”

Sam cups the back of Nettie’s neck and kisses her forehead, before
nuzzling his soggy cheek against the crown of her head, “thank you.”

“Welcome, Simon.”

Like beams of pale-yellow sun slipping through an impossibly dreary

sky, his dimple sinks into his cheek and the soft whisper of a chuckle
spills through his teeth, “nice one, Nettie pot.”

“See? One pair of socks already tucked away.”

“I have a feeling I’ve still got some pretty heavy winter coats and wool
trousers to fuck around with. Especially considerin’ I have to go pile
drive through the flotsam and jetsam that is my fuckin’ house right
now.”

38
 Aerial

One thing that paints Nettie a little unintentionally intimidating is that

she doesn’t laugh very often, which is something that Sam has a
particularly odd relationship with, because that’s one thing he pulls out
of people pretty easily under normal circumstances. Being met with
laughter is something that makes Sam comfortable, because
sometimes he finds it easier to connect with others over feelings of
deeper meaning through dark humor. But this small little
uncharacteristic giggle from your roommate has relief flooding Sam’s
veins and loosening the chokehold on his neck, “you say the most
bizarre things.”

He’s succinctly beautiful when he smiles. Succinctly and infinitely, “I

just find it somehow ironically perfect that she cleaned all my shit up
into a starched frenzy and folded it into unnaturally flawless squares
within the confines of a small, contained vessel and my van looks like
someone threw an atomic bomb at a junk yard.”

“You should see our apartment.”

“There’s a metaphor in there for our brain experiences right now. Her
madness is a pristinely packaged lollipop and mine’s the chewed-up
stick.”

Sam strikes a match, the flame sizzling against the tip of his pink
cigarette.

“While you’re cleaning, listen to these.” She slides the Nina Simone
and Françoise Hardy records towards him, placing a half-burned,
cherry-scented candle on top. After a pregnant pause from both of
them, Nettie slips a handful of your cherry lollipops from her pocket into
his open, lifeless palm, “here.”

Sam exhales a thick cloud of pink smoke; a wavy lock of chocolate

scrapes his cheekbone when he looks down.

And then after a smaller pause, she wordlessly slips a tuft of tissues on
top of the lollipops and closes his fingers around the bundle into a soft
fist. Her head rests on his shoulder and his temple rests on the top of
her head, both of their eyes downcast at his defenseless hands filled
with slow, soft, sweet clues.

39
 Sunny

The Finale // Part Two

He does this, y’know.

He’s not different.

Please be careful.

Don’t you have amnesia, too.

Boggy.

No one can nail him down.

Wasn’t he sweet on you for a hot minute?

Turns out it was just brain damage.

A complete mess.

Gunky.

I couldn’t give it up to someone I’d have to face every day.

Could you imagine the fallout?

Torrential.

Yeah, a disaster.

Muck.

Primarily, the only phrases that squirm in your mind on your walk to
work this morning are past cautions from your friends and coworkers,
the very reverberations that would have kept you out of trouble if you’d
listened to the landslide of outside advice and your own brain instead
of your heart from the beginning. It doesn’t matter now, of course, with
a lollipop anxiously clicking against your teeth as you pry open the
heavy door leading to the back entrance of the theatre at seven-thirty
A.M. on Monday morning, the day of your final performance of the
season.

The hope was to get here early enough, before Sam finishes with his
routine daybreak surfing session, so that you can take the proper
amount of time to unwind and prepare yourself for whatever may be
coming your way today. Admittedly, you were half-expecting to see
40
 Aerial

Sam waiting outside of your apartment but not surprised that he wasn’t
and yet, still saddened by it. Because now that each onion layer of your
past life in Malibu slowly begins to peel away in front of your eyes, the
more real it feels. And we all know how much chopping an onion can
sting.

After Nettie returned from the beach yesterday afternoon, you could tell
that she was walking on eggshells in regards to the things she chose to
share with you. Both for your protection and for Sam’s. It would seem
that although her loyalty still lies heavily in your favor, that she now
harbors quite an iceberg’s worth for Sam as well, most of it hidden
below the surface of the dark, secretive water. However, you did
manage to weasel a few tidbits of information; that he remembers you,
but not all of you. That he’s extraordinarily rattled, that he received
clearance from his doctor to perform, that although he loves you with
every breath that moves in and out of his lungs, he’s upset that you
couldn’t bring yourself to talk to him.

When you started to put on your shoes and chase after him, she
warned you that it was no use. He was long gone for the evening,
without a hint as to where he was heading.

When she shuffled the box of his items that you’d so carefully cleaned
and packed away back into your apartment, she didn’t need to explain
to you that Sam had refused to take it. You could have guessed that
yourself, before it even happened. You’re only wishing that he had
thought to bring your roller skates back so that you didn’t have to walk
to the theatre this morning, but that’s selfish. You’re selfish. And
sometimes, when you break your priorities down and really think about
them from all angles; from the view of the sea and the sky and the
sand, you kind of wish you could kick yourself in the stomach. Maybe
this is just the eye-opener you’ve been searching for, in a hundred
different forms.

And you hate to admit it, but a big part of you wished that instead of
that box of clothes and records and food, that she’d brought Sunny
back with her instead. The Sunny who made love to you and stole you
pink bunnies at Golden Pier. The Sunny who makes you laugh for the
hell of it, the Sunny who makes you come for the thrill of it.

But he’s changed now. And when something life-altering happens and
transforms a person, they’re just different. There’s no way around it. It
happens to every single one of us throughout our time on Earth; many

41
 Sunny

times, if we’re lucky. The pain of growth is unrivaled and the euphoria
of progress is extraordinary, but you can only see it when you hold the
light of a candle up to the dark.

On your way out of your apartment, the last bouquet of sunflowers that
Sam had brought you sat loudly and proudly on your kitchen counter.
The very kitchen that you avoided for several reasons; you couldn’t
bear the thought of stomaching any food this morning and even the
idea of opening your refrigerator and stealing a glance at the carton of
orange juice was too much to swallow. Instead you swiped a single
sunflower from its vase, packed your bag with a change of clothes and
then reached for your skates. Except they weren’t in the entryway as
they usually are, because they’re still in Sam’s van. And you might
never know if you’ll get them back or if he heaved them into the ocean
out of frustration along with another pair of his shoes. Kind of like your
relationship after you woke up on Sunday morning.

The theatre is eerily quiet and mostly dark, echoing your footsteps and
eclipsing the umbrellas which quietly decorate the ceiling in their
sphere. Since the performance doesn’t start until seven in the evening
and all of the circus members are exquisitely practiced, most people
don’t bother to show up until after noon. You’re always here early for
several reasons; you believe that there is no such thing as too much
practice and you’d gotten into the habit of waking at daybreak with your
Sunny lover, so there was no point in sitting around at home twiddling
your thumbs. Besides, you appreciate the peace and quiet. The lack of
judgment that comes with dusting off your pointe shoes and reliving
your favorite ballet routines when no one is watching. Even if it makes
your ankle feel tight and achy, rehashing feelings of nostalgia is almost
always worth the pain.

I bet those joints tastes like your Cherry pie now. Spark one up, bitch.
And hand me a banana, please, baby? I’m fuckin’ famished.

Almost always.

The first place that you visit is your dressing room and the first thing
you notice, rather viscerally, is Sam’s leather jacket strewn on the
couch and his skateboard propped up against the standing screen. You
were wrong about arriving here before he had, and now you’re
wondering if he skipped surfing this morning because he wasn’t feeling
up for it or if he simply surfed early this morning because he didn’t even
bother to sleep.

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It’s as if he’d come by and dropped his things and immediately left
again; no cigarette butts in the ashtrays, no hearts with ’je t’aime’
drawn on the vanity mirror with your lipstick, no Pop-Tart wrappers in
the trash bin, no half-empty glasses of water. No flickers of sunshine in
any corner. But you know Sam, before and after his surfing accident,
he tends to haunt one of three places aside from your dressing room:
the courtyard, the community kitchen.

Or practice room two.

You drop your things and change into a bodysuit and warmups, a
ribbon and bobby pins holding your hair from your face. Trembling
hands apply a swipe of cherry lip balm. Seizing the resting sunflower
from your vanity, you don’t even bother to check for Sam in the first two
places that crossed your mind and instead head directly for the practice
room.

One nauseating footstep at a time.

And your discovery comes audibly at first; the navy-blue cool timbre of
Nina Simone’s rendition of “Don’t Let Me Be Misunderstood” carrying
through the crack in the slightly-ajar door. The discovery is scented
next; mouthfuls of warm cotton candy sugar mixed with the ineffable,
mild trademark of Sam’s skin and hazelnut curls. As you push open the
door, the third is visual; a room tinged in the afterglow of flamingo pink
smoke, your fickle loverboy seated against the wall of mirrors below the
ballet barre. Gray fitted sweatpants, wifebeater tucked in at the waist,
belt cinched around his middle; his typical attire. His jaw pops as he
chews gum, a notebook is propped up on one bent leg as he calmly
and deliberately spells out a mystery on pink paper. Beau sits beside
him chewing on a piece of rawhide, and much like Sam, he glances up
at you with his molars grinding together, then returns right back to his
work.

His heart skips a beat when you walk into the room as it’s done a
hundred times before and after his surfing accident and each one of
those times collect into a tight spot behind his eye sockets, then
explode, raining glitter and shedding calloused skin from his organs.
Leaving him vulnerable and mindless, immune and cognizant. A snake
that has molted and grown, over and over again, but not without baring
a new, raw layer first.

As you hover awaiting acknowledgement, his sight finally lands on your

face before falling to your flower, then lazily drags back up again, “hi.”
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 Sunny

No Sunflowers. No breakfast inquiries. No nicknames. No honey. No

Sunshine.

Your velvet-dream-boy is far from bliss. But the thing about the Sun is
that no matter how heavy the cloud cover or how dark the winter, it
always comes back. It always, always comes back.

“Hi.” Your feet move like lead under his heavy stare, a slow clumsy
ship following a lighthouse to shore. Sea sickness and lurching waves,
jagged and slippery rocks cutting into your feet on his beach. He
reaches out for your flower and accepts it with gratitude and a graceful
wrap of his fingers around the thick stem, the tips of his fingers brush
yours and it sparkles and then it hurts, “what did you have for
breakfast, Sam?”

“You first.”

The truth is that you couldn’t eat. But regardless of how upset you are
with him and for him, you just can’t put him in a position of worrying
about something additional this close to your final performance of the
season. Especially after what he’s been through. After what you’ve
both been through. After all, your hope was that you would come into
work and develop an appetite after a heavy dose of physical activity.
And you skipping breakfast is absolutely something that would cause
him to worry, “do you remember what I usually have?”

“Spaghetti and meatballs.”

Sam’s ability to make you laugh for the hell of it will always be your
favorite piece of him. Especially when he executes it perfectly like this,
dryly and mindfully. He’s so far off that he may as well have hit the nail
directly on the head; he knows it and you know it. The sarcastic
response is so wholly relieving that you can’t help but roll your eyes
and breathe out a little laugh, “Melvin. What did you have?”

The truth is that he couldn’t eat. But regardless of how upset he is with
you and for you, he just can’t put you in a position of worrying about
something additional this close to your final performance of the season.
Especially after what you’ve been through. After what you’ve both been
through. His stare burns right through you, biting your brain and tingling
your scalp. Nina Simone’s thick wet cement soul fills in the gaps
between his eyes and his words, “your god.” Who’s your god? “I’ve
been chewing on her all morning.” Unshakably true to herself. Who’s

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yours? He lets your heart beat twice, violently, before returning his
attention to his notebook, “and an avocado.”

It’s a relief that he has an appetite, albeit small, so you choose not to
comment on his tiny-in-comparison volume of food. He’s like a puppy in
the sense that you know his wounds must be subsiding, at least a little
bit, if he can stomach a treat. Any treat.

After the initial chaotic onslaught that began at Mercy Valley, Sam’s
memories soothed and then slowly and steadily trickled in all night like
a leaky faucet, keeping him just on the edge of sleep for hours upon
hours. In hindsight, he’s glad that the two of you didn’t hash out your
differences while you were both at the peak of your craggy emotional
mountain yesterday. He sees and understands that now, and he did
spend a good deal of time depositing blessings into the ocean for
Nettie this morning. Sometimes he wishes you were as level-headed
as her, but then he remembers that being in love mutates a person. It
sensitizes their triggers, it bloats their grit, it deadens their formalities.
For better or worse, just as the vows preach. Till death do you part.

Embracing Nettie’s advice, Sam returned to his van yesterday

afternoon and drove it an hour and a half southward from Malibu with a
cruise through Los Angeles proper until he landed at a secluded beach
just north of Laguna. He pulled right up on the sand and opened all of
his windows and barndoor, tossing nearly all of his belongings outside
until The Pink was just as much of a shell as he was.

He lit your candle, cued up your records, tied your hair ribbon around
his wrist, swapped his cigarettes for cherry lollipop after cherry lollipop,
and wrote. When the flood of memories filtered from a tidal wave to a
babbling brook, he cleaned and organized all of his things. And then
finally, after scrounging up enough bravery, he opened up the cabinet
below his sink and leafed through every page he had scrawled over the
past six months. The blackout poetry dated back to a time prior to his
surfing accident, when his feelings for you bounced between hatred
and admiration-in-denial. After he cried until he felt like his body was
shriveling from dehydration, he wrote more. He wrote a hundred pages;
he wrote until his fingers bled.

Even though he hates to admit when he’s wrong, he silently thanked

Bunny for the small stash of Quaaludes that granted him a few hours of
rest. He’s unsure whether he can possibly have every single thing back
or if he ever will again, but after a short three-or-four-hour rest dotted

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with drowsy scribblings, the memories have continued to deluge all

morning. Each time one would pop up, he would write it down, but he
found this particularly frustrating while he was surfing. Which is why he
cut his session short; running across the beach while unzipping his wet
suit at the same time, ditching all of his wet things into the sand to dive
into his van to try to record everything before it vanished again. Before
you vanished again.

But for the life of him, he can’t recall a single drop of anything related to
how or why you’ll supposedly be losing your job sometime in the near
future. Or if what Tex said contains any truth to begin with. And he
fucking loathes it. This position, this uncertainty. He detests it. Because
he hates not knowing what to say, he hates not knowing where to
direct his anger. It’s rare.

Sam keeps his gaze tilted down at his notebook and away from your
pull, “nice ribbon.”

Smoothing your hair back in the mirror, you glance at him over your
shoulder in the reflection, “what’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nice ribbon.”

Sometimes his sarcasm is so dry that it’s undetectable. And sometimes

his compliments are so arbitrary that they’re garish, “thank you. How
are you feeling? Are you okay? I was worried….. I am worried.”

“All show and no go. How d’you feel? Lay it on me, I can take it. I
think.”

“I’m fine.”

A trilogy of annoyance; Sam rolls his eyes, scoffs and then scratches
his temple with his thumb, “’kay. I take it back. I’m mad at you.”

His statement doesn’t feel right. It doesn’t feel like it has a place. His
confession is valid of course, because he’s feeling anger and he’s
allowed to feel it and to express it. The cincher to this reunion that is
slowly crumbling to shit, is the correct assumption that Sam wasn’t mad
at you until you’d said you were fine. But based on your experience of
the past forty-eight hours alone, with his disappearance and vague
explanation as to why and then promptly taking your virginity and
forgetting you and then cursing you out until you cried, it doesn’t seem
fair. Your stomach twists into a knot and your eyebrows match when
you spin on your heel to face him with your arms crossed over your
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chest. And no matter how irritated Sam might be with you, he always
thinks that you look pretty fucking adorable when you’re angry. He
always has, “mad at me? Why exactly? I don’t remember kicking you
out of my home and squashing your heart to pieces yesterday.”

“Son-of-a….. you don’t? Really? Did we experience two different bogue

shindigs yesterday?” Sam tosses his journal and sunflower aside, but
keeps his body fixed in place which may even be more intimidating
than him crossing the room to scream in your face, “maybe because I
spent the whole night alone, instead of with my goddamn motherfuckin’
girlfriend, recoverin’ from brain injury repercussions and major memory
loss. And then you show up here today sayin’ you’re just fuckin’ fine.
It’s fuckin’ annoying. You’re annoying as fuck. Fuck you. I know your
heart’s broken. I know I demolished you yesterday mornin’. I know
you’re scared and sad. I know you spent all day cryin’. I know you
didn’t sleep or eat breakfast. You’re fulla shit. Nice flower though,
where’d you get it, huh?”

You don’t know whether you want to slap him or kiss him and that
pretty much sums up your entire relationship, “you’re right. I’m a terrible
person. I hide my true feelings and tend to avoid confrontation with the
people who mean the most to me. Sound familiar?”

“Is someone talkin’? I think I caught wind of a tiny waft of bullshit, but I
can’t be sure.”

“You’re acting like a child—”

But your weak retort is interrupted by Sam twisting his pinky in his ear,
pretending to clear it out for better sound quality.

Pulling strength from a source that you didn’t even know you had, you
take a deep breath and put yourself in his shoes. You’ve been doing
this on and off since your horrible wake-up call on Sunday morning, but
when you’re in pain and experiencing your experiences, sometimes the
two perspectives of those involved start to get tangled up. And they
fight for dominance.

So, channeling Nettie’s honesty and openness is the best that you can
do right now. Even if your voice is kind of a lot shakier than hers, “okay,
okay, back up. How do I feel? I slept maybe two hours at the most, I’ve
cried about losing you and feeling scared for you endlessly and I don’t
see it stopping for, um, a lifetime. I couldn’t eat breakfast, and then I
tripped on a broken piece of boardwalk on the way here and almost fell

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on my face. I hate everything and I wish that our lives weren’t a

splintery mess right now because I miss you. I miss Sunny. But I’m
scarred and warring with myself, so I don’t know what to think or how to
act towards you. I’m worried about being perfect for the season finale
and at the same time, I just wish it were over. Which devastates me,
because this was supposed to be a culmination of everything we
worked so, so hard for. Not just in the circus ring, but behind closed
doors, too. This was supposed to be a celebration, but it feels a lot
more like a funeral. I don’t know what to expect or what’s going to
happen in regards to both our partnership and our relationship and it
terrifies the living daylights out of me. I wish I could sleep and wake up
when it’s all over, or better yet, erase history and rewrite it so that we
woke up in bed together Sunday morning still madly in love with each
other. Forever. Is that better?”

“Good girl. Thank you. And ditto all around, minus the trippin’. Major
bungler alert. But thanks for the reneged half-hearted flower. Very
thoughtful.”

Practice hasn’t even officially begun and you’re already yearning for a
break.

The moment your heart deflates and drops like a brick into your
stomach, Sam can feel it. Even from fifty feet across the room, the
sheen in your big baby deer eyes drives a knife into his stomach and
the quiver of your chin twists it and sends blood spurting from his
mouth.

He hates it. It’s beautiful. He loves it. It’s horrible.

Sam had survived Indy’s death alone, but that’s because he was alone.
He didn’t think he would have to survive your death alone while you
stood idly by, drinking cool rosé in a warm bubble bath, ignoring his
shouts and his cries as his brain melted from his ears. And somehow,
he still loves you so much that he would tear himself in half just to have
you one more time.

“Les bonnes filles vont au paradis.”

“Et bons garçons?”

“J’ai toujours été ici.”

But that feeling doesn’t overpower his pride and anger and guilt, which
keeps him locked in his stubborn position on the floor. Wishing you
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would cross the room and crawl into his lap, wishing you would twist
your fingers into his hair and whisper the word ’Sunshine’ against his
lips, promising him that he’s good enough for you and not everything
terrible is his fault. And in all honesty, no matter how strong his denial
is, that will likely never happen again.

As soon as Sam drills his gaze through yours and then coolly drops it
back down to his journal to continue scribbling, you flop to the ground
and pretend to stretch out your ankle. The ache inside of your chest
grows and grows until it feels like it can’t fit inside of your body
anymore, and you’re hoping with likely unrealistic faith that he doesn’t
notice you wiping your tears and glancing at his reflection every so
often. You hadn’t expected to pull honesty from the very depths of your
soul just to have it squashed. He spent months begging for your
secrets and protecting them, but now here he is, exploitative in nature
and unappreciative of your efforts.

Now you’re wishing you had pushed your own pain aside for his sake
yesterday, that your fight for him and your love didn’t end once you’d
stepped foot from his van. An extremely paltry attempt upon reflection,
but at the time, it truly felt like all you could muster through the punch-
in-the-gut-rejection. Remembering Nettie’s validation about
inappropriate timing and rawness and not psyching yourself out, you
shake the remorse from your heart and decide to manage it later. If you
ever get around to it. As you always do.

Rationally you know that this is not all Sam’s fault, but it still feels like
everything is happening to you. Because of him. It makes perfect
sense and no sense at the same time. There’s no sensible explanation
for it, since that’s how emotions work a lot of the time. It just is; that’s
how it feels. You’re angry with him and you’re devastated for him and
you love him and he’s crushing your heart all at once. How do you
even begin to deliberate that?

Distance, a lizard-brain voice hisses.

“Has my shoulder been actin’ up?”

His way of breaking the beat of silence is not what you expected, but
you’re grateful for any oasis of normalcy right now, “yeah…..” You
know that your eyes are red and that your mascara is clumping your
eyelashes together, but maybe he’s far enough away that he can’t tell,
“you’ve been icing it before and after shows for a couple months now.”

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 Sunny

All of the air leaves the room during his pause, making it feel much
longer than it actually is. He digs his thumb into his sore shoulder and
squeezes, rotating his arm in a circle a couple of times before shaking
it out, “’kay. Thanks. Is your ankle alright?”

“Yes, it’s fine.”

It takes everything inside of him not to groan at your reflexive repetitive

lie that acts as a pretty frail barrier to your truth, “do you need me to—”

“No, I’ll handle it. Thank you.”

“Fuck outta here. You’re gassin’. That’s some full-on politics, V.”

“You’re right. I just don’t want help from anybody right now, okay? I’ll
be fine.”

While you’re not looking, either because you can’t bear it or because
you don’t know how, Sam’s face contorts in a mocking grimace as he
mouths your impulsive, defensive word of ’fine’ to himself. Your
snipped answers don’t make him any less curious though, or maybe
they do the exact opposite, “you don’t want help from me or from
anybody?”

“Anybody.”

Sam wishes he could belly-up and play dead, at least long enough to
be flushed down the drain and spit out into the ocean. Whatever
happens next, well, may god be with him.

“Will you dance with me?”

Not “do you want to?” but “will you?” A softness in his demand, proving
it to be not a demand at all this time, but a genuine wish. You’re no
stranger to this approach from Sam, from a time when things were
much more loving between you. When he would tenderly ask for things
that you both knew he already had permission for. Kiss, please. But it’s
much more delicate this time. You would’ve never said no to anything
he would’ve asked if you were in this position a mere forty-eight hours
ago, but now it seems as if you can’t win; if you tell him no, he might
crumble into a pile of dust and blow away and if you tell him yes, you
might crumble into a pile of dust and blow away. Lose/lose.

Instead, you borrow his tactic of stealthy question-detouring, “I bet

you’re wishing you had that final wish still saved up, huh?”

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“Why, would you grant it?”

“Do you know what I’m referring to?”

“Yes, your wish to lose control. And everything that came after it. Of
course, I fuckin’ remember.”

In opposition to how most people would interpret his response, his lack
of vulgarity towards sex is extremely jarring. But it would only be
because they don’t know him like you do. And just like that, you’re on
your feet and propping your ankle up on the ballet barre, lifting one arm
into an easy fourth position as you stretch towards your knee.

And just like that, Sam is on his feet, crowding up behind you with his
chest brushing your back and his breath on your neck, but he doesn’t
dare touch you with his hands. Rather they splay on the barre on either
side of you, one right beside your hip and the other beside your ankle.
Your eyes lock in the mirror, two bruising heartbeats, as he ducks to
whisper in your ear, “y’know we’re not done talkin’.”

You’re frozen. Your organs punch your ribcage over and over again.
You wish your request weren’t so breathless, “not now. After the show.”

“Vivienne.”

“Please, not now. We just have to get through this performance.”

“Stop buryin’ shit.”

Your leg drops and you lower your eyes from his in the mirror, staring
at your knuckles gripping the barre for dear life, “please stop breathing
down my neck and please stop telling me what to do. I can’t hear this
or think about anything right now, it’s too much. My boundary is simple
and clearly communicated. Now please, please back up, Sam.”

Sam’s eyes flick up to scan the room for any unwelcome visitors,
before glancing over his shoulder for a thorough search and then
leaning back down to meet your ear with an even more branny throat
this time, “miette de biscuit. Elle me manque.”

When you whip your head over your shoulder and frown, a deep,
wounded expression, your voice is barely audible through the soft
shape of your lips. Sure, your boundary is clear and simple but maybe
it’s just the smallest bit shaky, and maybe he can see that very, very
easily, “stop it…..”

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“’Kay.” His palms hit the air like two waving, white flags, “copy that.
’Mm gonna smoke.”

“We really should—”

“Ten minutes, Sarge.”

Sam backs up slowly, before pulling the cigarette from behind his ear
and sparking the end with a match. He sits on the ground in the same
spot as before, leaned up against the mirror with one thigh acting as a
surface for his writing again.

You switch legs to stretch the other side, but you’re barely
concentrating on the burn in your muscles. Instead you’re watching his
reflection in the mirror, pink smoke ballooning from his heart-shaped
lips and snaking through his curls, and you know that there’s a
possibility he could look up at any moment and catch you staring and
stare directly back into your eyes and maybe walk back over here and
demand something from you that you might not be able to turn down.
But you can’t stop. Because maybe part of you wants him to catch you
staring and to stare back and to walk over here and demand something
that’s impossible to refuse.

But that’s not healthy, so you gather yourself away from the barre and
pace towards the exit door. And it was silly to think you’d make it very
far without a sarcastic bark quipping out at your heels, “hey, where you
goin’? We haven’t heard Nina yet.” Nina Simone has been playing on
the turntable since you arrived here half an hour ago, “maybe we
should stick to the metronome.”

Tip, tap.

“Ten minutes, Sam.”

“’Kay, I’m watchin’ the clock.”

“Did you know your name perfectly suits you?”

“…..Sam?”

“Look it up.”

This could maybe be one of the first times he’s ever wanted to rip open
a dictionary before. And then knowing you and your bite, likely want to
rip it to shreds.

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The point of his felt tip pen is frozen mid-sweep on the pink page in his
palms, his head still angled downward but his eyes and whole somber
expression are glued to you, “hey.” His words are clipped, “cut me
slack, please. Cool your chops. I’m hurtin’, too.”

“Sorry.” There’s a hollow spot inside of your chest as heavy as

concrete when you slow and glance over your shoulder at him, eyeing
the downturn of his lips and the slouch in his shoulders. You want to
tell him that he should have been nice to you when he woke up this
morning, that he should have been nice to you since the day you met
so that his brain wouldn’t automatically revert to badmouthing the
moment it slipped. You want to tell him that he hurt you, so you’re
hurting him back. Instead, you choose to entomb your anguish for the
sake of coping, vowing to unlock it when you always notoriously do. At
home, alone, at night, behind a closed door, “I’m really sorry, Sam.
That was nasty.”

“Yeah, we know.”

The small smile that manages to crack is melted away by a mostly

perturbed but also slightly amused eye roll. Sam doesn’t miss it. In fact,
he could have predicted it before it even happened, “I don’t know why
I’m acting like this. I shouldn’t have spoken to you that way. I take it
back and I promise to try harder for the rest of today. Thank you for
being patient. I just need some water and a breath of air.”

“It’s casual. No rush, yeah? We’ll be alright. Fuckin’ snack on

somethin’, would ya? I’m scared you’re gonna wolf me whole.” Your
gazes linger for a moment and as soon as you turn on your heel to
leave, he adds a cottony sludge, a jacket across a puddle to keep your
shoes dry, “mignonne.”

“Sam, don’t start.”

“Slipped out…..” His sentence deliberately trails off to dust as his

attention flits back down to his journal, his mumble both equally meant
to be heard and equally intended to be private, “Honeysuckle. Cherry
tart.”

“What?”

“What. You only have nine minutes left. Make tracks, Speedy
Gonzales. To the kitchen. I saw a bunch of bananas in there. Can you
yank me one, actually?”

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 Sunny

“You want me to go be sad about you on a ten-minute break while also

grabbing you a piece of fruit to eat?”

“Yes. Make with the multitask.”

Alternately, you both take turns blinking once before you relent,
groaning and stomping towards the door with your arms up in the air,
“fine. Be right back.”

“Two of ’em, please! And an apple, yeah?”

In all honesty, the rest of practice and dress rehearsals went better
than you’d expected. Being around others in the weight room and the
circus ring made things between you and Sam surprisingly lighter and
more clear-cut, since you were both forced to be on your well-
rehearsed, stringent professional behavior. Sam wasn’t fibbing or
exaggerating when he’d told Nettie that he remembered the entire
routine, down to every minute detail, musical change and transition.
Except for one small subtlety, which was your readiness signal on the
trapeze.

The very first time you had practiced on the giants together, the signal
switched from whistling to clapping because of how you willingly tossed
yourself into the net to avoid touching his spit. Today he’d reverted
back to whistling, and rather than correct him, you chose to let it be.
You rationalized that his mind went there due to years upon years of
muscle memory with Indy and you both know that, blind to any angst
between you, you no longer mind being in contact with his saliva.

In fact, now that you think about, it was probably just another way for
him to mess with you.

There were a couple instances where you could have sworn you saw
other circus members huddled in groups, their hands cupped around
their mouths as they stared up at you and your partner and whispered
to one another. At a certain point you couldn’t take it anymore and
approached Sam from behind as he was chalking his hands, mumbling
an inquiry of, “have you talked to anyone—”

And apparently, you’d surprised him, because before you could finish
your question he shouted and spun in a half circle to face you, his face
twisted in shock before sinking into respite. He gripped his palm to his
chest and exhaled slowly between two puffy pink lips, “fuck. The fuck
54
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you rattlin’ on about? Jesus, my heart is on the goddamn moon right

now.”

You couldn’t help by giggle as you carried on with your question

anyway, maybe taking comfort in the fact that his vulnerable and
healthy reaction soothed you the slightest bit, “have you talked to
anyone?” And then your voice dropped to an almost inaudible whisper,
“about us?”

Glancing around the room, everyone Sam made eye contact with
quickly dropped their stares, “I haven’t spoken to a single person.
What’s up?”

“Nothing…..”

“You’re lyin’ again, but okay.”

“It just feels like people are watching us. Watching me, maybe.”

“You’re trippin’ out. Get back up on the trapeze before I punt you there
myself.”

Now with thirty minutes to curtain, you and Sam lean side-by-side over
the vanity in full costume, elbowing each other for space in front of the
mirror. Your stage makeup has perfected over time; an incredible cat-
eye with cherry-red lips, dramatic lashes, peachy cheeks. Sam, on the
other hand, never fucks around with makeup on his own. Every once in
a while, he will ask you to paint on some eyeshadow or eyeliner for
experimental theatrical effect, but today he’s caught in the annoying
position of attempting to cover up his black eye with industrial-strength
concealer. He curses under his breath and balls up a wad of tissues in
his fist, his pout downturned as he scrapes at his face with zero
professional experience.

You know that he’s too proud to ask for help, just as he is in the circus
ring when he has a rare moment of struggling with advanced tricks. So,
instead of allowing him to flounder, you crowd his space, one hand on
his shoulder with a soft “hey” and take the tissues from his hands. His
lips puff out with an exasperated exhale, but he lets you guide him
down into the small stool beside you. On any other day he might not
have any trouble at all, but today is not any other day. Today is hell on
Earth.

Sam watches your lips move, the little lines, the curves, the natural
gloss. The softness. He can taste them, “should only use cotton, nice
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makeup brushes or clean hands on your face.” Your ring finger dabs at
the makeup and then gently presses it to his skin, “you’ll give yourself
premature wrinkles. Or blemishes.”

He’s sits on the stool peering up at you and not saying anything, his
jaw working a piece of chewing gum, orange vanilla hot flashes against
the heel of your hand. A smattering of scruff on his chin, cheeks and
upper lip sketches his pretty features as potent and masculine. Your
favorite.

“Are you planning to shave? I’m not saying I think you need to—” It’s
an innocent question, one that would have easily slipped by with no
emotion forty-eight hours prior. You’re trying hard not to sound like
you’re nagging because you’re not, and you don’t want it to seem like
you mind anything about his appearance at all. Plus, you consider it
rude to make critical remarks about someone else’s image, unless
explicitly asked. Also, because it no longer seems in your jurisdiction,
regardless of his outward display of passion and wants, simply
because your scaffolding of trust has been shaken, “I’m just wondering
if I should put more makeup on you now? Or— or if I should wait?”

“I could give a fuck less how shitty I look right now, Vivienne. I just can’t
look like a battered, heartbroken fuckin’ convict in front of thousands of
women and children. No slight on you, but I don’t trust anyone holdin’ a
razor blade to my neck right now, especially myself. They’re getting a
Fuzzy Marvel today and that’s that.”

His eyes are a vacuum, you are a trace of dust.

“Um, you don’t look shitty….. you never do. You always— nevermind.
I’ll keep quiet. So, were you going to shave?”

Sam grips the back of your thighs and drags you between his knees,
his thumbs swimming in circles on your skin, his gaze tilted up directly
at you, framing him into the perfect pitch and distance to easily dissolve
yourself if you wanted, “please kiss me.”

“Sam….. you know that’s not possible.” One kiss is impossible because
his heart-shaped lips are alien now and you don’t know how to start
and if you did suddenly remember, you’d never be able to stop.
Because it would hurt more than it would feel good.

Because it would hurt. It would hurt. It hurts.

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His breath drags over your lips and for all of the rudeness he easily
hauls around, he would never be impolite enough to not take
something without permission, “please.”

“It’s not going to fix anything.”

“Pinches. Bad. Inside my chest. This is the longest I’ve gone without
cryin’ since I found your locket in my bed.”

“You mean….. just these past couple hours?”

The very tip of his nose turns red and his nostrils flare in an effort to
flex some control over his facial muscles, but no amount of control can
stop the film of glass that spreads across his eyes, “yeah.”

“I haven’t been much better. Do you want to tell me what hurts most?”

“Can I be honest?”

“Yes. I expect you to be.”

“I don’t have any support. It’s my brain, my memory. It’s real fuckin’
scary. I’ve never not trusted my mind before, um— I can’t explain it.
Feels like it’s turnin’ on me and I don’t know how to help myself or
what’s gonna happen next. I feel wild and precarious without my reality
intact. Memory is all we have and I don’t….. have it all. I’m void— I
don’t have anything.” His chin quivers when the last word of his
statement scrapes out, making it painfully obvious that by “anything” he
means you.

The way he’s looking up at you — emotions bleeding down his face,
hoarse scruff and soft lips, the word “fear” spelled out in the bloody
capillaries of his eyes — propels you forward for a soft kiss. One that
he clings to with every little ragged splinter of hope left inside of him,
with his fingers tangling into your hair and a breathy inhale through his
nose that gets trapped inside of his throat. You want to comfort him,
but you don’t know how. You want to comfort him and tell him that
everything is normal, but you don’t know how. You want to comfort him
and tell him everything is normal but your own heart is a pile of ash, so
you don’t know how.

It hurts.

Sam withdraws a tiny bit and tugs on your bottom lip with his thumb,
skating the tip of his tongue against the tip of yours before silently
begging you back in for another kiss. There’s something about the way
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he stays anchored and draws you into his recessed tide, something
about the positioning of his body underneath you, something about the
way you sink into his clutch that feels too wistfully symbolic. The two of
you are a living sculpture of heartbreak, a pause in a figurative dance
performance that pays respect to anguish.

“Sam—” He breaks away just enough to give you breathing room, but
his stride doesn’t falter on his journey down your throat. Because once
he’s gotten his hands on your skin he immediately wants more, like a
hungry bear cub scraping for honey inside of a hollowed-out tree. This
is exactly what you guessed would happen, which is where your whole
concern stemmed from in the first place, “stop.” You push at his
shoulders for some space, “stop. We have to stop.” Sam moans into
your neck and slides his fingertips up your back, the splitting sensation
of his blunt nails sending you reeling from his grasp.

He doesn’t even bother to hide his panting breaths or smooth his hair
out of his face. Instead he leans forward with his elbows on his knees,
eyeing you from the ground up, “just fuckin’ tell me I’m not good
enough for you, V. Say it. Just say it.”

Your heart disintegrates, “I’ll never tell you that, Sam. You were
perfect. Better than perfect. Flawless. I told you so all of the time. And I
really felt devastated when you woke up yesterday morning.”

And so does his, “I was scared.”

“I know, of course you were. You had every right to be. It must have
been terrifying and I’m so sorry for you. But I was scared as well and I
still am.”

He remembers how long it took to get you to talk to him and open up,
how many times he begged you to share your secrets or tell him
anything at all. It was so long ago. It was two days ago.

When his memory slipped the first time, he didn’t try very hard to get it
back. He didn’t struggle to remember the hatred and turmoil of your
relationship. This memory slip is polar the opposite. Now he’s been
buried alive in unrequited memory and he’s done everything in his
power to get it back.

And that just must mean something remarkable.

The fact of the matter is, whether or not you have an awareness and
whether or not you’re able to attach language to the feeling, is that you
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are simply traumatized. It was hard for you. This entire relationship
from beginning to end was hard for the both of you. It uprooted a lot of
things about yourself and about each other, lots of things that you were
ready to face and maybe some things that you weren’t.

This relationship dug deep, first picking the petals from your flower and
waiting for them to regrow in the middle of the night while Sunshine
was laid to rest. And they did regrow, slowly at first, one by one, until
they had returned bolder and brighter than ever. You thrived for a long
while in the hot summer Sun, sometimes dropping a silky petal in a
spontaneous downpour but they always grew back, always slowly and
brighter than before. And when you were at your most beautiful and
bold, the entire flower was ripped from the ground. Some roots still
cling to the dirt in the hope that life can still take shape and they may
always be there, waiting. But it seems that your flower will likely need
new conditions if it ever wants to thrive again. New soil, new rain. New
sunbeams.

You want to tell him this. You want to convey the depth of pain, the
excruciating sensation of love stolen before its time. At exactly the
worst part, the falling part. The part where everything is at its most
heightened and sensitive. The part that felt like you couldn’t possibly
breathe without each other. You want to be held by the hands that
have helped cultivate and destroy you. Except there is a magnet
forcing your teeth together and holding your leaden tongue hostage,
deeming it physically impossible to open your mouth and tell any of him
this. You want to. You really want to let him in and share everything
you’re thinking, but the prospect of speaking seems too daunting and
scary for some reason. You wish you could just pry your skull open and
allow him in for a swim, to root around the catastrophic mess of
feelings and thoughts and allow him to make sense of it how he will or
perhaps even decipher it for you. But you can’t. And in lieu of candor,
you stay silent. Perhaps you’re not ready and perhaps you never will
be, it’s hard to say. You sincerely lack the strength. The vocabulary.
The understanding. The courage. So, you stay silent.

Love lost but not forgotten.

Your professionalism is something he’s always been envious of, before

and after his accident, but strived to support while he was working his
ass off to make you swoon. Not that it was hollow or phony, just that it
was a lot easier to tap into when he was falling for you and would have

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done absolutely anything to get you to see yourself how he sees you.
Which is perfect.

Sam tore away your sleeping mask every morning for months and he
wish he could do the same right now, to lift the veil from your eyes and
get you to see him with that same early-morning starry gaze that he
misses so much it aches, where the rune of dreams still linger. Where
your love for him is apparent and brave, unafraid by outcomes and
unsoiled by his clumsy mistakes.

But it’s gone and he’s terrified that it’s gone forever. Dead and lifeless,
just like Indy; slipped through his fingers and left bleeding and staring
up at him with a dejected look of accusation for what he’s stolen,
except worse. Worse because you’re here and you’re breathing, you’re
physically within arm’s reach but mentally galaxies away and he did
every little thing in his power to get you to trust him, except he steered
you wrong. His maps were laid out and clearly marked and glued right
behind his eyelids, but they were upside down this entire time and
neither of you had a single clue. Everything he told you materialized
into an unintentional lie that you believed to your own detriment. He
sees that and he feels that and he’s convinced that everything is his
fault, so how is he supposed to live with himself now?

Slowly dying fruit flies buzzing around a bowl of rotting produce,

dropping like autumn leaves one by one.

“Fuck. I hate that my face looks like shit for our last performance. My
jaw’s clickin’. Did Tex punch me in the jaw, too? Or was that from your
infamous face clap?”

“I’m really sorry about that—” A shake of his head and a swat of his
hand keeps you pushing forward, “and I don’t know, you didn’t go into
detail. I just hate that you’re sad for our last performance.”

“I hate that you are, too.”

“I’m fine.”

“Fuck off. Stop sayin’ you’re fine. It doesn’t match what we had and you
know it. I’m not the only one hurtin’ here, so don’t fuckin’ act like it.
You’re fulla shit. Represent us properly, please. We were so fuckin’
much, Vivienne. We were everything. Don’t shrink this shit in an effort
to survive. It’ll eat you alive. Please, just—”

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His heart nosedives into stomach acid when you spin on the ball of
your foot and pace away, your hands held in the air in a gesture of
exasperation, “I just need to get through this performance and then we
can claw our way through this conversation, but it’s absolutely not
happening twenty minutes until curtain. Okay? I can’t do this right now;
my mind is way too saturated. Please, please, please let it go for just a
couple hours—”

“Avoidin’ it is makin’ it worse—”

“Stop.”

“Still want me?”

“Sam.”

“Would you— fuck. Stop. Nevermind. I don’t wanna know. I can’t

fuckin’ stand this. I dunno how I’m breathin’. I lied. I can’t do this,
pretendin’ shit’s normal. Be fuckin’ honest with me, please. I need it for
a hundred different reasons.”

Innumerable replies circle like sharks around a bloodbath, but not a

single one leaves your mouth. Mental carnage with no escape, a
school of fish swim by unscathed.

Your face drops into your palms and much like a petulant child, your
ballet slipper stomps on the ground. And for the first time possibly ever,
your voice rises in anger, “I said stop!”

The only aspect of his facial expression that changes is a flicker of the
muscle in his jaw as he clenches his teeth. He stands and takes one
step forward, smacking the flimsy vanity stool over onto its side before
picking up a glass of water and throwing it across the room, the object
striking the wall and splintering before each piece and every drop of
water rains to the ground. He stands with his chest heaving in the
physical aftermath of his anger before lifting his head and glaring at
you over his shoulder, “fine.”

The technical director knocks twice before poking his head into the
room, “fifteen minutes, Marvels.” He scans the destruction first before
his eyes volley between the two of you standing on opposite ends of
the strained space, “what the hell happened in here?”

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Sam pushes past the TD and hurries from the room but you’re hot on
his heels, intent on not letting him lose his mind again. Not here. Not
now.

You shove and weave through crowds of people in the hallway, finally
catching up to him to grab his elbow and spin him around. Your voice
soft and light, but persuasive as fuck, “stop it right now. Come back.”
He whips his arm away but you grab it again, “no. I won’t let you do
this, Sam. I won’t let you keep sabotaging yourself. You are not going
through this alone. Come with me right now.”

Chest heaving, Sam looks everywhere in the hallway including the

cracks in the wall and the cracks in the floor and the cracks in the
ceiling before he clenches his jaw tight, the muscle pulling in his cheek
before he swallows a thick lump of angry sorrow down. He can feel
people’s judgmental eyes on him and he wonders what they know and
then he remembers his promise to himself at the hospital. He won’t
demolish this performance for you; it’s the very least he can do. But he
still can’t look you in the eye, “’kay.”

You flick the lock closed as soon as you make it back to your dressing
room, “just breathe. You don’t have to talk to me or look at me. I’ll go sit
in the shower for the next fifteen minutes if I have to. You just need to
stay in one place or I’m going to go crazy worrying about you and
whether or not you’ll come back. I’m so sorry this is happening to us.
I’m so, so, sorry that this is happening. It’s almost over, okay? Just
breathe.”

Sam leans on the vanity and covers his face with his palms, “most
unhinged l’chaim in fuckin’ history.”

“We can both lose our minds, Sam. It just can’t happen at the same
time.” It’s not a time to laugh. It’s really not. But that doesn’t stop the
corners of your mouth from twitching into a small, delayed smile at his
l’chaim retort, “what do you want me to do? How can I help you?”

“Stay. Just stay and don’t say anything. No disrespect, but I can’t
handle it right now.” His hands tremble as they fall to his sides, “I
dunno what to do with myself for the next fifteen minutes. I’m shakin’
like a leaf.”

And so, without a word, you rise to standing and cross the room in two
steps. Sam freezes like a block of ice when you enter his personal
space, his palm catching on fire and sizzling up to his elbow when you

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weave your fingers together and tug him back towards the couch. You
sit first and he joins you, the both of you silently lying down in a tight,
warm cuddle on the cool leather, your arms and legs threaded into a
braid as you take comfort in one another’s presence. Neither of you
move except for the small circles you trace into each other’s skin.

No one speaks, because no one needs to.

The season finale of The Flying Marvels was perfect. It was perfect
because whether or not the audience knew it, they were watching a
performance of heartache in motion. Bones melted into liquid yearning,
a broken couple striving for goodness. Wishing things were better,
even when you’re seemingly at your best. A desire for what you both
deserve, versus what you got. Two vines that grew together and
tangled up so uniformly that neither one can tell where one ends and
the other begins. A finale, both of the season and of love.

At the end when the audience poured every drop of their souls into a
standing ovation, Sam clasped your hands together as you both waved
to your fans, his fingers intertwining tightly with yours to tangle himself
with you one last time.

It was an act. It was not an act.

As always, Sam’s post-performance clean-up follows yours. And as he

emerges now from the bathroom, shirtless with a pair of loose trousers
and hot steam at his back, your attention is pulled away from the vanity
mirror and your makeup. With the pressure of the season finale lifted,
you allowed yourself to cry for the entire span of your shower. The only
thing that’s left is a giant, bold, italicized question mark.

“Sam?” His head stays angled down but he flicks his eyes up at you as
he tightens his belt, eyelashes sticking to his wet, pesky curl, “you…..
deserve so much better than everything that’s happened to you.”
You’re trying so hard to hold back, you really, really are, but he can feel
your upset by the way your chest stutters and your words hollow out,
“and so did I.”

With his gaze trained on yours in the mirror, he crosses the room in a
handful of steps and wraps one arm around your shoulders. Palm
spread out over your chest, his chin rests on your shoulder as he pulls
you close for a warm, tight hug. He slowly rocks the both of you side to
side, his heart pounding against your back, his lips dragging up your
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neck and resting in the soft spot behind your ear. A puff of hot breath, a
message unfolded and smoothed out from a soppy pocket in his heart
as your reflections lock eyes, “no shit, Vivienne.” You melt into his
warm and sticky grasp, desperate beyond your awareness for how
necessary his comfort is right now. His skin is tacky from the shower,
your dress drinks all the little droplets of water from the ends of his
locks. He grips tighter to hum in your ear, to suit the slack in your
bones, before slowly spinning you in his grasp to face him, “now our
work is to try to make peace with it. With ourselves. With now and
whatever comes.”

The kiss from earlier hasn’t been forgotten. It’s as if your mouths
themselves hold a fossilized impression of it, by the way your lips
scarcely skim together and circle back again and again. Like the tricks
on the trapeze, your gazes catch and drop. Catch and drop. Until his
fingertips cautiously brush your cheek, sink back into your hair, tilt your
chin up towards him, “I remember what you feel like, V. I remember
how you taste. The things you said. Your skin when I took your dress
off. We were in the castle. Then we were free fallin’ from the tower,
dying a tiny death. Rien n’est aussi bon ou aussi mauvais que de
t’aimer. Rien n’est mieux que nous.”

And when you breathe “you shouldn’t say things like that” into his
mouth, he doesn’t believe you. He doesn’t believe you because the
pads of your fingers are tip toeing up his arms and your knee brushes
his hip once, twice. He doesn’t believe you because when he cradles
your thigh — your skirt bunching up around your middle as he guides
your leg around his waist — you wedge him tightly against you. He
doesn’t believe you because you’re perching yourself on the vanity and
keeping him close, the reflection of your mutual lure scattering light all
around the room.

“Pourquoi, hmm? Trop méchant?”

“Très coquin.”

His voice softens, “Vivienne…..”

But yours is even softer, “Sam.”

Unlike Sam’s enthusiastic and impulsive spurs of temptation

throughout your romance, he chooses not to make the first move this
time. In fact, he doesn’t even have enough breath to ask for a kiss. His
remorse has swallowed everything whole.

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Instead he stays steady and fixed, the tip of his nose nudging yours
every so often, his stomach swimming in cold acid, his heart punching
his ribs. This time he needs you to tell him that he’s beautiful, valuable,
exceptional. That he isn’t a piece of shit, that he was indeed good
enough for you at one point. That he cast enough sunlight on you so
that eventually, you’re going to miss the heat. Sam’s swaggering
ambition is one that can only be pioneered through an unlimited chain
of gloom; when one has reached the end of their rope, their fingers
slipping through the frayed knots in the madness of seeking
redemption. He needs you to speak to him with your own decisive
action, on your own hungry accord, even if it is the last time he’ll hear
it. And he begs from inside by staying resolute in his sweltering
proximity and looping the desperate, silent phrase between his ears
over and over again;

I can’t eat. I can’t sleep. Please kiss me, even if it’s just one time, so
that I can properly wither into the sand below the rocks and shells and
crashing waves.

The charged pause in the stuffy room is suffocating. It’s ten seconds,
it’s a never-ending moonless night.

And the moment you bridge the gap between your mouths and fold
your lips together with a sinful little hum, the golden key unlocks the
pain in his heart and sends it spilling out into his stomach and the floor
as it floods the entire dressing room. Echoing back your tender cry, his
fingers dig into your skin, his nails bite little pink melon rinds before
trailing down your back and up your thigh all at once.

Your hands are everywhere; clawing at misplaced shadows of love and

flimsy fabric and handfuls of hair. Your tongues peek out to sweep
together again and again, until your appetite seizes control and you’re
sucking his into your mouth with a moan, blindly fumbling with his belt
and then the button on his trousers to pop it open and pitch them down
to his ankles.

Through his heavy breaths you can just make out his frantic question of
“yeah? Okay?” as he presses his thumb to your clit over the heat of
your panties. He draws back an inch just to wait for your nod,
acknowledging your approval with a slide of your underwear and a
finger running through your groove. He answers your little whimper with
a purr, “good girl.”

“Are we sure?”
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Coolly, he sinks his thumb inside of you, tracing your excitement all
along your folds and your sensitive knot before sinking inside of you
again. Over and over, “fuck yes. Need it, need you. Are you sure?
Please—”

The moan would have been enough. But the moan mixed with your
flutter of “please” just about turns him inside out.

And as soon as your consent slips past your teeth he’s dropping to his
knees, reaching up your skirt to drag your underwear down your legs
and off your feet. He leaves a winding trail of kisses along the inside of
your ankle and your calf, your knee, a nibble on your inner thigh. His
eyes meet yours from his position of obedience just before spreading
your legs and lowering his gaze. The sight before him is met with a
groan in anguish. In unfairness. In prayer, “look at you. Exactly how I
remembered. Do me a favor?”

You’re trying hard to hide the tremble in your legs but it’s no use, Sam
felt it before you did, “hm—”

Sam collects your hand from the vanity, sucking your fingers past his
teeth and bathing them with his tongue before guiding them to your
swollen bud. The breathing in the room escalates from the both of you
and very little direction is needed for you to pick up on his command,
made clear when you start to rub small circles and choke on your
breath. With a small hiss of “good girl, sweet girl, juste comme ça,” he
sits back on his haunches, admiring the lewd act in front of him and
enjoying it even more because of the illicit surroundings. Your
submission. Your need. Your own hand, doing what he’s willed,
permanently tethering him to the act itself.

He wants you to remember. Each and every time you touch yourself
from now on or allow another person to touch you, that his hands were
there first. Because right now, that’s all he has.

And with a single hungry kiss to your heat, a lick inside of you and up
and down your center, he rises back to standing and maneuvers your
legs around his waist. Tipping you back to prop you up against the
mirror, his hands splay hot and sweaty against the glass on either side
of your head, “don’t stop. Tap on it.” You obey and he sucks air in
through his teeth, his nostrils flaring when he exhales against your
cheek, “fuck. You’re a dream. Birdie yourself for me? Fuck your
fingers.” The tip of his nose draws a line across your cheek, his lips
hovering over yours when you sink two fingers into your heat and allow
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your head to fall back, silently begging him for a taste of your skin. His
face crumples in torment as his teeth scrape against your throat, his
cock throbbing in his briefs and his knees weak, “god, tell me
somethin’, V.”

“I want you to touch yourself, too.”

Sam wasn’t expecting that. He was certain that you would request for
him to take over, to take care of you, to take things further, to fuck you
on this vanity. But one thing is for certain throughout the ups and
downs and unfair turmoil of your relationship: you never fail to surprise
him. And vice versa.

Plus, there aren’t many things that Sam loves more than a surprising
new kink being laid out and discovered, a new exploration in the
bedroom, a new and exciting conquest to keep his mind spinning for
days. And since it’s already spinning, he’s perfectly happy allowing it to
completely fly off the handle.

Sam pitches his briefs to his ankles and kicks them aside, licking the
pad of his thumb and swiping the moisture over your pert nipple as you
continue to thread yourself into a knot underneath him. He spits in his
palm and wraps himself in a fist, slowly stroking his cock against your
folds. Watching as his precome beads out and glosses your sensitive
skin, watching as his broken heart splits open and cries for you.

You both work yourselves up into a frenzy, matching each other’s

cadences and moans and throbs and cries, your mouths finding each
other again and again for bleeding kisses. And just when you’re about
to come, Sam pushes your hand aside and takes over, plunging two
fingers inside of you and rubbing your clit with his thumb. Harsh and
loving circles, your core sucking on him tightly, your sensuality eating
him alive.

With heavy, panting breaths, you reach for him and brush his hand
aside, stroking his length in a rhythm that perfectly matches his fingers.
And when you both think you can’t take it anymore and his tip is
hovering dangerously close to your center, bumping up against your
sensitivity and begging for connection, you swipe him through your
folds and fix him with your entrance, “fuck me, Daddy. I need you. J’ai
besoin de toi.”

“Oh god, Cherry. J’ai besoin de toi aussi. I always have.” Both of your
hands drop away when he starts to slowly sink inside of you, his

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nostrils flaring and his jaw dropped as you absorb him inch by godly
inch, “oh god.” Your eyes connect and then he’s burying his face in
your neck with a sob of anguish, his fingers tangling into your hair
before dropping to your throat for a squeeze, “my sweet fuckin’ girl.
You’re everything, baby. Am I hurtin’ you?” He’s not talking about your
body, per se.

“Yes.” You’re not talking about your body, per se.

Sam pouts his bottom lip and whimpers into your collarbone, pumping
into you once with such languid misery it’s as if he were desperately
memorizing the taste, “do I stop?”

“Don’t you dare.”

Gripping your ass in both of his hands, he fucks you with a type of
passion that’s reserved for a single person in a single lifetime. His nose
bumping yours and your hips moving together, your legs cinched
around his waist to keep him locked in your embrace. As you reach the
edge in solidarity, your strides get longer and his get sloppier, his dirty
talk and his praise and his pleas and moans mix with yours until he
slaps a palm over your mouth. You cry into his hand and he blubbers
into your neck, your highs mingling and coating each other in honey,
your core squeezing him tight and draining him of everything he has to
offer.

A sweaty heap of melted love on the vanity, you cup his cheeks and lift
his face, your glassy eyes skimming over one another’s expressions
until you both dive forward for a kiss. For sobriety and for harmony.
And each time either of you pull back for a breath, you make sure to
utter the one thing that will forever break you and keep you together.

Je t’aime, je t’aime, je t’aime.

“You know how when you’re thinkin’ of the last place you left somethin’
after you’ve moved or demolished a fuckin’ house. You know exactly
where it would be so long as everything was the same? That’s you.
This beautiful, perfect, untouchable, shining treasure of my past that I
can’t reach because everything around you is destroyed and changed.
You’re burned on the edges. And it’s all my fault. I’ve demolished our
house and you’re buried and I’m so remorseful that I can barely fuckin’
stand it.”

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It all happened so fast. Making love, the season finale, your whole
entire relationship.

After you and Sam pulled your clothing back on and pulled yourselves
together, he carried you to the couch for an exclusive velvet-dream-boy
moment. Because in all honesty, neither of you knew what would
happen after you stepped foot from this dressing room.

You pluck the cigarette from between his teeth and suck a drag of
sweet smoke to the back of your throat, “yes, I know exactly. And I
don’t know how many times I have to tell you that this isn’t all your
fault. I just….. need some time, I think—”

Clyde is gettin’ shit-canned? Why? What happened?

Sam pinches his eyes closed and hugs you closer, nuzzling your face
into his shoulder and sweeping his fingertips up and down your arm,
“nah, you don’t understand.”

“Can you help me understand then?”

“I—” Sam half laughs and half sobs into his closed fist before running
his fingers through his sweaty hair, “can’t. I can but I can’t. ’Cause I
dunno myself. But I think I fucked up.”

“Are you being vague on purpose?”

“I dunno anymore.” Sam grips your throat and tilts your mouth towards
his, sealing your lips together in a kiss and humming on your tongue,
“oh god.” It’s not like he’s necessarily begging you for mercy, but rather
whatever ghostly entity is in charge of all of life’s pain and suffering,
“please don’t make me say it.”

Inhaling another drag of his cigarette, you hold the butt of the smoke to
his lips so that he can help himself to one as well, “say what? You owe
me one.”

“Vivienne—” You shake your head and Sam mentally curses your
beautiful stubborn nature; a ram butting up against his wobbly dam
over and over again until you finally manage to short circuit everything
within reach. Entire cities if you could. “’Kay. Look, I….. I dunno what I
did, but I think I fucked up big time, alright?” His heartbeat speeds up
so much that he’s certain you can feel it and hear it, “a… d... I think
your job is on the line.”

“What?”
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A knock on your dressing room door is followed by a verbal warning

from a technical director, “Mr. Buchanan has requested to see you both
in his office ASAP, Marvels. He told me to wait and usher you. Be
ready in five or he’ll send a guard.”

You sit up so fast that stars dot your vision, “Sam….. what’s
happening?”

But he tries to pull you back for one last slice of heaven, “I miss you,
baby. Please—”

Scrambling from the couch, you glance around the dressing room for
answers but there aren’t any, “what do you mean my job is on the line?
How do you know? How long have you known? Are you sure? I
mean…..” You lick your lips and realize you’re not breathing, but the
realization is useless because you couldn’t breathe right now if you
tried, “because we were together? Maybe it’s nothi… g.…. I... we just
signed contracts last week, don’t you remember?” The stares and the
whispering from circus members during rehearsals starts to glow
angrily on the fringes of your memory, “maybe it’s just a warning or a
slap on the wrist or maybe it’s completely unrelated. Maybe he’s
congratulating us on the season. Right? It could be anything.”

Contrary to your movements, Sam slowly rakes his fingers through his
hair. He creeps from the couch, takes three steps across the room,
sucks his fingers into his mouth and extinguishes your candle. With a
slack jaw, you raise an eyebrow at him, but he keeps a straight face,
“it’s all my fault.” The scent of snuffed flame seeps through the room.

“What is? Please—”

“I dunno. All of it.” He gestures towards the door, “after you.”

Sam can hear his blood pumping in his ears on the escorted walk to
Rusty’s office. The walls in the hallway spin. He tries to swallow, but
nothing will go down. His hands hang by his sides, clammy and
useless. Right as you reach for the knob on Rusty’s door, Sam grabs
your wrist and spins you towards him, voice strangled to an
extinguished slip of cool smoke, “please forgive me.” He taps your
bottom lip, his gaze following his fingers from your mouth as they
disappear into your hair. Regardless of who sees or hears, he asks,
because this could very well be the last time he even has an
opportunity, “can I kiss you?”

“What? No. Sam—”

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“Just one. You’re a real good kisser, y’know? Did I ever tell you that?”

The tips of your noses brush as you nod your assent and consent as
one, his affection breaking through your gesture when he swaps
between slowly kissing your top and bottom lip, his tongue slipping in
for a sliver of worship just before drawing back. He sponges his lips to
his fingertips and presses them to yours, flicking his gaze to the
gawking TD and then kissing you once more with a soft whine and a
wet rumble on your skin, “this is gonna be fucked up.”

Your long, fixed stares are searching. For truth, lies. For answers.
Instructions on how to rewind time.

But that’s impossible.

I’m sorry.

I’m sorry.

I’m so sorry.

Rusty is reclined in his chair when you step into his office, pulling a
black cigarette from a matching slim case, lighting the end and whirling
a cloud of thick licorice into the room. He nods at the both of you and
gestures to the chairs on the other side of his desk, to which you obey
without dispute, “Marvels. An excellent performance to cap off the
season, congratulations to the both of you. I didn’t expect any less.”

As polite as ever, you push through your feelings of pure dread and
existential dilemma and regard him with a hesitant smile, “thank you,
Mr. Buchanan.”

“Cut the shit, Rusty. Why’d you call us in here?”

“If that’s what you prefer, we’ll jump right into it then. Your friend Tex
became a bit brave and mouthy during our Saturday evening post-
performance celebration. He was so kind as to let me, as well as the
entire organization, in on the secret of an ongoing affair between the
two of you.”

Sam curls his fingers into a fist and props his forehead against it, his
rage boiling from his toes and slowly creeping up his body, one
hundred cells at a time. That explains why Tex showed up at The Pink
black-out drunk that night; he had spilled classified, dangerous
information that he had no ownership or certainty of, and with nothing
to lose, stumbled over to the beach to confess everything to his long-
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lost friend. Drunk and spilling secrets all fucking night. Just before
punching Sam in the face and in turn, getting his own face smashed on
the hood of his van.

“To be truthful, I was so shocked to hear the news at first that I didn’t
believe it was true. You are much too classy a young woman to waste
your time with someone like Sam. His reputation far precedes him.
You’re simply too good for him, Ms. Surefire.”

You don’t have to look at Sam to know that his head has fallen, that his
stomach is in knots, that his jaw is clenching over the spoken reality
that he’s feared all along. But the truth of the matter is, this is one
person’s opinion. And an opinion that has zero knowledge, zero
credibility and zero precision.

“With all due respect, Mr. Buchanan, I already have a father. And I find
it to be a shame that your sight is monopoly-driven, antiquated and skin
deep. Sam showed up for rehearsals a week earlier than medically
advised after a serious accident that left him comatose and amnesiac.
Everybody here, and all around the world, respects him with
unshakable recognition for his efforts. It doesn’t take binoculars to see
integrity when it’s sitting directly across from you. We all deserve a little
oblivion. All of us. Regardless of the past and what one person might
think.”

Vivienne fucking Surefire.

The tense silence in the room is broken up by Sam nudging his foot
against yours, once, twice, before dropping his hand out of Rusty’s line
of sight to brush your pinkies together. Goosebumps dart up your arm,
your belly twinkles with starlight. Hopefully Rusty doesn’t notice the
blush heating your cheeks, but you know Sam does.

“I warned you there would be repercussions. I promised you I would

take action. We met more than once about this, to ensure the fact that
you were falling in line and you explicitly told me on several occasions
that nothing was transpiring. Don’t act so surprised, White. This is
yesterday’s papers. I warned you, clearly, that you would lose a partner
if this charade ensued.”

Keep your rod in your pants, White.

And just like that, the memory that had been missing that Sam has
been clawing inside of his brain for twenty-four hours reappears. He

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doesn’t have to even lift his head to feel your rabid, livid stare piercing
his skull. And he wouldn’t dare.

“I’m aware that we’ve just signed contracts, but if you’ll read the fine
print, you’ll find that the employer can choose to terminate a position at
any given moment if stipulations were broken.”

“Sam?”

Sam’s face falls into his palms and he speaks through the cracks in his
fingers. He doesn’t dare look at you, because he’s a liar. A fucking liar
that murders everything good, “je suis vraiment désolé. Je suis
vraiment désolé. Dieu, s’il te plait, Dieu. Pardonne-moi, Vivienne. Je
suis vraiment désolé.”

“You both signed a contract promising no fraternization between

employees of the circus. It is strictly forbidden and consistently taken
with grave seriousness, regardless of your status in the company.”

And if I don’t?

“I managed to turn a blind eye for a while, considering your impeccable

and nightly sellout performances. But your friend Tex has been very
adamant for weeks about your health suffering because of all this.
Turns out he was right.”

Doesn’t matter. You fucked up. Your secret’s out. It’s over. Tell Clyde
to start looking for a new gig. You’re both getting what you deserve
now — a disaster.

You’re staring holes into his profile. Like speckles on an egg or seeds
in a strawberry, each word has a lump of tears dotting your flesh,
“comment as-tu pu me faire ça?!”

“And when he pickled himself on Murky Lagoon and told the entire
circus what’s actually been carrying on behind closed doors for
months, I had no option but to take swift, immediate and permanent
action. As per our agreement back in June of this year.”

Then you can kiss you precious partner goodbye.

It sounds gruesome. The shrill bleat of your voice bouncing off of every
wall in the stuffy, hot room. It’s simply gory, “Sam?!”

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“Je suis horrible. S’il te plaît, pardonne-moi, Vivienne. Je t’aime, je

t’aime. Je suis un gosse. J’ai fait une erreur. Je suis désolé…... je suis
désolé.”

“So, I’m sorry.” Rusty brings his cigarette to his lips, black and horrible
and offensive, the smoke snaking between his fingers and through his
mustache, “you’re fired, Sam.”

With two audible, harsh sucks of air past two equally shocked mouths,
the air turns sticky with tension. No one breathes for several seconds.
With your fingertips pressed to your lips and Sam’s palms frozen and
white knuckling the arms of his chair, a dull ring passes from your brain
and through his.

“You explicitly pursued a relationship I’d warned you against, you’ve

gotten into several fights during your residency here, one of which was
on theatre grounds. I can’t trust your injuries, your motives or the
stability of your brain. You’re a walking liability. Who knows how many
times this will happen in the future? You’re erratic and unreliable. A
liability. Your role is being replaced. We will be holding tryouts for
Vivienne’s new partner in two weeks.”

Sam hadn’t even bothered to consider the alternate scenario. That your
career was safe and his was the one that’s ending. Him and his filthy,
narcissistic ego had it backwards this entire time. A pariah who has
become professionally exiled and generously brought the title upon
himself.

Two lovers torn in half by a thunderbolt of revelation; a mountain of lies

and a planet of oversight. A cloud cover of bad luck and a drizzle of
bad timing. A fucking mess. The dusty, leather-bound proverbial book
of your love slams closed. Your place in the story is lost, the end of the
novel is left incomplete. Your partnership, your devotion. The Flying
Marvels, Sunbaby and Cherry pie. It’s over.

The entire room turns white. It flips between television stations and
catches between radio signals. The San Andreas Fault shifts, laterally,
sucking up Sam’s chair and you and Rusty and the theatre and
California itself, saving Sam for last. He freefalls down a dark tunnel
into a depression and self-hatred that seems as though it’s bound to
last permanently, a blackout which whispers to him that his father was
right and Rusty was right, Tex was right, you were right. Indy’s dead,
bloody, broken body was right. A murderer, an assassin, a criminal and
a thief. Someone who squashes harmless snails with their protective
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shells and daffodils with their trusting beauty and human beings with
their innocence for the fucking hell of it, because he’s too busy telling
himself that the only thing that matters is the here and now. When in
fact, the only thing that matters is the past and the future. Because you
can’t have now without the past. And you can’t have the future without
now. Now disappears every second, but the past and the future stretch
on forever in opposite directions. And he has ruined your past and your
future. He has ruined his past and his future. He has ruined Indy’s past
and Indy’s future. So why is he still allowed to roam the Earth, now?

This tunnel is savage and it’s precisely what he deserves, for

everything that he has done and will do, both in the past and the future.
A massacre.

“And don’t even think about leaving in solidarity. Sam will be telling
everyone that he’s relinquishing on his own accord, or I won’t hesitate
to expose him to the world for what he truly is: a liar, a violent, abusive
murderer and a careless womanizer. Your work visa will be revoked
first thing in the morning and if I hear of you even sniffing around
Malibu, I’ll call the police.” Rusty points a finger directly at your chest, “I
can guarantee that you’ll never have another job in the entire
entertainment industry if you forgo your contract here. And I’ll sue you
straight into the ground. You’re here for one more year, minimum. Any
questions?”

You manage to choke some sort of defense through the crushing

pressure in your lungs, “you can’t punish us like this. We’ve done
wonders for your business and this is how we’re treated? I’ll go directly
to the press—”

“Do you really think they’d listen to your nagging? You’re a woman.
Your words and your empty threats mean less than nothing. You’re just
a circus performer. Disposable. Like Sam, but even more so. I’d love to
see you even try to bring this empire down. I suggest you keep your
mouth closed if you want to maintain this job that I’m graciously
allowing you to have, throughout all of your ignorant and blind
disobedience. Don’t break your ankles before you even have your foot
in the door. They’re weak enough as it is.”

All you can do is look at Sam. All he can do is look at you.

Sam is a teakettle the iota before it boils. He extends his index finger
and pushes Rusty’s ashtray off his desk, thick black ash that smells of
musky licorice floats down in its path. Without looking at you or Rusty,
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Sam springs up from his chair and out of the office, through a crowd of
people celebrating the season finale in the hallway, drinking, hugging
and laughing. But he has no occasion to celebrate. Sam’s finale looks
and sounds much, much darker than this.

Again.

Two days pass. Two days spent lying in bed suffocating on misery and
trying to wrap your head around how instantaneously everything has
crumbled around you. There aren’t enough words to attach to the
melee of emotions that war against each other; the worry and the
sadness, the maltreatment and the betrayal, the heartbreak and the
trauma. And above all of this, you couldn’t help but feel ravaged into
near-extinction when you tried to imagine how Sam must be feeling.

And you can’t tell if you were shocked or struck with a deadly bolt of
lightning when you received a phone call on Thursday morning from
none other than Sam himself, rasping firmly into your ear, “meet me at
Banana Split in ten. If you’re not there, I’m breakin’ your door down. I
have nothing to lose, Vivienne.”

Sam is already there when you arrive, leaning up against the bark that
once represented a mutual meeting ground, a neutral territory between
your duplex and the theatre. It started off so positive; a landmark of
clean-aired respite, the place where you could finally take a full breath
after a day of rehearsing and performing. And now it’s so dead that
you’re surprised it hasn’t rotted and tipped over with Sam’s weight
propped on it. Dressed in black from head to toe, just as he did when
you’d first met him. When he was still mourning Indy’s death. When he
was mourning the prospect of having to work with a partner again. And
now here he is, mourning the product of his very accurate supposition.
All those months ago.

“We came, we saw, we dunno.”

“Hey.” Your approach is coupled with a small, stubborn chuckle, “if I

didn’t know you any better, that phone call would have been a really
scary threat. Are you okay? I’ve never felt that level of concern before,
honestly.”

“Fuck off, I’m super scary.” The pink smoke from his cigarette and the
dulling light from his eyes are the only thing colorful about him. Beside
his feet lie your roller skates in the grass, along with a small pile of your
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records and in his hand is a pink envelope, sealed closed and stuffed
full with paper of mysterious nature. He had thought about keeping the
Nina Simone records all to himself, but then decided that he can’t listen
to them because it’s too painful. And besides, he plans to sell his van
and everything inside of it. Except for the heart-shaped locket and the
Frank Sinatra mugshot, because a reminder of the crimes of love and
unstoppable passion is one that he should never forget. “Another year,
another death. This is exactly what I was fuckin scared of, V.”

Everything that you grew to love about Malibu is standing before you
and surrounding you like a pink snow globe, a bubble of despair and
sadness, shaken up violently and settling with newly shaped debris. It
appears to be a happy contained memento, but soon it’ll be a figurine
that represents a homesick point in time as it sits on a shelf in your
memory, collecting dust. The ocean off to the west, the palm trees
craning north, The Pink to the south. Your sunshine, rising in the east,
about to disappear away beyond the horizon. Malibu, California, 1965
written on the golden, scalloped-edge plaque. A whole year of your life
that could be packed away neatly once it’s been processed and you’ve
moved on. But it won’t be neat. Because you don’t want to move on.
But you don’t have a choice.

“Sam?” You move closer and tap the pack of cigarettes rolled up in his
sleeve. He wordlessly honors your gesture, slipping one out and then
lighting it for you with a match, “was I….. just another one of your
escapes? Something to bury yourself from, like a mountain of sand to
hide your face in until reality washed it all away—”

His annoyance is drawn on every inch of his face, “no. Fuck you. Fuck
that. No. You’re actin’ like I orchestrated this entire thing from top to
bottom.”

“Subconsciously, maybe?”

“Vivienne, I hate to break it to you, but fantasizin’ about someone every

second of every day and fallin’ head first into a cave of obsession isn’t
planned and it’s not clean. And it’s the best fuckin’ escape from reality
I’ve ever felt, because I was actually one-hundred percent drowning in
hot, brazen reality. I’ve never felt that focused or compelled before.
You purified every corner of my life. I despise that it was washed away.
I despise that you can’t remember all of our decent moments with the
same sparkle because it’s tinged with pain now. Both of our memories

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were stolen. I wish you still wanted my face buried in you. I wish I could
fuckin’ bury myself in you forever.”

“It was so abrupt. I started to question my own sanity. It’s just hard to
believe that it was real because everything feels so different now.”

“Look who’s talkin’. Listen….. it’s still me. Still weird. Still gross. Still
me. It’s just that now I’ve hurt you, so you’re seein’ me differently. I’m
not blamin’ you. I would too. I’m the same color just in different light. I
blame myself, even though it’s not my fault either. I’m broken and I
broke you. I hate it. Just feels li… e... we laid out every fuckin’ piece of
fine china we owned and cooked a grueling, upscale five course meal
to perfection. You brought out the delicate, thin-stemmed glasses that
are only reserved for once-in-a-lifetime special occasions and then as
soon as we pop the fuckin’ cork on the champagne, I flipped the whole
goddamn table over. I hate it.”

“No, no. Please don’t do this to yourself. This isn’t all your fault, Sam. I
was with you every step of the way. Please, please, please don’t do
this yourself. You are just as much a victim in this situation as I am. I’m
not angry with you for not telling me. I was at first, but now it seems
useless because I think this would have ended the same no matter
what.”

The word “penitent” comes to mind, but Sam doesn’t see it as a

negative aspect of his personality. He feels really fucking sad for his
former, present and future self. And for you.

He’s devastated for you.

The obstacles of his life have curiously composed him into a man of
distinguishable layers. Much like a vibrantly painted Russian nesting
doll, versions and versions of Sam lie within himself, alternating
between gradations of desperate sorrow and bloated joy. Ending on
the tiniest rendition; the mysterious nucleus of self that seems to be the
only part of him that’s still intact with nowhere left to shrink. It’s been
buried deep, covered up by identical yet larger forms, and perhaps
you’re just meeting him for the first time. And maybe he is as well.

All of his protective membranes are shed. It’s still him, but small and
exposed.

It’s still him, but humbled.

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It’s still him, and it’s always been him. Scattered and cohesive all within
a single entity.

It’s hard to hate him. It’s hard not to hate him. It’s hard to love him. It’s
hard not to love him.

You love him.

This whole time, you had thought that he was making you fall in love
with him, but it was a two-way street with similar mindsets in either
vehicle. Neither of you wanted this, but it happened. Because it was
supposed to. Because there was no stopping it.

Your chin quivers and you suck your bottom lip into your mouth,
wishing that pain didn’t have such an omnipresent ability to take up
space. It feels much too big for your body. For your tools. For your
power. It’s a weight that capsizes your head and sends your nerve-
endings barreling off the edge of the abruptly flat earth. Mudslides;
except this time, it’s piles and piles of dirt and dirt and suffering and
suffering.

Sam anticipates and moves in sync with your anguish, pulling you in for
a hug at the same moment that your face drops into your palms, his
chin resting on top of your head. The sting starts inside of your skull,
crawling around your cavities before burning a slip of tears down your
cheeks. Sam tuts and you can’t see it, but his face scrunches up each
time your back heaves and by the third shattered cry, Sam finally
breaks and joins you. Quietly enough that you’re only aware of it when
you feel hot drops of salt water on your collarbone.

“Please don’t leave me.”

“Please don’t ask me to stay.”

“You’re doing it again. You’re refusing to let love in.”

“Yeah? Maybe. Call it whatcha have to call it. But when I get burned, I
have to tear myself away from the fire. It’s not safe for me to be here,
Rusty is gonna have me drafted or some shit. By the way, y’know you
do that shit, too. You do the exact same thing. I’m not bitchin’ about a
single thing that happened between us, I’m just—” He licks his lips and
shuffles his gaze in a circle around your face before locking eyes, “I
fought for you, hard. And even if I hadn’t cracked my head open,
somethin’ was gonna happen between us. I had the hots for you right
away and I think you did, too. There was so much here….. you’re so
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much.” He gathers your hair into a makeshift ponytail and holds it away
from your neck, “Rock Paper Scissors? I win, I leave. You win, I don’t
stay.”

You both throw the same shapes; your scissors saw one another in
half.

“I’m so sorry, Vivienne.” After he calms himself down from crying the
smallest bit, he tilts his chin up and flares his nostrils, “any bats in the
cave?”

You laugh and wipe a couple tears away, but only a couple, because
Sam’s pushing your hands out of the way and swiping his thumbs
across your cheeks for you, “nope.”

“Thanks, babe. How ’bout you?” He pinches your chin and tilts it
towards the sky, “you’re all clear.”

You miss him already.

With a steady hand, Sam extends the pink envelope towards you, “this
is for you.” He circles his finger around his ear like a propeller blade,
“after I got a rush of memories, other things started comin’ back slowly,
y’know….. and every time I remembered something about us, I wrote it
down. After things arranged and cleared out a bit, I started talkin’ to
you. Some of it is a fuckin’ mess, all out of order and crocked. Just like
my mind. It started as a tactic meant to keep track of shit and help me
sort out my brain, but then I made it out to you. I want you to have it. In
case you forgot about us for a minute, too.” He acquaints himself with
the curve of your lips, the sad pout, the soft glisten. His eyes tear
through yours and then land back home, painful and hungry, “kiss,
please.”

Your palm is warm and heavy on his chest when you lean forward and
tuck your nose beside his, your breaths stalled when he closes the gap
to slip them together. Soft and loving. A clear, sad statement wrapped
up in a Cupid’s bow and a pink little whimper. Timid on the break, a
sweep of his eyelashes on your cheek, “thank you for my kiss.”

You whisper his line back to him, “kiss, please.”

His eyes glass over with tears before he pinches them closed, “please.”

The second kiss turns hot and heavy after a few pecks, after a couple
sweeps of tongue, after he palms your breast and pushes you up

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against Banana Split. Your hums and mewls mix and mingle in the
salty air and the sensual tension, his fingers wrapping around your
throat as he murmurs into your mouth that you’re good, that you’re
beautiful, that you’re Cherry. His Cherry. And then he’s pushing back
and swiping the belly of his nose with the back of his wrist, “’kay. Let’s
just….. reel it in a bit so I’m not leavin’ Malibu with a pinky.”

You weave your fingers with his and walk him to his van, closing the
door for him after he piles himself in and leaning on the open window,
“I miss you, Sam.”

“I miss you, baby. I never did figure it out, huh?”

“Figure what out?”

“Treat you right. Be good enough for you. C’mere.” You lean closer and
his palm is cupping your cheek as soon as you’re face to face with him,
“your eyes look real pretty when you cry. In a devastating way, y’know?
Like finding one perfectly preserved object in the rubble of a fire.” Sam
clicks his tongue and taps your chin with his knuckle, “smolders.”

“Will I ever see you again? Are you fleeing forever?”

“I gotta tell you somethin’. I saw you that time, Cherry. When you came
to the theatre early and you thought you were alone. You danced The
Dying Swan and I could see that your ankle was botherin’ you all over
your face. It hurt, but you did it because you love it and you did it
because you had to. That’s what I’m doin’, babe. Dig?”

It’s clear that he isn’t asking for your permission, but rather your
obedience.

His perfectly executed roundabout answer leaves you unsatisfied, but

that’s exactly how he’s always operated and you know that about him
and you love that about him. Even if you hate it.

“’May the bridges I burn light the way.’”

You shake your head, tears burning your cheeks but there’s no use in
trying to hide or stop them, “this isn’t your fault. I just want you to know
that.” A sharp sob wrecks both of what’s left of your hearts, “I can’t do
this without you. I don’t want to. I don’t know how.” It feels like you
simply can’t exist in Malibu without Sunshine to help you fly.

“You have to.”

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“Sam.”

“Vivienne.” His thumb traces your jaw, his eyes are the entire ocean,
his lips look as sweet and pink as the cotton candy smoke that pours
from them, “you’re fuckin’ tough. You always have been.”

Both of your hands cup his cheeks, “I just have to know one thing.
Would you have still pursued me like this if you’d known that it was
your own career on the line rather than mine?”

“Yep.”

His short response is clear cut, but it only opens the doors to more
questions, “so….. everything would have been the same? You’d have
kept it a secret from me and gone for what you wanted, regardless of
the consequences?”

“Yep. Can I ask you somethin’?”

“Yes.”

“Would you’ve done that for me?”

“Honestly?”

“Don’t even think about fuckin’ lying.”

“In the beginning, no. But had I known it would be like this, yes. I
wouldn’t change a thing, Sam.”

“Then try to just be grateful it happened the way that it did.” His eyes
flick to your mouth and back to your sad stare, “lots to think about.”

“You’re really leaving? Right now….. like this, for good?”

“It’s better. Trust me. You’ll thank me one day, after you stop hatin’ me.
Neither of us are healthy for the other right now, yeah? We’re broken.
We won’t be able to find what we’re looking for in this landfill. Any
treasures have been ransacked by wild animals. Love yourself if you
can. Reflect. Feel. Think a whole fuckin’ lot. Think as much as you can.
Think until it drives you completely insane. Welcome it all. Then you’ll
start to crawl out of this hole, you’ll start to feel better. Surround
yourself with people and gain new narratives, new experiences, new
opinions. Grow. That’s what I’m gonna do at least. I realize now that I
wasn’t done drivin’ myself crazy when we met. I wish we met at a
different time….. I would’ve sacrificed anything for you. But right now I

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can’t. If the truth was in my head all along, I would’ve found it by now. I
have to forgive myself and accept the person I am, not the person I will
be one day in the future. I have to learn that it’s okay to not be okay.
We both need different guidance, V. We’re changed people. There’s no
going back. I have to be selfish right now, for both of us.” He kisses you
again, slowly, memorizing your taste and your agony, “how lucky were
we, though? The few months we did have were a total dream, yeah?

The compassion isn’t in your word, but rather your eyes, your mouth,
your heart, your softness, your integrity, “yes. So much so that it
doesn’t feel real.”

“Unreal. I love you forever.”

For the last time, you squeeze his cheeks and pucker his lips out for a
kiss, your eyes devouring one another as you take two steps away
from his van towards Banana Split where all of your parting gifts lay;
your skates, your records, the envelope than you somehow have to
gather enough bravery to tear open, “I love you, Sunshine. Be good.”

He taps the exterior of his door twice before starting the ignition, Marvin
Gaye coming to life on his turntable just before he slides his
sunglasses onto his nose. You watch his van rumble down the PCH,
his fingers held out of the driver’s side window in the shape of a peace
sign, a puff of pink smoke trailing along beside him. Sam’s van grows
tiny like a toy car flicked into the horizon by a careless child, pushed
forward by the directionless wind. The sun, the ocean, the bleached
pavement with its yellow stripes and white stripes and invisible arrows
swallow him whole. Always following the Sunshine. Or perhaps always
staying one step ahead of it. He’s gone.

Right before Sam came to say goodbye to you, he made sure to leave
a small parting gift on Tex’s beloved ’61 sage green Thunderbird; now
complete with a gas tank full of sugar, four slashed tires, torn off
windshield wipers and side mirrors, kicked in headlights and bologna
slices baking to the windshield and eating off the exterior paint under
the hot California sun. He easily jimmied the lock on Tex’s front door
while he was asleep, hiding frozen shrimp in his hollowed-out curtain
rods and then releasing half a dozen rats that were meant to be snake
food into his home. A boxcutter easily cut a giant square out of the
middle of his living room carpet, exposing the asbestos underneath.
The final touch was a quick spritz of pink spray paint on his front door,

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something to concisely portray his character to any curious neighbors

and passersby.

Rat fink

And then again on his mangled car.

Cunt

After nosing around some of Tex’s friends at work, he easily obtained

Riff’s address and left his red Dodge Charger with nothing except a
silent set of freshly snipped brake lines. His only regret was that he
hadn’t done it sooner, but he supposes now is an appropriate time
considering he has less than nothing to lose. Sam can’t flee a place
without leaving a bit of sizzling sunbeams and fierce sugar in his wake,
after all.

Like a dandelion seed. Designed to detach and float on, wherever the
wind takes it. Gracefully, like a dancer with its arms held above its
head, doing exactly what nature intended, spreading beauty wherever
it may land.

It was worth it. The pain of growth, the pleasure of growth. It was worth
it.

Besides, what’s the point of falling in love if it doesn’t destroy

your life a little bit?

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The Pink Envelope

Cherry,

Honey.Vivienne fucking Surefire.

Cherry. That was the first thing I thought when I found this red-hot
heart locket buried in my sheets. That fucking headshot changed my life.
It’s like past me knew I would need it to complete the current puzzle. It
led me to you, it led me away from you, then it led me right back to you.
Thanks, past me. Thanks, past you, for keeping it directly under my
nose. Pressed up against my heart, warm and alive. Cherry.

Memories fill my bucket. I drain it and it refills mechanically. Slosh,

click, tip, pour, fill. Slosh. Pour.

Je suis tombé amoureux.

I am mourning you like the fucking dead.

I nabbed your headshot from your portfolio the same day you first
admitted you were injured. I needed to see for myself that Rusty was a
piece-of-shit liar. He never told me about your ankle and he never
planned to, you know. He kept your portfolio under lock and key on
purpose. He knows I would’ve fled the country if I’d found out one
second before I finally did — I was too invested by then. My perception
of you changed a lot after that. You became my responsibility. Maybe if
I’d treated Indy that way from the start, she would still be alive today.

When we were thrown together, I was afraid to get close to you. I was so
fucking scared of you, of myself. The only way I could let you in was by
teasing you, by feeling the tingles in my fingertips when we touched but
keeping the sensation to myself, by hiding your headshot in my wallet. I
knew the second you saw it and then I knew I had to make it stop before
it got out of control. But then I hit my head and my heart started calling
the shots. And it got out of control.

And I’ll never regret it. And I hope you don’t, either.

You snort when you laugh. I know I don’t need to tell you that, but
maybe you’d like to know that it’s extremely persuasive.

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You stifle all of your sneezes and I think it’s just because you were raised
to be that polite. You stick your finger in my open mouth when I’m
yawning and I think it’s just because you were born to be that evocative.

There’s a particular way that your hair looks in the mornings. It’s not
messy or dirty, but seasoned. Backbone and ease. A protagonist in a
novel settling into a place of comfortable chaos. In your bed, you sleep
in your underwear. A nightgown. Teeny baby little fucking shorts.
Sometimes topless, always with a silk sleep mask to prevent wrinkles or
some shit. But in my bed, you sleep in nothing but my underwear. You
kick the sheets onto me and make me sweat, then the sheets usually end
up on the floor and you end up curled into my stomach like a baby
kitten seeking warmth. You told me I snore, but I still don’t believe you.
I haven’t yet told you that you snore, but you do. Sometimes. Only in the
mornings. Sunday mornings usually, crashed out on your tummy with
the sun all over your legs, after a week of performances and after our
dates. After a couple glasses of champagne and a couple joints and a
couple orgasms. Surprise, snore baby.

Orange juice right from the carton. A swear jar that never materialized.

Kiss the back of your neck, cuddle you from behind. Strawberry honey
scented hair.

We had a fight at that palm tree. We loved a lot at that palm tree. I
spent a lot of time dreading our goodbyes at that palm tree. I spent a lot
of time waiting for you to show up at that palm tree. I spent a lot of time
kissing you against that palm tree. I spent a lot of time thinking about
kissing you against that palm tree.

You always seem to know when my back itches. Your nails are like
sorcerers.

Some things I’ve seen you get emotional about:

- Burnt toast

- Toast that isn’t burnt enough

- How small a lizard’s eyes were

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- An episode of “I Dream of Jeannie” where she started to vanish

because she was sad that she didn’t know when her birthday
was

- Spilling hot chocolate on your skirt

- Sunflower petals that were singed by the flame of your candle

- The song “Cloudy” by Simon & Garfunkel

- A miniature tea set

- Beau eating a spider

- An ambulance siren

- Charlotte biting the big one at the end of Charlotte’s Web

- The last bite of cantaloupe falling off your fork

- Cigarette ash on your lounge carpet

- An Ipana commercial on the radio because the song always gets

stuck in your head

- Dropping and shattering a bottle of your favorite perfume

- Wet sand in the pages of your book

- The stress of sewing tiny, loose beads on your costume ten

minutes to curtain

- Me, anything involving me

Some things I’ve never seen you get emotional about:

- Your ankle

- Your parents

- Your assault

You don’t cry often, hardly at all. I hate to see it. But it’s kind of
beautiful. It gives me the gnarliest bubble guts.

I hope you know and believe that you did nothing wrong with Tex and
Riff. You were a victim and you handled it with the fiercest fucking claws

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I’ve ever seen in my life. I just want you to process that shit, okay? You
might be scared to get in strange people’s cars for a while and might be
reluctant to be vulnerable with someone again, and know that that’s
okay. It’s my fault, too. I should’ve known better; I should’ve picked up
on more signals. I shouldn’t have walked out on you after you’d just
been attacked. Just feel that shit and try to accept it, understand that
you’re smart and tough and that you’re gonna be ready to trust people
again one day, as soon as you start to feel safe again. Tex and Riff are
psychotic scumbags and don’t deserve any of your precious brain space.
Get a restraining order against both of them if you can. Nettie will help
you. Please be safe. Remember what I taught you. Let those fuckers (all
men) know you’re paying attention. I’m so sorry that you have to live
with those repercussions, that you have to live with any of this at all.
You’re too good.

Je t’aime.

The lightbulbs on the Ferris wheel were warm like honey. Your skin
looked really nice with the moon and the wind bouncing off of it. It
surprised me how fucking scared you were in the haunted house. Before
that, I thought your fears were all internal: intimacy, abandonment and
failure. I didn’t tell you this, but I was kind of embarrassed that I
couldn’t pop seven of those fuckhead balloons. But you deserved that
bunny for champing the pier with no fucking knickers on. Pink Bunny.
Light of Love. Jack Rabbit. Hollywood Hells. Funnel cake. Photo booth.
Eat your ass out for breakfast.

Rock, Paper, Scissors.

Holy shit!!! I have the palm tree tattooed on me. Jesus Christ —

I just scanned for any other new fun surprise tattoos and I can’t seem to
find any. Do you know anything about this? What the fuck. Freak me
the fuck out. You should’ve seen my face just now.

“Les bonnes filles vont au paradis.”

“Et bons garçons?” “J’ai toujours été ici.”

I have.

I saw you dancing in your pointe shoes early that one morning. I think it
was “The Dying Swan.” You look so beautiful when you’re frowning,
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when you’re doing something that you love to do, when you’re on your
toes.

I saw you dancing to Jefferson Airplane in your living room after

Chubby’s, too. You kind of suck at dancing in secret. I think because it’s
too perfect to hide behind.

I should have kissed you back that time we were dancing to Marvin Gaye
in practice room two. Now you know why, you know that I was afraid
we’d be caught and we would have ended before we had a chance to
start. But I should have kissed you anyway.

The Cat’s Paw. Golden Pier. The Sweet Hereafter. Temptations. Bunny
Hill. Susie Q’s. The Streamline Cinema. Chubby’s.

Fuck. Chubby’s. That was our first date. You know that, right?

Daddy.

You told those chicks I had the clap because you were mad at me for
fucking around backstage. Fuck, you’re a warrior princess. An Amazon
woman of slightly smaller stature.

Tell me something. I love your secrets.

You get cranky when you’re hungry. You get sassy when you’re angry.
You get singsongy when you’re concentrating. You get talkative when
you’re nervous. You get quiet when you’re worried. You get real fucking
sweet when you’re comfortable.

You’re very sweet in the morning. I love you in the morning. I love us in
the morning.

Saltine eating contests. Skating contests. Licking your waffles to claim

them as my own. Spitting my gum in your palm just to feel your
fingertips. Banana peel boyfriends. Faking deafness to avoid the fall.
Acting annoyed when you cut my yawn short. Using your deodorant to
keep your scent close. Stealing your food to tick you off. Pretending I’m
not madly in love with you.

Je suis fou d’amour pour toi.

You drink martinis slowly. You eat the olives first. You drink Pearls
quickly. You peel the label from the bottle. You drink milkshakes
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affectionately. You eat the cherries last. Champagne makes you hiccup.
Weed makes you horny. Sugar makes you happy. Orgasms make you
hungry. You’re affected by things deeply and it shows.

My sweet girl.

Honey Princess Hour. That’s kind of me and Nettie’s thing, but I’ll let
you have it since she went blabbing behind my back like a typical
squawking bird. We only talked about you anyway. Or actually, I talked
and Nettie listened.

Thousand-degree showers. A cute, mascara-coated trash panda. Kiss,

please. You let me tease the absolute shit out of you. You always do it
right back.

“Empty his pockets and wreck his days, make him love her then shoo fly
away.”

That time you packed your lunch to be exactly like mine, just to fuck
with me. That made me smile for days, whenever I’d think of it.

I felt like a fucking asshole on the first day of practice when you told me
we’d met on the beach the day before and I’d forgotten for a sec. I
remembered after you reminded me. You stuck out like a sore thumb. I
think that’s when you really started to exasperate and provoke me, when
it went from being nonspecific self-loathing to a personal vendetta.

We just had a fight and you’re sitting all the way across practice room
two now, shining me on and pretending to stretch, but I can feel your
broken side eye and broken heart from here. I miss you too, baby. My
drippy Cherry cheesecake, my golden Honey truffle. I know it’s hard for
you to say to me. It’s hard for me also, it’s fucking impossible. We’re
going to be okay, I think. One day. Whenever we stop crying. Think
you’ll ever let me hold you or kiss you again? I feel like I have the
charitable mindset of a child right now, not wanting any of this shit to
be real. So, I will find any way for this not to be real. I read once that
denial is a very strong emotion…..

Please let me kiss you just one more time.

I need it to wake up more memories of us, to remind me of what we’ve

lost, to help me guide the path of who I will become. We need the
closure. We weren’t ready. We weren’t ready for any of it, really. That’s
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why it clapped us so hard. And then we were ripped off. Was it all my
fault? I need your secrets, because now they’re my secrets. We’re
changed now, forever. There are plot twists in every fucking corner of
our lives, like we’re just walking around and around on an ellipse. Every
single footstep is different than the one before it and we’re just trying to
keep our fucking balance.

Okay

Well I’m certainly fucking remembering my conversation with Rusty

now, the one where he warned me to keep my junk filed away. And what
Tex said to me before he sucker-punched me. I had to take a break from
you and write lots of cusses down, about 8 pages worth. They kissed the
ocean as soon as I shredded them. You know why, so I’m not even going
to bring that shit here. Tex told me that he ratted us out and that you
were getting shit-canned. I promised Nettie I would tell you and then I
chickened out. I made love to you instead, like a coward. I was flirting
with delusion that entire time. All I can say is I would do it all with you
again and I would do it much differently. And I’m so desperately sorry
you’re stuck with the aftermath. Just get the fuck out of there as soon as
you can. Avoid Rusty as much as possible and bounce after this next
season. You’ll be glad for it. Any organization would hire you. Don’t
settle. Trust me. You’re going to be really fucking famous one day, just
like you want. Just like you deserve.

I’m glad it’s me who got the boot instead of you. You don’t deserve to be
punished for my omissions.

I’m sorry, Vivienne. I’m sorry. What did I just do to us?

Fuck

I don’t think I’m done writing down cusses…..

Okay —

When we were in our dressing room tonight after the finale, after you
allowed me put my grubby hands all over you, there were so many
things I wanted to say to your face but I couldn’t. Not after you’d let me
love you like that. I wanted to say that I feel like I made everything
about me. You being assaulted, you not wanting to tell me that Tex was
a jackass friend because you felt like it wasn’t your place, your bum

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ankle, waking up scared after we made love, being your lover in general,
the circus, your career position. Your fucking job, your goddamn reason
for living. I made it all about me. I don’t know how, but I did. I took
everything that you were supposed to be, supposed to process and own
and inserted myself right into the center of it all. Didn’t I? Was I good to
you? I’m a complete fucking narcissist. Was I ever good enough for you?
It feels like it’s all I ever wanted and the only thing I’ve tried so hard to
hold on to and I failed. Did I make you happy? Did I support you? Did I
tell you that you’re the best dancer and kisser on the planet?

You are.

But no one can ever love me like you do. You’re too fucking good at it. A
pro.

Five more sunflowers. What did you have for breakfast, Cherry? Kiss,
please.

Slick Daddy Boss.

The mansion swimming pool. A very slow peel of that bra with the
embroidered cherries between your tits. God’s tits. You’re so responsive
that it makes my stomach flip. Did that bozo have a shotgun or did I
make that up?

You’re a paradox of easy touch and impenetrable brick. It’s brilliant, it’s
maddening. It drove me bananas. It kept me sane.

Je t’aime.

You thought it would be a good idea to sneak out of your bedroom for a
wee in nothing but those knickers that go up to your belly button, but
Nettie caught you. I could hear you shriek from the hallway. I choked on
my smoke.

It’s okay, Nettie saw my junk once too. Same scenario, different day. She
wasn’t as nice to me as she was to you.

I knew your roommate’s name was Nettie after the first or second
correction. You’re both just so fun to fuck with. I’m kind of scared she’s
going to come looking for me with cyanide. I won’t accept any food from
her.

Nettie loves you a lot.

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I love Nettie a lot. She’s so yellow, in the same way you’re a deep, warm
red. Wild cherry red.

Sunny. Sunshine. Sunbaby. Sunlight. Sunbeam. Hot Fudge Sundae.

Sunburst. Sunnybunny. Sun.

Sunburn. Sunstroke. Sunblock. Sunk.

Honeysuckle. Honeycomb. Honeymoon. Honeybunny. Honeydew.

Honeyfuck.

Pretty little Honey, got me chasing a Honey fix.

My sweet Honey dreamcake, my warm Cherry pie with caramel ice

cream dripping down the edges. So delicious and you have no fucking
clue. Or maybe you know exactly.

Rough estimates of us (our sins) in numbers:

Joints smoked: 27BAC hovering: .1%

Sunflowers: 305Flying Marvels flights: 72

Stellar fucking blowjobs: 38Buttery alarms: 91

Muffdives: 56. With orgasm: 56Boom boom: 3

Cigarettes smoked: 2,500Calories ingested: 500,000? 1 million?

Children harassed: ~3 — 5 Kiss, please: Forever

Times you used my birth name in anger: minimum 800-1,000Times you

swatted at me: see above Times I cussed: ∞

I never minded our lunch breaks together. I would feel empty if you
happened to not show up some days. After my accident, we moved from
the courtyard to the beach. You’d let me nap inside of your shirt. Your
tummy makes small sounds when it digests. Your belly button is ticklish.
So are your feet. So is your hot box. Before my accident, I couldn’t nap
while you were there. After my accident, I couldn’t nap without you
there.

Je t’aime.

You’re fast on those skates. Velvet legs. A foxy shag on wheels.

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Sneaking around at work. Making stupid fucking faces at you across the
community kitchen until you have to put your back to me to stop
laughing. The storage closet. Our dressing room. The bathroom. The
standing screen. Practice room two. The courtyard. The beach. Fuck.
You’re so sexy. It’s surreal.

You stomp your feet when you don’t get your way. You really need to
work on your mad face. It’s too cute to be convincing.

Singing “Dream Baby” at your window. Cherry banana is an unusual

flavor. I’ve seen the light and that’s why my heart sings.

You know how summer comes to an end and all the leaves start
changing color and shit and you get this dreaded feeling in your guts?
Like you’re losing something forever? Or you’re in for a really long
winter…..? Months and months of gray, snow. No turning back.

Yellow Submarine.

Just remembered the name of the palm tree: Banana Split. We never
officially carved our names into her, but I guess we didn’t need to. She
saw all of our secrets. I carved her name into me instead.

Do I still make you blush?

Riff hits hard. But I’d smash his window a thousand more times if it
meant keeping you from harm. I kinda hope he dies. I really do. I
would’ve killed him if it wouldn’t have gotten me deported. Do you
think it would be suspicious if his car rolled off a cliff…..?

Line up your French fries, eat them in order from smallest to biggest, dip
them in ketchup, eat them in twos. Line up your veggie and fruit slices,
smallest to biggest, savory first and sweet last. Carrots, then cucumbers,
then apples. Then a lollipop. Red tongue. Red lips. Exactly one shot of
Murky Lagoon with pineapple juice after each performance. Just enough
to poke your adrenaline and wake up the hungry kitten. Exactly half a
joint before bed, pink smoke dying in the ashtray. I once saw you wash
down a mouthful of raw carrot sticks with a glass of cold pineapple juice.
You tasted like heaven afterwards, like the sun and the rain. No
tomatoes. No onions. Cherry sours. Hot fudge sundaes. Soft scrambled
eggs. Dark toast with butter. Orange juice straight from your
refrigerator. Peanut butter sandwiches over your kitchen sink before the

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sun has risen. Peanut butter sandwiches as you rush me out the door.
Cherry banana milkshakes with extra whipped cream and extra cherries,
your feet in my lap when your lips pucker around the straw. Tiny stacks
of little silver dollar pancakes. Hot chocolate from a packet, baby
marshmallows on top. Lemon and powdered sugar. Waffles and sticky
whipped cream in my bed. Peanut butter crackers when you’re
hungover. Dry Frosted Flakes straight from the box when you’re baked.
Cheese and crackers on the kitchen floor in our underwear at two in the
morning. You won’t fuck with a banana that has any brown speckles on
it. You love a good lemon. Cherries, cherries, cherries. I still want to try
your Aunt Cleo’s ambrosia salad.

You can’t reach the shit at the top of the cabinet without scooting your
ass onto the counter, but I would always reach over your head and grab
it for you when I saw you struggling. You gave me a kiss whenever I
asked for one. They were always particularly sweet after I’d get you a
teacup.

Here’s a secret: I would imagine you as my wife when you would make
us breakfast, when you would make me sandwiches before I went
surfing, when you let me lick you in the mornings. When you’d sleep in
my clothes. I liked it. I liked the routine. I liked the feeling of gears
churning in a groove. I liked the dependable domestic sensation of it
because I’d never really had a healthy one before.

“…..anyway I just got your beautiful letter and I love you to pieces,
distraction, e… c...”

Eating you out on your kitchen counter. You didn’t want to moan, but
you couldn’t stop it. Your mouth tastes different after you’ve come. Your
body gets soft. Your eyelids droop. Your skin shines.

Je t’aime.

The first time we kissed, I thought I was going to throw up. The first
time I told you I loved you, I thought I was going to throw up, too. I feel
like I’m going to throw up right now.

Making love to you is an out of body experience. It’s permanently

engraved in my muscles. Every couple minutes I get a new reminder —
your hair falling across your face, your brave shiny eyes, that fucking
unreal feeling of you sucking me dry. The second time, gooey and slow.
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My plaything. The third time on the vanity, getting so fucking worked

up that we both came as soon as I sunk inside of you. Jesus fucking
Christ. Try to guess if I have a chunker in my pants right now or not.

Cherry Thunder Fuck.

Sunflowers over every square inch of our dressing room. The smell of a
candle going out. A broken doorknob in my palms. Your skin between
my teeth.

Peeling an orange in bed, arguing over what to do with the rind.

One word: Panthermobile.

I love to imagine you as you are — this perfect fucking angel that
sacrifices her time and her sanity and her sweat to perform elegant, tidy,
grueling routines for the world and make it look so easy. So polite and
gentle, diligent, tough, dependable, creative. No wrinkles in your
clothes, not a stitch of lipstick out of place. And I also love to imagine
you as you are — urging me to go down on you with a single sizzling
stare from across the community kitchen. A flick of eyeliner. A cunning
act of submission. You’re so clean. You’re so dirty. You were only dirty
for me. I hate to imagine you being dirty for someone else. It feels like
it’s just for me. (see: narcissist)

You know as soon as you get what you want, what you want changes. I
guess what I really must want is to self-sabotage. I keep finding new,
exciting ways to do it. I’m really fucking good at it, aren’t I, Cherry?

You’re stunning with smoke between your lips. With teeth in your
words. With honey on your tongue. You taste like summer. I’ll never be
the same and I’m glad.

French pop. French kiss.

That little freckle by your belly button. I did pick a name for her, by the
way, but you can’t have it. She’s my secret. I miss her.

You know you leave folded up love notes inside of all your books? Found
one that said “funhouse mirror. Thanks for the reminder.” And one that
said “confused by Catholic parents — gravitate towards freedom
unlocked in the forces of inner mysteries.” Did I say that to you? I also

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found a grocery list that only had eggs, bread and marshmallow fluff
written on it.

“Don’t stop. Fais moi l’amour, s’il te plait. Please, Daddy. Je t’adore et je
te veux.” You don’t know how long I waited to hear those words and
then they were gone before I could properly taste them. You were gone.

I’d never owned a Nina Simone record before we met. I started buying
them and keeping them around in The Pink just for you.

I wish for you to take my third wish. Go on. Take it.

Did you know The Pink is short for The Pink Sand Castle? My sister
named it when I called her to update her on my move to Malibu. She
worries about me a lot. Can’t wait to catch her up to speed.

Precious fucking cardigan.

Thanks for not letting me get arrested. Twice. Maybe even three times?
The mansion swimming pool, Chubby’s, Riff (twice), playing guitar
outside of your window. And the time that piggie razzed us after you
gave me a jobbie at Bunny Hill. No shit, that’s six. You’re super tight.

We never did figure out how your candles kept going out, did we?

Je t’aime.

I threatened to cut off the TD’s head who barged into our dressing room
and caught me trying to lick you.

Your knockers, my wifebeater. Your sugar bowl, my briefs.

Daddy. You know, you’re the only person I’ve asked to call me that.
You’re the only person I’ve wanted to ask to call me that. Because you
don’t need me to be and I know it and you know it, and that’s why it
feels so fucking good to hear.

You never needed me. I needed you much, much more than you needed
me.

Did I manifest you? I came home on a Sunday afternoon after surfing.

You were leaning against the kitchen sink in your underwear, fully laced,
halfway through one of my cigarettes, three quarters of the way through
Franny and Zooey. Bare toes and long legs. You said you liked to imagine

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how it made me feel as you read it. You said you missed the taste of my
mouth while I was gone. How long will you miss the taste after I leave?

You’re the best dancer in the whole world.

Laying down with your head in my lap when I drive. Trying to catch
your busy feet. Stealing my cigarettes. Lollipop sticks in my ashtrays. I
can still taste them. You sugarcoated my insides.

Oh my god, your fucking dancing.

You think you don’t know what to say. But no one speaks to me the way
you do. I never knew I needed to hear half of that shit until it came out
of your pretty mouth.

Some things you’ve said to me that have stopped me in my tracks: the

ocean is my god. Too powerful to be a person. Almost drown in it, but
not before learning a lesson. Never doubted me for a second. Sunshine
always wins. So smart. Huge dick. Basically Jesus, but hotter and more
important. Thanks for existing. Forever inspiration. Deserve every drop
of praise and every ounce of satisfaction. An idol. In awe. Sexy, really
fucking sexy. No competition. Perfect actually. And you’ve always
thought so. Big appetite, wide eyes, vivid thoughts, restless hands,
sunbeams pushing on pores. Fidgety and all that. Too precious and
sentient to not be conscious for the entire spread of daylight. Fierce
mind needs the short replenishment. Most talented and hottest surfer
you’ve ever seen. Pretty, the prettiest person you’ve ever seen. Could
look at my face forever. Loving, sentient, altruistic. Strong. Brave. A
soldier. Amazingly heroic. Proud of me. Carry a lot, but still considerate
and productive. You admire me. Gallant towards my mum. Good, really
good. Bright, blinding rays of sunshine. World’s collective hope for
spring. The world would be frozen without me. Perfectly predictable and
somehow a complete surprise. I shed light on my pain and turn it into
gold. The ocean is mine. You’re mine. Pretty words that resonate with
the frequency of heartbreak swim around in my belly with pluck and
backbone. Best fucking thing that’s ever happened to you. I look pretty
with my mouth on you. Bad boy. Good boy.

Petite vache.

You telling Rusty off = titillating pandemonium. Keep it fucking coming,

Queen Honeybee. Me next, I don’t give a fuck. That instantly became my
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new sexual orientation. No one has ever stood up for me like that. I’ll
remember it in the afterlife. I really should start calling you Daddy.

I’ll never forget that beautiful, perfect lingo. You tell it like it is, but you
wait for the appropriate time to let it loose. Not many people do. You
make me feel so fucking good. You do such a good job of making me feel
insanely fucking good. (Note use of present tense)

Sunny was rooting you on when you slapped me in my van, you know. I
think he hollered at one point for you to go for the coin purse next.
Bring me to my knees, cripple all my future children. That sort of thing.
And I didn’t tell you this at the time, because I couldn’t, but I was so
fucking proud of how you honest you were in practice room two. I know
that’s hard for you, so thank you. I heard every word even though I
didn’t act like it.

Je t’aime.

You want me to be happy. I want you to be blissful.

There were two stipulations in my agreement to join Rusty’s circus. One

was that I would be promised a solo position. The other was that in lieu
of working animals, he would adopt a bunch of dogs from the local
shelter for morale and soothing. Rusty only followed through with one
of those promises. Take care of Beau for me, bring him home with you
when you leave Rusty’s circus. He likes to be scratched in that one soft
spot behind his right ear. And he loves apples, but he loves them even
more when you give him a piece of the one you’re eating.

Take care of yourself, too. Your spots that need to be scratched and your
love of fruit.

I was cruel to you, even when I thought I wasn’t. Before my accident and
after. Even while we were dating. I have so much to learn. I hope you can
forgive me. I don’t expect you to forget and I understand if you never
forgive me for any of this. I was guarded and then I was reckless. You
deserved more. I’m ashamed. I just didn’t know if it would hurt more to
tell you my secrets or to keep them. Losing you makes sense, but it’s
destroying me.

I was lost. I am lost. I will be lost for a little while. The only time I wasn’t
lost was when we were together.

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I miss you. I miss us.

Please.

You never completely disappeared. I could always feel you burning

somewhere in my throat. When we were going steady, it was like there
was a former version of myself watching my actions through a projector,
screaming and clawing at me with bloody knuckles. I was trying to get
in, but I knew I shouldn’t. It was like that when I first met you too,
except the roles in my head were switched. I was trying to get out, but I
knew I couldn’t. My brain tossed you up and spit you out.

I could have predicted this entire thing happening between us, from
beginning to end. I just knew it would be a disaster. And I tried so
fucking hard to stop it before it started. I lost my head. I truly lost my
fucking head.

I know you won’t understand. I know you’ve hurt. I know you’re hurting
and you will be hurting for a long, long time. But I have to go right now.
I have to. Neither of us could or should do this to each other.

“I want to be the best you’ve ever had. I want to set the bar so high that
you’re ruined, addicted. Hooked for the rest of your life. I don’t want
there to be anyone else that even comes close.” You are. You did. There
won’t be.

The wound, the pain, the scab, the peel, the scar, the fade. Catharsis.

Either way, we were gonna grow a little bit.

I love you so fucking much. I never stood a chance, just like that little
yellow dress of yours. Je t’aime. Tu es si intense, tu es un cadeau de dieu.
Comprends que ce n’est pas facile, mais on en valait la peine. Chaque
seconde. Je te dirais d’être bon, mais tu l’es. Tu es l’amour de ma vie,
Cerise. You taught me that love is the only thing in existence that you
can give away and end up with more of in return.

I’m sorry.

I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.

It’s hard for me to say out loud, so I spelled it out with my tongue so
your body would never forget.

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Think about me. You know I’m thinking about you.

Je suis à toi pour toujours et à jamais.

Xpls, your Sunbaby

Her soft voice lingered- pretty and sweet

I mean, yes, we are sinking, but the music is exceptional

Sadness is a wall between two gardens.

-Kahlil Gibran

She was (is) a pretty girl. Dreamy, really. Mild chaos always accompanied
her, and I could hurt her. So I did.

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The Encore
New York, New York, USA

Late Spring 1968

Two-and-a-half years later

“Focus.”

It’s nothing.

Twenty minutes from now, all you’ll have to do is follow the technical
director from this backstage green room, down the crowded CBS
Studios hallways to the well-lit sound stage where there will be a small
studio audience. It certainly won’t feel like the half dozen video
cameras are even there and that those cameras are transmitting a
signal to hundreds of thousands or maybe millions of Americans from
coast to coast. Maybe you won’t even notice them. Just like always,
you’ll float across the stage on your roller skates and grip the rope, flip
yourself upside down and move your muscles to the soundtrack that
matches the volume and timbre of your level of perfection. And
afterwards, Ed Sullivan will just be a normal person asking you a few
questions in front of a few spectators, a group that shrinks significantly
in size in comparison to what you’re used to performing for.

An appearance on the Ed Sullivan Show; it’s nothing. A cherry cake

walk, a bitter lick at first with an aftertaste that rivals the sweetness of
your lollipops.

Christ’s sake, Melvin. Focus.

But first, you have to get these last few swipes of mascara to cooperate
without painting any more tiny black brush strokes across your cheek.
And then you can do all of those other slightly bigger things, followed
by a much-deserved celebration in your high-rise suite in the Elysee
Hotel in the heart of Midtown. Complete with pancakes or maybe
waffles, piled high with a snow-capped mountain of whipped cream and
your bare toes sinking into the plush, argyle carpet. But this giant mirror
in front of you, surrounded by bulbous and hazy yellow lightbulbs is
reflecting back a painted woman who appears much more confident on
the outside than she feels on the inside.

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In the stretch of the eighteen months after fleeing Russell Buchanan’s

circus, you have become the first and most infamous female roller-
skating aerialist in the world.

Emotional suffering works in mysterious ways. It’s understood that

memories are often blocked in order to process present pain and it isn’t
until you begin to feel safe again that they start flooding back. For you,
this took a couple months of dragging yourself in and out of bed after
Sam’s brain jolted, subsisting on easily-prepared meals such as
sleeves of cheese and peanut butter cracker sandwiches and dry toast
in order to keep yourself from whittling away.

The gamut of distress is strong; from denial to anger to acceptance,

over and over again in that order until you’re driven to the brink of
insanity. Slowly it wanes, the cycles lengthening and shrinking until
finally they dissolve almost completely, making space for mementos
that were at one time blissful but became agonizing to traipse through
in their absence. A meadow full of tall grasses and extraordinary
flowers, hiding secret thorns that shred you to bits on your mental
journey.

You’d immersed yourself in reminders of Sam after he’d left; stockpiling

cotton-candy-flavored Crush loosies on your vanity and unpacking his
box of starched belongings to sleep in his wifebeaters that were left
behind, dancing to rock records in your living room before bed and
snuggling with Beau on your lunch breaks, long swigs of orange juice
straight from the carton in the refrigerator light, green apples and
peanut butter for lunch and sea salt on your face at dawn.

Then you flipped. And when you began to accept that he would not be
coming back to you, you began to slowly avoid these quirks until each
element was completely eradicated from your life, replaced by new
favorite colors and tastes. Things have a habit of feeling good only if
you want them to, after all. And dreams only affect you if you
remember them.

The thing about the Sun is that after it burns you, you tend to stay in
the shade for a little while.

The summer solstice. The height of summer also happens to be the

very same day that the Earth starts to turn away from the Sun, heading
straight through its shedding leaves into winter. You and Sam were no
different.

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It becomes much easier to explain and brand events with the notion of
detachment. And that detachment can only be brought on by time,
because even after you leave something or something leaves you,
there is an emotional lag that stems from the vicious abruptness of it
all. Like the wobble of a top losing its velocity, rattling to a halt that
leaves your ears ringing in the absence of its motion.

After your mind catches up with reality, and after you’ve had the
opportunity to recognize and forgive yourself and attach language to
your experiences, that’s when understanding happens. And that’s
exactly why it’s referred to as a process. It’s long, it can’t be rushed
and it can’t be forced. Any of us are lucky to gain clarity from
retrospection, to stand back and look at the pointillist painting we’d
been closely blotting away at to view the landscape we’ve created with
a little more perspective.

Your detachment throughout the last two and a half years has
presented you with dually hideous and gorgeous images; your fear of
abandonment physically hurling you away from your lover’s body with a
twisted snarl, your beloved career as you knew it crumbling before your
eyes, your mistakes pointing bony fingers in the mirror and cackling at
the obvious aftermath. Sam’s whole entire world shredded to bits in
front of your eyes; his well-earned handful of warm memories that
summer in 1965, his late partner Indy taxing the lizard-like parts of his
brain, his backstabbing best friend, his untrusting girlfriend, the only
career he’d ever known after he was kicked out of his home as a
teenager. It’s a mystery how either of you survived the fallout. Or how
Sam is currently surviving it, if at all. Wherever he is.

The past can be a difficult thing to grapple with, since it relies solely on
our personally-perceived, imperfect recollected bits and pieces. The
future, on the other hand, is nothing but a bleeding heart with a
throbbing lightning bolt stabbed through it. Likely a combination of good
and bad circumstances, but the bad seems to be the scary place that
most of us try to avoid and simply cannot outrun. Fear of failure, fear of
heartbreak, fear of sameness. Like kicking a rock as you walk down the
sidewalk. Cast it away as much as you like, but eventually you’ll catch
up to it.

Our collective hearts drip to the mysterious melody of dread. And seem
to only be momentarily stitched up by the fleeting and indescribable
feeling of love. Love for others, love for ourselves, love for a
circumstance.

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Which would explain exactly why Sam prefers to exist in the present.

In terms of the public, you were questioned nonstop by both the press
and your new partner about the whereabouts and aftermath of your
former partner, with rumors flying about your romantic entanglement
due to the mouth-running of Tex with all of your coworkers. All eyes
were already on you and Sam due to your headlining status within the
company, but once the juicy gossip spilled about what was happening
behind closed doors, it felt like you couldn’t walk down the backstage
hallways without a tight stare hooking you and dragging you
underwater. A constant judgmental, uninformed reminder of what you’d
lost.

In the press, you were slammed for sleeping with Sam for your own
gain in the industry, for being a seductress that caused Sam to be
wrongfully punished — a victim of your feminine prowess that ended
his career. One newspaper source even went as far as declaring you
the reason for his surfing accident, which is nothing but crystal-clear
misogyny at its finest. Most of your coworkers were a little more
understanding than the press however, knowing Sam on a personal
level and having an inside look at the professionalism the two of you
exhibited for months, regardless of a secret affair.

As it turns out, all press is good press, because once yours and Sam’s
names started to circulate with the shadow of a scandal involved, lines
wrapped around the Victory Theatre for a glimpse of the notorious
woman with the ability to simultaneously hide a high-profile romance
and climb the ladder of stardom without so much as a single hair out of
place.

Which, to be fair, is not inaccurate. It just wasn’t as conniving as the

press made it seem.

Rusty did follow through with one promise though, and that was to
keep Sam’s reputation and secret about Indy quiet so long as Sam
made a formal announcement of retiring from the circus on his own
accord. Which he did, perfectly timed with the height of your public
scrutiny, via letter to the Associated Press in November, 1965. With
bravery and ambiguity, he took the blame for the fall of his own career.

In perfect Sam fashion, it was rather vague. But the following day, your
home and your place of work were so quiet in comparison that you
swore you could hear static between your ears. Sam’s abrupt
departure from Rusty’s circus left a giant question mark on everyone,
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regardless of the official announcement he sent to The Associated

Press. The world would just have to settle for mystery for now.

Your name was mentioned exactly one time and was all the damage
control it took to sweep the rumors underneath the rug:

“The world owes my former partner, Ms. Vivienne Surefire, everything it

has to offer. Without her, I may never have flown again. Without her,
none of you will fly.”

You just wish you could’ve properly thanked him.

Immediately following the destruction of your utopian life in Malibu,

you’d begun secretly practicing and preparing for a new course of
action that would navigate you from Rusty’s circus as soon as humanly
possible. An edge that would continue to set you apart from others in
the industry, to keep otherwise women-tinted blinders peeled back for
you to get a leg in. For an entire year while you were still under
hostage to his contract, you spent every moment of spare time at the
theatre for hours before and after rehearsal or practice six days a
week, perfecting new aerobatic skills on your roller skates with a
decimated heart and fingers rubbed raw from the knotted rope.

Just as Mr. Buchanan had pledged, tryouts for your new partner had
begun two weeks after Sam evaporated from Malibu. And just like
Sam, you wore your finest black pieces from head to toe and refused to
look anyone in the eye during tryouts, dismissing people left and right
without so much as glancing at the talent they had to offer. And just like
Sam, eventually Rusty undermined you and recruited someone, a well-
known trapeze artist named Soren who had traveled from Denmark in
search of the exclusive opportunity to work with you.

And just like Sam, you hated your new partner in the beginning. He
represented the lack of autonomy you felt by being forced to remain in
Rusty’s Circus Extravaganza, he symbolized the excitement you once
had and was eventually robbed of, he was a goofy caricature of a
colleague meant to replace an irreplaceable person. He wasn’t Sam
and he never would be. No one ever would be. The type of energy,
humor, intelligence, attractiveness, charm, wit, athleticism,
restlessness, vulgarity and pink sweet smoke that your ex-lover exuded
isn’t a hole that can be so easily filled. You had always known this, but
seeing it substituted with plum cigarettes and a heavy dose of
entitlement drove the final nail into the coffin, lowered you into the
ground and covered you up with loud, banal shovelfuls of dirt.
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Because like you, Soren arrived in Malibu on a blind comet-tail of naïve

optimism, thrilled with the new promise of the American dream and
worldwide fame simply by being in your proximity and expertise. But
you knew it was all a lie, that underneath the makeup and sequence
and glitter and spotlights and applause, toxic venom ran through every
crevice of that circus in the form of licorice-scented, black smoke.

After several practices, rehearsals and performances, Soren grew on

you a little bit. There came a time when you would allow him to eat
lunch with you in the community kitchen and eventually, the two of you
would partake in your favorite tradition of a single shot of Murky
Lagoon Rum with a back of pineapple juice after each performance.
But unlike Sam, you did not bang your head open and begin to let your
true feelings show. Because you had no true feelings of love. And you
didn’t bang your head.

As it turns out, both you and Sam now had the exact same experience
under Rusty’s tutelage. And while Sam’s callous behavior that
stemmed from injustice made more sense to you after his accident and
after he explained it several times over, it was a much different
experience to be walking in his shoes.

Greed: it benefits one person and harms countless others. Rusty will
surely end up in one of the hottest parts of hell for his sins, atop his pile
of gold coins and the innocent souls of the lives he’d stolen.

Since you’re not one to stick around in the rubble of what life has given
you, you’re prone to building habits of overworking and perpetual
housecleaning to keep your hands busy and your mind from spinning
loose. Shortly after stepping towards your new aerial technique, you’d
traded in your clip-on skates for a more laced-up modern pair. Which
ended up being a win/win situation for your tender ankle, keeping your
foot securely wrapped up in a soft boot was a relief that you didn’t even
know you needed. And the moment your contract with Rusty ended in
the fall of 1966, you high-tailed it to breezy San Francisco, California
the following month to pursue an unparalleled, aerial roller-skating solo
role with the reputable Cirque Wanderlust.

You were lucky to score a two-bedroom apartment with plenty of

canted bay windows just a stone’s throw from Haight-Ashbury smack in
the middle of what came to be known as the Summer of Love. With
near-constant concerts and gatherings in Golden Gate Park, civil rights
and Vietnam War protests in the streets, guitars and paisley and weed

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on every corner. And that distinct smell of a dusty record shop blowing
bubbles as you passed by their open doors on a warm, Sunny day.

And for a long time, you missed Malibu. But when everything around
you begins to feel sticky, suffocating and stale, that’s a signal that it’s
time to let some new air in.

About six months into your new career move with Cirque Wanderlust,
you landed a sponsorship with Quickies brand roller skates. Quickies
designed a pair of skates inspired by your name with red wheels, white
canvas, red laces with heart-shaped pink brakes that you’re contracted
to wear for each performance, otherwise known as The Surefire Roller.
And it seems as though every girl under the age of eighteen now owns
a pair.

Just as your year-long contract with Cirque Wanderlust was coming to

a close in 1967, you were approached by a talent agent from the
audience after a performance with the offer of an entirely independent
career-move, headlining your very own touring one-woman show. After
a bucketful of struggling and a handful of stops and starts, you finally
found yourself booked for an eight-month tour across various venues in
The United States. Events on the tour include several weekly sold-out
performances from coast-to-coast and a smattering of promotion
depending on the city you’re visiting; television and radio appearances,
newspaper and magazine articles and more meet-and-greet
networking opportunities than you can possibly count. Interviews with
you always come with a solid set of blacklisted questions, all of which
include a combination of Russell Buchanan’s Circus Extravaganza and
Sam.

And as much as you love your new life, there are parts of it that are
very difficult to grapple with.

Fame is pressure. Fame is isolation. Fame is polarization. Fame is

unnatural. Fame is not at all what it appears to be. And most of the
time, you enjoy it. But most of the time, you wish you had a confidant
who fully understands it.

You’re only a month deep into your new schedule and you’d never
thought it was possible to endure this type of exhaustion. Between
struggling to accustom yourself to a new hotel room each week,
traveling, performing, practicing, appearing, eating and sleeping, you
find only mere hours to be alone with yourself and your own thoughts.
And even in those quiet moments that you seemingly crave when
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everything is so loud, you always end up wishing that you had another
person to bounce your questions and ideas off of. It’s a strange
experience to be surrounded by people eighty hours a week and feel
more deserted than you’ve ever felt in your entire life, but you
contribute it to the constant change in scenery and the unnatural timing
and artificial nature of your human interactions.

It’s impossible to explain, but when you’re around others you wish for
nothing but silence. And when you have that silence, you wish for
nothing but noise.

It’s lonely.

Fame strips away your autonomy and deposits it into the hands of
millions of others — people who don’t know you and never will, people
who either dismiss or cling to the tiny bits of public persona that you
choose to show.

For the most part, the world views you as resolute and vigorous.
Beautiful and challenging. A bit devious as it turns out, considering the
newspapers spun you as a woman who unapologetically clawed her
way to the sky, pushing the Sun out of the way for your own stretch of
ozone. Which is an exhausting reputation to attempt to eliminate. But
explaining or complaining only gives the public more fuel, so you’ve
been advised by your manager to stay quiet, surround yourself within a
bubble of support and continue pushing.

As for Sam, the world views him as a tall, dark and handsome enigma.

Sam went radio silent from the end of 1965 and throughout every
single day of 1966 until returning with an absolute vengeance in the
professional surfing world in early 1967. He’d worked his way up in the
realm of surfing impressively quickly, by pioneering the shift in
popularity of using shorter surfboards in professional competitions,
continuously ranking high or thoroughly sweeping every competition he
takes part in.

Surfboard, swimsuit and suntan oil companies have been elbowing one
another out of the way for the shot at nailing him as their
spokesperson, but he almost always declines. He seems to be happy
just on the outer ring of the A-listed bright, hot spotlight, distinguished
enough to be spotted on the streets by fans wherever he goes, but just
obscure enough that he can be in public without being completely
swarmed or mobbed for the most part. He’s viciously private and from

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what you can tell, doesn’t stay in one place for very long. You’re in a
coincidentally similar echelon, but in the world of aerial arts and dance,
and you can’t help but credit him for helping you carve a little slice of
recognition in a man’s world.

Your manager pushes for a bit more PR than Sam seems to personally
care for in his own career, if he cares for any at all. He has become
notorious for declining formal interviews, for not selling himself to
sponsored business endeavors and rarely stopping for questions from
the press or paparazzi, so he is a complete headscratcher aside from
his career and sporadic industry chatter. Any speaking he does is
restricted to brief and professional discussions at surfing events, along
with the mention of his name in surfing-related newspaper and
magazine articles. You’ve kept every newspaper clipping from when
his name shows up in the headlines for tournaments, which is often.
His face has been used on billboards and advertisements to draw
attention to surfing competitions, with wet locks of hair swept across his
eyes and nose above a steely gaze and perfectly heart-shaped lips.
But even without the clamor of obligatory promotion, he’s still managed
to become a household name with his recognizable features and the
blips of captivating personality he allows people to see here and there.

Whether or not he’s intended this, the mysterious allure of Sam White
seems to be exactly the thing that drives his fame to the moon and
back.

And each time you see a nonconsensual paparazzi photo or a mention

of his name in an article, your heart careens straight out of your chest
like a caged bird breaking free. Missing his beauty and his energy,
missing his words and his insights. Wondering what he’s thinking and
who he is interacting with. Wondering how he’s feeling and managing it
all. Mostly, wondering if he’s okay.

Because the plate he was handed was gilded and abundantly packed
with heaps of delicious opportunity; plum and savory and toothachingly
sweet. But as you saw for yourself, it’s really difficult to chew and
swallow everything that life has given you with dull knives and bent
forks and without a chair to rest. You can safely say that you know him
better than anyone else. Or at least you did, at one point. To the world,
Sam flashes smiles and he flashes peace signs and he flashes
gratitude, and underneath it all, he’s still bleeding.

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Sam White; the ex-world-famous trapeze artist. The newly world-

famous surf hero.

I’m a performer. A thrill seeker.

The wheels on your roller skates are as silent as a mouse now as they
sit tidily in the corner of yet another temporary dressing room. A
dressing room that has been utilized by an innumerable number of
superstars throughout the years: Buddy Holly, Jackie Robinson, Ella
Fitzgerald, Elvis Presley, Ike and Tina Turner, Janis Joplin, Nancy
Sinatra, The Mamas & The Papas and Marvin Gaye just to name a
few. The ghosts of their professional successes and personal failures
vibrate through the walls, making you feel curious enough to try to dig
into their history and experiences. Shrinking them from untouchable
idols to regular, hard-working people with a smattering of talent and
luck just like yourself.

Are they lonely and exhausted too?

Success in its very essence is strange, because once you’ve made a

personal goal and met it, it still doesn’t seem good enough. It leaves
you wondering what piece of the human condition tells us that it isn’t
quite time to rest and enjoy the fruits of our labor for exactly what they
are — a naturally delicious triumph, a bite of something juicy and
earned, a moment of appreciation for the sweet nectar of your
cultivation as it dribbles down your chin and wrists. Instead you’re
constantly left feeling hungry, curious as to which cuisine is meant to
satisfy you. If any at all. Or if the foraging is meant to be the entire
purpose.

Sometimes it feels like that nectar is actually clotted blood in disguise.

And you’re sapped dry.

Two knocks on your dressing room door burst your thought bubble,
and are followed by the muffled voice of a technical director. “Curtain in
fifteen, Miss Surefire.”

“Thank you, fifteen.” And as soon as the words leave your mouth,
anticipation dawns on you once again, pooling sweat in the palms of
your hands and creating a heartbeat that feels more like a power drill.
Another set of knocks pulls you out of your moment of panic,
recognizing the familiar pattern of the raps immediately. “Come on in,
Roach.”

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The door swings open with a vengeance, bringing a hurricane of noise

and energy into a room that was stricken with murky and anxious
silence. Before you have a chance to open your mouth and greet her,
Roach is already rattling off a hyper string of encouragement mixed
with a checklist of responsibilities. “How’s it going? Do you need
anything? Don’t worry, you look worried. You’re going to get wrinkles if
you keep making that face. Smile, sweetie. You’re going to be a
tempest of everything amazing, I promise you. Try not to let your
nerves take over and just focus on what you were put on this Earth to
do: dazzle. You look stunning. Now after your stage time with Mr.
Sullivan, you have two little column interviews lined up.” Roach flips
open the small notebook in her hand and drags the pad of her finger
down the page. “One for Sunrise Magazine and one for Rave
Magazine. I told them to keep it brief, ten to twenty minutes at most.
After that you’ll have a short round of photos and schmoozing and then
you’re finished for tonight. I can expedite any of these if necessary. Any
questions? You’re going to be sensational; I can feel it.”

Most people are frightened by her tenacity, but it somehow makes you
feel more powerful.

Your manager’s name is Rochelle, but everyone in the entertainment

industry has deemed her with the nickname Roach. Coined for her
frenetic and quick spirit, her uncanny ability to sneak in and out of
proverbial nooks and crannies undetected, her stealthy hive mindset
and a hard shell that is seemingly indestructible even by an apocalyptic
standard. She is always keeping her clients in the forefront of her mind
and their interests a priority. A fierce career-pusher with a unique
attachment to yours, almost as if she feels a need to help protect what
you’ve so carefully crafted for yourself. After being pushed around by
men with seemingly bad outcomes for years upon years in the industry,
you were decidedly finished with giving them your business and
support. Roach acts as your professional representative and advisor,
creates your schedule, handles public relations, and delegates
responsibilities to a team of mostly female designers, artists and
technicians on your behalf.

And she has yet to disappoint you, in any capacity.

“Got it. I just need to make a quick phone call and then I’ll put my
skates on.”

“Sweetie, I don’t—”

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“It’ll be quick, I promise. I’ll come find you in three minutes. Thank you,
Roach.”

“Alright, do what you have to do. I’ll be right outside.” Roach smiles, her
fingers drawing a U around her mouth in an effort to encourage your
own. And as soon as you flash her a wide, sarcastic grin, she merely
responds with a wagging finger before seeing herself out.

Even though it pains you to admit dependence, your pride is swallowed

up when you cross the room and swipe the phone from the end table to
punch in a long-distance number. In need of the one person who has
been with you, through trauma and turmoil, through moving homes to
new cities, through season openers and season finales.

After the dust of your devastating breakup had settled and you felt
yourself reform into the shape of a girl again, you relinquished a world
of trust in those around you, both new and old. Never the girl you were
before, but a brand new starlit golden chandelier of a girl.

Dialing the number that you can recall by heart, you wait for the rings to
connect you to the person you’ve grown incredibly close to throughout
the past year or so, regardless of or perhaps because of the
noteworthy difficulty you’ve faced together. Over time, there has been a
consistent and unconditional back-and-forth of emotional support
between the both of you. This is without a doubt the healthiest
relationship you can remember having the honor of being involved in.

“Hola?”

“Hi….. I miss you. A lot.”

“Hey, baby. I miss you, too. Cold feet?”

Your finger winds through the coiled cord as you glance at the clock
and wonder why time moves so much faster when you’re not wanting it
to. “Lukewarm, I think.”

“Break a leg. I’ve got the tube on and I’ll be watching every single
second, even through all the commercials. You can call me when
you’re done if you need anything, okay? I love you, you’re amazing,
you’ve done this a hundred times before. Literally. You’re the hottest
roller-skating aerialist in the world, I’m totally convinced.”

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That last statement has you smiling a genuine smile and finally
exhaling a breath of relief. “I’m the only roller-skating aerialist in the
world.”

“That’s exactly why it’s so hot. Take a deep breath and think about how
good that trusty shot of Murky Lagoon and pineapple juice is going to
be afterwards. And the nighttime view of New York City from your hotel
room? Talk about deluxe. I wish I could be there with you, but you’re
living your dream. There’s nothing to be afraid of. Literally nothing. Do
your thing. And maybe stay away from Central Park at night, I’ve heard
weird things.”

The phone call and re-energizing heart-to-heart proved to be exactly

what you needed, because as soon as you hung up, you marched
across the room and pulled your skates on, spinning in a half circle
before skating back to the vanity mirror. A little touch up of lipstick and
a head-to-toe scan of your body cinched your pre-show ritual before
you found Roach in exactly the spot she said she’d be. She guided you
through the backstage hallways and stood within eyeshot during your
performance and interview, clapping and whistling each time you nailed
a particularly difficult trick.

As usual, your performance was reliable and professional with little

dots of blemishes that only you and your stinging perfectionism would
be able to notice. Ed Sullivan made the interview process easy and
painless, asking lighthearted questions about your process and the ins
and outs of skating. The studio audience proved their encouragement
and support with several rounds of applause, laughter and shiny
starstruck eyes. And you can only hope that it looked as good on
television as it felt.

Afterwards, you rushed to change into a simple candy-red mini dress

and strappy pumps that stretch your legs, natural hair and a cool slice
of eyeliner in the crease of your eye. As per tradition, one shot of
Murky Lagoon with a back of pineapple juice waited for you on the
coffee table on a tray, just as your rider specified. And after packing up
your bag with all of your belongings, you met Roach again in the
hallway for your last round of press for the evening.

As she leads you through the busy backstage corridors now, from your
first short interview with Rave Magazine through technical directors and
the like, to your next interview with Sunrise Magazine you can
practically taste victory waffles in the back of your throat. Roach is

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briefing you about the significance of this interview, but you have too
much adrenaline from your triumphant performance tonight that it’s
difficult to fully concentrate.

“They’re based out of the Pacific Northwest, where you will eventually
make your way towards the end of your tour. So, the timing is perfect
really, because by the time the article is published your name will be
buzzing in that area.” Roach stops in front of a green room labeled
Press, knocking twice to signal her arrival and then opening it up and
allowing you to enter the room without her. “I’ll see you in about ten
minutes.”

You spin on your heel and thank her before backing up two steps into
the room and freezing upon hearing a single utterance behind you.

“’Bout time.”

The thing about the Sun is that it’s light can be seen even through
closed eyelids. And sometimes it can’t be blocked out, no matter what
you try.

“I know you hate surprises.” But you also really love them. “But hi
again.”

Slowly chasing the sound of his voice, you turn on the ball of your foot
with compounded bravery and shock, in utter disbelief at what you’re
about to find.

Sam is leaning one shoulder on the wall, his eyes trained on you.
Reckless hair reaching his nose and cheekbones in the front, even
dipping to brush his jawbone in one spot. The one wild curl that always
had a mind of its own, presenting now with a bit more stamina and
seductive serenity than before. It’s like he’s come apart at the seams
but in the best way possible, untangling and unraveling and softening
everything inside as well as outside. Growth and benign power,
maturity and self-awareness.

A subtly patterned buttoned-down shirt is popped open to his chest,

brown corduroy trousers below, an open matching jacket up top.
Seemingly tacked together from top to bottom, sound, toned and
muscular, angular face and cheekbones and jaw scattered with stubble
— your beloved length of grow out. Amber honey skin from spending
so much time on the beach wherever it’s summer in the world,
wherever it’s hot and heavenly. One hand hangs at his side with a big,
happy bouquet of sunflowers in tow, the other scratches the back of his
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neck. Mixed metals on each finger, pink sunshine on his nails. Shiny-
bright wolf eyes on fire, raspberry thirsty mouth.

He looks perfect.

A neon pink, slender light scribbles out the word Paradise in the air
across his chest, fiercely flickering to life with buzzes and saps and
whiffs of electricity, then fizzes out to make way for the weak pulse of
your heartbeat.

“Sam White.”

Sunshine on Earth.

“Vivienne fuckin’ Surefire.”

Sweet Cherry Pie.

A sheen of glass slides across your eyes before you bound towards
him and toss your arms around his neck for a hug. Your feet pop off the
ground when he squeezes and leans back, humming into your ear and
pinching his eyes shut to feel the sensations of his spine shuddering.
Sarcasm and a hint of truth are grumbled into your hair. “Mm, the one
who got away.”

When your feet meet the floor again, you pull back just enough that you
can still smell a hint of his familiar soap, a flash of creamsicle gum and
a pink whirl of lingering smoke, same as always. Sweet Sam. “The one
who fled.”

His reaction is to chuckle through a small tight-lipped smile, his dimple

taking a small bite of his cheek. Shoving the sunflowers that he picked
up at a bodega between your chests, he waits for you to take them
before inquiring, “she happy to see me? Spooked? You kinda look like
you’ve seen a ghost.”

“I have.”

“I think I’m more like a ghoul.”

“Is that different?”

“Dunno.” Yes. A ghost seems like a tame dead spirit, whereas a ghoul
seems more like something that would haunt you for years before
finally eating your flesh. Or maybe it’s just because he’s merely
standing in front of you. Sam thinks this, but like a lot of things these

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days and most things right after Indy died, he keeps it locked inside of
his achy, din heart. Even throughout all of the horror he’s clawed his
way through over the last several years, he still considers himself one
of the good ones. Even if he is a total piece of shit. “Sounds worse, so.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Just poppin’ in.”

“Well….. okay.” Your little giggle is so soft and herbal that Sam’s heart
has no choice but to curl up under a blanket and watch. “Then how’d
you find me? And where’d you come from?” And why now? The
questions are an endless scoop into an abyss of soft ice cream, each
answer velvety and indulgent, but possibly an aftertaste of brain freeze
followed by a harsh sugar crash.

“Nowhere in particular.”

“I love guessing games.”

“Liar.”

Even though your palms are sweaty and your heart is running laps, it
feels as though no time has passed, and there’s no better hallmark of a
cosmic connection. Humans just don’t get this opportunity with many
people in life. And once is spectacular, if you’re lucky.

“So, hey.” Everything you and Sam had once shared is flooding,
pooling at your feet and soaking your shoes. Filling the room slowly at
first, it seems, until the tension is in your throat and threatening to burn
your eyes. With a warm blush staining your cheeks and showcasing
your unrest, you can’t help but fidget a little, tucking your hair behind
your ear and skirting eye contact as you glance at your phantom-
stained toes before finding his eyes again. “Sam. I can’t believe it’s
really you.”

“Hi. C’mere.”

It’s beyond staggering and surreal for him to be standing right in front
of you after you’d imagined your reunion throughout stretches of
washed-out time, looking like time has fed him well, twists of fudge like
a candy crown on the top of his head. Your fingertips brush his wrist
and his stomach butterflies in an obliterated way that he’s only
dreamed about for years, his throat shrinking when you step forward
and wrap him up in another hug. One that warms and squeezes the

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both of you. One that you don’t plan on abandoning for several
seconds or maybe even minutes and he can feel that and he can
treasure that, with every little hair standing on end from his toes to his
scalp. The long flight with the crying baby and weeks and months and
years of deliberation that is so unnatural for him finally find a place of
substance, right here with you pressed against his chest.

Rather, he’s a message in a translucent bottle washing up on shore by

his god, drawn home to its rightful owner, filled with secrets meant to
be read. The tight cork, finally ready to pop, bursting with coiled-up
communication that failed to leak before. Ready to ooze and to share
and to breathe.

It’s as if your world has been balanced on a knife’s edge and just
decided to take the plunge into emotional severance. His hugs are
incomparable and have seeped into your muscle memory; tight,
unrelenting, warm. Affectionate. Loving. His chest splits open to offer
you a slice of his heart, you swill him down greedily.

And when you mumble I’ve missed you so much into his neck before
he’s even had a chance to say it himself, his blunt nails dig into your
back and knot into your hair, his own words stolen from the surprising
stealth of yours. A wave bowls him over, the sandbar dissolves below
his feet. Over and over again.

He missed you, too. You’ve been missing from him. A massive chunk,
more than he cared to admit at times.

You back off and brush your hair from your face, attempting to lighten
the overwhelming nerves you’re both feeling with a soft musing. “I’m
starting to think this isn’t an interview for Sunrise Magazine at all.”

“Yeah, I made that up.” He scratches his forehead with his knuckle and
then points to the television placed in front of the couch. “You’re mind-
blowing, V. I watched everything from the monitor. I’ve been watchin’
the whole time, y’know.”

He doesn’t have to elaborate to convey that the whole time actually

means since the day he left you. Because honesty can be seen in his
willing eye contact and mostly because you’ve studied his peculiar
navigation of speech meticulously in order to keep pace, much like a
violinist needs sheet music to perform with an orchestra. Sam
commands the need for a skilled interpreter.

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Unless he’s being so straightforward that you might as well have his
piece memorized.

His sentiments seem a little forced and it makes you realize: he’s been
humbled. Humbled or knocked down a few pegs, but the second option
somehow seems sadder. His Sunshine is behind a thin veil of clouds
and you wonder if he’s been overcast like this for two full years or if,
more plainly, he’s astounded into hesitancy simply from seeing you
again.

The word sully comes to mind, but Sam doesn’t see it as a negative
aspect of his personality. Sometimes things are so reflective that they
constantly block and bounce away any light that comes towards it. Only
after the darkness cuts a person deeply enough will they finally start to
perceive the light. A little wear and tear deepens our characters and
makes us more beautiful, as if our guts leaked through the open
wounds to heal in distinguished patterns that modify the skin.
Watercolor tattoos of emotion, if you will.

“I’ve been watching you, too. I’ve followed everything the news from all
of your competitions. I have a shoebox filled with newspaper clippings.
But I never knew how to get in contact with you to tell you how proud I
am of you.” He seemed so untouchable. You guess he always has.

“Hey, I was gonna say the same thing.” Down to the very detail of the
shoebox with newspaper clippings, but Sam is not at all surprised that
the public loves you. You’re perfect to the outside eye.

And the inside eye.

His confidence in regards to intimacy has a little nibble taken out of it.
Maybe it has been suffering since his old self and new self and old self
again reformed into a mirage and evaporated when things got too hot
to touch. It’s hard to know, it’s too hard to see much of anything
through the cryptic puddles of his eyes; still painfully pretty, but where
there was once a tropical oasis is a now mixture of grass and clean
water. It may seem kind of depressing to an outsider and probably
because it is kind of depressing, but Sam has figuratively already seen
the end of the film that everyone else is waiting to see. He just has to
pretend that the plot leading up to the spoiler isn’t that horrific so that
everyone around him can continue blindly enjoying themselves.

Maybe then he’ll believe it as well.

“So, are you going to tell me how you knew I’d be here?”
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His chin taps his shoulder in a coy shrug. “People talk. My manager
lemme know.”

“How’d your manager know?”

The craving for a cigarette is coursing through Sam’s veins, more and
more fiercely with each question you deliver. “He keeps tabs on you
per my instruction.”

“What— excuse me?”

“I said I usually know where you are because I’ve asked my manager
to keep track of what you’re doin’ and tell me. That better?”

It’s increasingly difficult to speak through the anxious nausea in your

guts. “Oh.” Okay. “Who is your manager anyway?”

“Mose Benson.”

Benson. A wolf. Just a fierce as Roach and maybe even more

bloodthirsty since he has the very unjust advantage of being a man
with slightly more years of experience and industry connections thanks
to his father. Connection by birth. The unfair, incestual hierarchy of
Hollywood at work.

Now it makes sense how Sam’s privacy has been so aggressively and
consistently protected; Mose would literally fight the press off with his
bare hands if Sam asked him to. Or he’d hire a hundred people to do it
for him, one in each country. And it also makes sense how Sam has
kept tabs on you and was allowed to walk backstage as if he owned
CBS studios, because Mose’s family are close friends with the people
who do own CBS studios and not to mention, have feelers in every
corner of the industry. Like a sticky, rude, powerful octopus squirming
around on land.

“So….. how is it fair that you can easily find me whenever you wanted,
but I have no idea what’s going on with you? Ever?”

“I didn’t say it was fair, I just said I knew.”

Your eyes narrow in suspicion and a little sprinkle of detectable jest

that puts Sam at ease, because this type of exchange between the two
of you is familiar and frankly, quite amusing. “Sounds privileged to me.”

“Uh, pump the brakes. I didn’t say it wasn’t privileged either. I just said I
knew.” The hallways just beyond the door are still crawling with
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photographers, press, technical directors and makeup artists, and Sam

has so much to say that the echoes of their footsteps start to chip away
at his mental stack of notes. It’s frustrating, especially because he
hasn’t slept very well in the last few days knowing what was about to
happen and now that you’re here standing right in front of him and he’s
here standing right in front of you, the shape of his tongue is making it
hard for words to come out properly. “Got any plans tonight?”

You’d assumed as soon as you laid eyes on him that he was in New
York just for you and even though that intention is wordlessly pretty
clear, it still feels intense to watch Sam build himself up enough to ask
you out on a date. So different than his persistent tactics in the past,
because the past didn’t work so the present requires an alternate
method in order to have a future that transpires differently than your
past.

How things have changed.

Having history with someone will always complicate vulnerability,

because the fear of rejection is much, much stronger when you have a
clear taste of what it is you want, rather than a hunch of what you might
want. There’s an extra layer of confidence needed to claw away at scar
tissue rather than chance a paper cut. And also, it’s just way easier to
be rejected by someone you’re not in love with.

Since you have an interview with the New York Times tomorrow
afternoon, your only plan tonight was to slather your face in Pond’s
Cold Cream and watch reruns of I Dream of Jeannie with a plate of
sugar and a bottle of champagne at your side. But since that somehow
seems feeble to say out loud, you settle with a cool conjecture of,
“maybe. Who’s asking?” Even though your plans were lame, they were
still plans.

“Captain America. Hey, why don’t you come grab some liquids with
me? I wanna pick your brain about a couple things.”

“Um…..” The answer is obviously yes, but it’s such a loaded yes that it
doesn’t feel right to spit it out without pausing for at least a second to
consider. Yes signs you up for an unavoidable conversation that you
were not planning on having tonight or possibly ever. Yes guarantees
you the choice between a difficult acceptance or an even harder
refusal. Yes means appearing at a read-through manned with improv
while the rest of the cast reads from rehearsed scripts. Yes gives
permission to journeying into the unknown, because in this instance,
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yes also means yes (etc?). You know it and he knows it. “Of course. I’d
love to, Sam. I just have a couple loose ends to tie up here and then I
can meet you somewhere close by.”

“’Kay, yeah. Groovy.” Sam is wondering if the odd combination of

desperation and relief are scribbled across each pore on his face, if
you can hear the accelerated thump of his heart, if you can make out
the outline of his heart-shaped locket below the fabric of his wifebeater.
He’s wondering if, to you, this entire gesture appears to be nothing
short of pathetic and inappropriate. If he’s imagined all those moments
where his hands slid up your shirt because he loves the way you purr.
If his feelings for you have both birthed and died in his own mind and
you’re just too fucking polite to tell him to get lost. But now isn’t the time
to start doubting himself, mostly because he’s jetlagged and he knows
as soon as he gets halfway through one Pearl, he’s going to start
saying shit he regrets. Whether that shit is mean or nice is yet to be
determined.

Since Sam’s never been in this position before, he can’t say for certain,
but these types of obscure conversations typically have a snag or two.
Or an entire rupture; blood geysers and pain tornados, depending on
the stakes involved.

“I saw a spot called Easy Street on—”

“How about The Monkey Bar in The Elysee Hotel? I can be there in a
half hour.”

Sam’s eyebrows tug into a frown and then pop up his forehead as he
registers your surprising and quick suggestion of meeting at a hotel.
And he tries not to look too deeply into it because he wouldn’t dare get
his hopes up this early into seeing you again. Mostly because he’s well
aware of the fact that everything he touches turns to shit and dies. “Are
you tryin’ to ditch me so you can stand me up?”

“Oh shoot, you caught me.” Your sarcasm is its own brand of honey.

He clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth in a soft tut. “Givin’
me the ol’ razzle dazzle? That’s not how you’re meant to treat guests.”

A courtesy knock rings through the room before Roach bursts through
the door. “That’s ten. Viv, we need you for a couple more
photographs—” Nothing seems to slow Roach down, mentally or
physically, so her freezing reaction to seeing you and Sam tucked into
the corner with sunflowers is nothing short of palatable. Especially
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when she screeches to a halt so loudly that the rubber of her high heel
scrapes on the linoleum flooring. It’s obvious that she recognizes him,
both from the fame he’s procured throughout the last couple of years,
as well as your clipped and impersonal recounting of once being
professionally and romantically tangled with him. But then again, most
of the world knows about that. “A few more minutes, tops and then
you’re free to go….. are you alright, sweetie?”

With a gentle nod that pleads for her dismissal, Roach keeps her eyes
on Sam as she backs up and turns the corner to give you privacy. The
major takeaway that you’ve acknowledged from your relationship with
your manager is that her respect for you is paramount to any
bureaucracy or responsibility that you may find yourselves wrapped up
in. The exact opposite of working for Russell Buchanan, or any man for
that matter, and you’re galaxies beyond glad for it.

Even though Roach’s sights were glued to Sam in her retreat, he still
managed to keep his focus on you. That’s the only sightseeing he
planned to do on his visit to New York, after all. And when you glance
back at him and find his attention skimming your neck, your
collarbones, your shoulders, an eruption of goosebumps pours over
your skin. You’re hoping he doesn’t notice but knowing him, he saw it
before it even happened. “I’ll definitely be there, I promise. Will you
keep my seat warm?”

“When have I not?”

What’d that feel like, sweet girl?

Unable to turn away from him, you start backing up in the direction that
Roach disappeared in with your sunflowers in tow, your hands shaky
on the thick fuzzy stalks. Even knowing that you’ll be a nervous,
distracted wreck for the next short round of press and the entire taxi
ride back to the hotel, you still manage to offer him one more round of
reassurance. “Thirty minutes, Sam. There’s an entrance through the
parking garage that you can take to avoid photographers. And thank
you again for the flowers….. they’re my favorite.” And you’ve missed
them, terribly.

“Welcome.”

He waits until you’ve disappeared down the hallway with a final spin on
your heel to press a kiss to his fingertips and blow it towards your

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shadow, the words oh my god I missed you painting a fluorescent

streak on the floor.

Sam is in the hotel bar when you arrive, his foot propped up on the
empty barstool beside him with one busy leg bouncing, fingers picking
at his coaster. The dark room is filled with a rainbow of cigarette smoke
and just as always, Sam’s bubble of pink stands out from the rest of the
crowd.

Weaving through the tight spaces between the red vinyl booths and
white tablecloths, you slink up beside him, wrapping your arm around
his shoulders and sponging a soft kiss to his cheek that surprises him
and then warms his belly with a feeling he didn’t know he missed. Sam
responds by slowly coiling his fingers into your hair, hovering his mouth
over yours before rerouting and kissing your forehead. Then rising to
his feet, he pulls out your barstool and rolls his lips together, your eyes
locking inside of a pause before he clicks his tongue as a signal for you
to sit.

He very well may just be the only man who can tell you what to do.

And the reigning champion of men who can do so without even

speaking.

You smooth your skirt down and obey his gentle command, taking
notice of a small pink suitcase tucked between the legs of his stool and
the bar. Which could mean one of four things: he’s just arrived in town
today and hasn’t had a chance to stop by his hotel yet, he’s been in
town for a while now and is heading to the airport tonight, or he plans
to leave for his next destination within New York after a couple drinks
with you. Or the likelier, chillier option; he was planning on staying in
this hotel.

With you.

And the notion of that expectation alone has your heart crushing the
inside of your throat, your face immediately hot with sweat, your thighs
sticking to the barstool. With a choking silence, you make several
attempts to catch the bartender’s eye, suddenly furious to inhale as
many martinis as possible. But it would appear the bartender is too
hellbent on sharing a flirtatious grin with a patron just out of your line of
sight, with a towel shoved inside of a wine glass, polishing off the
watermarks.
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Once you’re settled, Sam perches himself on the stool beside you, the
ball of his foot resting on one of the spindles of your chair. “How’s your
existential crisis?”

And just like that, Sam is able to slightly lift the veil of your proverbial
and literal sweat by blowing a cool breeze of air conditioning across
your skin. Just like you remembered. And you show your appreciation
with a moment of processing his question, which splits into a beam of
quiet laughter. “I guess I’d label it as critical.”

“Yeah? How’d you ever stop screamin’? Did our fallout become a
barometer for everything else that happened to you after that? Like,
’this milkshake is terrible but it’s definitely not as bad as my boyfriend
forgetting who I am.’”

“Or, ’god, this fiery tendon flare-up feels so much better than my
boyfriend forgetting who I am.’”

He laughs and nods. “Right on. You get it.”

You’re grateful for Sam’s lightness. Lightness that didn’t seem to be as

heavily present in the green room at CBS studios, but maybe it has
something to do with the half of the Pearl he’s already consumed.
Lightness is a tangible hallmark of pain subsiding. Lightness, however
small and fleeting, is growth. And as usual, Sam’s lightness is shining
the way for your own.

“It’s just me. Still weird, still gross. Try and relax, yeah? Still smoke?”
Sam is already reaching for his pack of Crush cigarettes before you
can get through a single nod, passing one to you and then striking a
match to light the tip. Pink smoke slowly oozes from your mouth before
you quickly suck the little sugary marshmallow into your lungs and
Sam’s heart goes down right along with it. “Ya know The Stones
performed on Sullivan last week?” He shakes out the flame on the
match and tosses it into the red, heart-shaped ashtray. “You fucked up
your dates, girl.” And maybe he’s testing you a little bit and maybe he’s
prying a little bit too when he adds, “I hear Mick’s single right now.
Missed opportunity.”

Taking a long drag and exhaling it towards the ceiling, your lips are a
pair of flower petals kissing a pink cloud, the candles situated around
the dark bar dance on your skin. If Sam remembers correctly, you look
almost as pretty as right after you’ve come. Almost.

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“Oh, god. Ew. No way. I have no interest in dating a rock star. Too
many of them are dogs.”

“I was talkin’ about me.” Sam has no interest in blocking your swat,
instead he smiles against the mouth of his Pearl bottle and it’s so bright
and lovely. He’s so bright and lovely. “Kiddin’. And who said anything
about dating? You think you could land Jagger?”

A couple leaflets of dusty rose ash flit past your wrist as you point a
finger at him. “Is that a dare?”

“Somehow it wouldn’t surprise me if you’d try it just to spite me.” A

moment after the soft dig passes his lips, the bartender is dropping a
coaster and a French 75 with two, floating Luxardo cherries in front of
you. The twist of a lemon peel curls around the lip of the champagne
glass, the twist of Sam’s hair curls around the corner of his mouth. “Still
like those?”

It’s the exact drink that Sam would order for you when you skipped out
of Malibu to play pool at The Cat’s Paw on Fridays, all the way down to
your preferred garnish. You haven’t spent nearly enough time with him
to know for certain, but the intensity of his consideration seems to have
grown bolder. Burning, really. “Yes. Thank you, Sam.”

“Mhm. Cheers.” He taps the neck of his bottle against your glass. “My
poison is narcissism, but Pearls are a decent alternate.” His eyes stay
trained on you as he takes a short sip and then licks his bottom lip.
“Congrats and all that. You’re cool as fuck now. It’s kinda scary.”

But mostly, your success is the sexiest thing Sam has ever had the
honor of witnessing. Even if it has been from a distance.

“I should say the same for you. You’ve exploded this past year. I see
and hear your name everywhere. You’re incredible at what you do, I
watch your competitions on television whenever I get a chance. It’s
amazing. Are you happy?”

“With my career?” You nod and he shrugs with a pouted bottom lip.
“Yeah, but you know me. I always want more. Hey, thanks for not
runnin’ the other way when you saw me, by the way. I was wiggin’ the
whole time I was waitin’. Thought you’d be like,” he stretches his index
finger across his top lip to represent a disguise of a mustache,
“’Vivienne who? Wrong chick.’”

“I thought about it.”

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“What? No shit.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“You…..”

Since Sam doesn’t need to have it as shorn for the circus anymore,
he’s paving the now-widespread look for surfers everywhere. Slightest
bit more grown out in the front, a couple inches at most, dripping dark
honey around his ears and cheekbones. Sweet and shaggy. Wavy mix
of sea salted caramel chocolate curls. Just barely long enough in the
front that it brushes his top lip and he can tuck your favorite lock of hair
behind his ear and it’ll stay there for a moment before it falls loose
again. It somehow makes him appear more genuinely relaxed which
you had previously thought he had already achieved, but looking at him
now, you can’t help but wonder if he had been a tightly-wound ball of
anxiety before, parading as a cool cucumber. That one pesky curl that
loyally brushed his eyebrow, the one you’d mentally defined as a
rascal, was merely acting a claw reaching for more. And less.

Actually, everything he does seems to suit him. Maybe that’s just what
happens when one freely swim laps across pool of self-confidence that
they didn’t even know they’d actually been skinny dipping in the whole
time.

“Talk to me about Soren.”

“Oh, god.” There must be genuine curiosity on Sam’s side but you
suspect he’s mostly looking for some juicy dirt, like a middle schooler at
their neighbor’s sleepover. And since Sam has admittedly been
following your career and has Mose Benson as a manager, he has to
know at least a thing or two about his replacement. Just like the first
time he tricked you into speaking French and then snowballing it into
your little love language, he’s going to use whatever information that
you give him against you in some teasing way. Whether it be soft or
hard, you’re not quite ready to play that game with him yet. “Well, he’s
Danish.”

“Yeah, no shit, Sherlock. Did he ever sneak a peek?”

His question almost makes choke on your cocktail. “He’s openly gay.”

“Everyone digs tits. They’re the provider.”

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Your unamused stares match and battle one another until you finally
crack a smile. “He was very respectful of my boundaries, unlike some
other trapeze artists I know.”

“Oh, okay.” Sam scratches the corner of his eye with his middle finger
and then rubs underneath his eyelashes and down along the side of his
nose, making it very clear that your acidic satire deserves an extended
flipping-off.

Your next question is intentionally charged and rather broad. Since

Sam is hellbent on remaining mostly unclear on his purpose here, you
figure it isn’t out of line to be a little vague in return. Maybe it’ll open up
more doorways than you’re expecting, since direct questions seem to
be a little too much for him to handle right now. “Are you okay?”

“I dunno know how to respond to that.” It looks like he definitely tried,

based on the length of his pause. “You alright? Am I buggin’ you? I had
a couple weeks off before a competition in France, so I wanted to see
what The Surefire Roller fuss was all about. But I can fuck off. I don’t
want to, but I will if I’m makin’ you uncomfortable or messin’ with your
guts, or somethin’.”

“No, don’t leave. You’re not bugging me. But I am just a little curious —
where would you go, hypothetically?” Sam’s suitcase glows with pink
vitality underneath his barstool. You probably know the answer to your
next question and you know he knows the answer. But for reasons of
processing and categorization, for reasons on how to conduct yourself
this moment and in the next moment, you need to hear him say it out
loud. “Do you have a hotel?”

“I was just hopin’ it would work itself out. Or I could head home, I
guess.”

His response draws the line between two imaginary dots; one that
begins in a mysterious spot that you’re dying to know about and ends
in an aimless sphere in New York. “And where’s home, Sam?”

Sam had almost forgotten what it felt like to be under the gunfire of
your incessant questioning. It’s not as if it’s inappropriate or excessive
when two people are trying to navigate a union, but it is irritating when
he’s trying to be mysterious. Your interrogation tactics did dim
throughout the development of comfort in your relationship, but now
he’s getting a reminder of how you are at your most dubious. A Honey
Detective. It’s just that he’s been trying hard to master your particular

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technique of communication for himself, wherein you seem to know

exactly the right time to say exactly the right things, instead of allowing
them to explode out of him and bite him in the ass. And it’s is going to
be tougher than he’d originally thought.

“Dunno, uh—” He reminds you of a kitten when he rubs his eye with his
knuckle and then puffs his cheeks out on an exhale. “Somewhere.
Everywhere. London, I guess. I have a flat, so I’m there a lot. But
nothing’s felt quite right for a while now.” He can’t hide the glassy
sheen of his eyes when he laughs a cynical laugh and shakes his head
before looking you dead in the eye. “It’s weird how two people can
have so much between them and then what? Where does it all go? I
hate how awkward we both are right now.”

How do untouched works of art suddenly wind up crooked on the wall?

From Sam’s experience, he knows that a slight pinch of adjustment
here and there will instantly make everything aesthetically pleasing
again.

A couple flashing images from your history glow behind Sam’s eyes;
waking up beside you, showering early in the morning and then lying
on top of you all warm and damp in a towel, mumbling a teasing gripe
in your hair about being a lazy Honey slug because you haven’t moved
ever since he’d climaxed down your throat an hour earlier. His hand
slinking below the sheets and under your belly, breathing a puff of
breath into your ear when you whine and roll your hips against his
palm. A sweet ping-pong of je t’aime from the both of you, the warmth
of the bed and the warmth from your center almost strong enough to
keep him from surfing that morning.

Almost, but not quite. Because the strongest drive in Sam’s life has
always been from the force of the ocean. And that’s always something
that you’ve found undeniably sexy. And your respect has always been
something that Sam has treasured.

You’re just so responsive to everything; love, sadness, sex. It’s hard

not to be distracted by it.

And in all honesty, your awkwardness feels more like a play off of his,
but awkwardness tends to work collaboratively in that way and perhaps
he’s experiencing the same exact thing. Projection and absorption, an
endless uncomfortable cycle, the hunt and the chase over and over
again.

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“Hey.” You grip his wrist and squeeze once, trying with all of your might
to mentally relay some warmth and self-confidence through his skin.
Maybe if you fake it, it’ll breed his and then create yours. And now
you’re curious to know if this is precisely what he used to do for you.
“I’m happy to see you. I want you to stay. We need to talk; it’s been too
long and I’m sure we both have a lot to get off our chests. Maybe we
should just have a couple drinks, release our expectations and just
relax, okay?”

Nerves start to boil you from the inside, considering all the ulterior
motives for him showing up unexpectedly after all this time. Perhaps he
has some bad news to share, like he’s been diagnosed with some type
of life-threatening illness and he only has a month to live and he’s
trying to make amends with everyone who he’s suffered a falling out
with before he leaves the planet. Or maybe he’s in Alcoholics
Anonymous and you are one of his twelve steps.

Or maybe it just took him this long to feel okay with being in your
presence again.

Or maybe he never stopped loving you and he couldn’t stay away any
longer.

Sam nods and lights another cigarette, feeling an immediate wash of

calm when you finish off your martini and lick your lips, flashing him a
small smile when you catch him staring.

The little pink suitcase catches your eye again and when you notice
him nervously tuck it farther under his barstool with his feet, you snap
your gaze to his face. “Do you plan on staying awhile?”

“Depends, I guess.”

“What does it depend on?”

“Yeah…..” Sam chuckles, soft and sexy as he scratches the back of his
neck and tucks a lock of hair behind his ear. “Another drink then?”

“Yes, please. I can order it—”

Sam’s already signaling the bartender. “Bullshit. Hey man, French 75

with a couple cherries. Extra gin?” He glances at you for permission but
since you can already feel the heat of the alcohol burning your cheeks,
you shake your head. “’Kay, yeah, lots of extra gin. Or how about a dry
gin martini? Or maybe just a big pint glass of straight gin on ice. Or—

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what’d you say?” He leans closer to you and cups his hand around his
ear. “No ice? Just a full pint of warm gin? Jesus, read the room.”
Before you can whine his name in dispute, he smiles again and then
finally addresses the bartender, “no flashy lights, not tryin’ to get her
loaded. Or grow hair on her chest. Actually, just leave all the alcohol
out. Let’s do lemon slices and cherries with club soda this time—”

“Sam!”

“We’ll have another round. Thanks, brother.”

You wait until the bartender walks off. “You have this amazing ability to
turn the volume up when someone asks you to lower it.”

“Huh? I can’t hear you, my jokes are too boomin’. Slide me those
peanuts?”

Gripping the dish and pulling it closer towards you, you decide to hold
his snack hostage for the sake of a little teasing. Teasing that you know
from experience will help lighten his self-proclaimed awkwardness, an
emotion that he must be having difficulty grappling with since it’s
something he doesn’t feel very often. You both have a habit of
unintentionally making the other feel intimidated and since his silly self
has just begun to burst through the clouds, you decide to help keep the
steam rolling. “Excuse me? You didn’t even ask what kind of drink I
wanted.”

And Sam knows exactly what you’re doing. His fingers pinch the
opposite side of the dish, his eyebrow raising in challenge, the tip of his
pinky grazing the tip of yours. “Oh, did you want somethin’ else?”

You chew on the inside of your cheek and sweep your hair from your
face. “Well….. no—”

Sam slides the bowl of peanuts out of your reach and cracks one open,
funneling the nuts into his mouth. “’Kay, so then do me a solid and pipe
up when there’s an actual issue.”

The bartender places a new round of drinks on the bar in front of you
and Sam offers him a nod in gratitude. Even though neither of you
have spoken for seconds of comfortable silence, you notice him
continually looking you up and down from the corner of his eye.

“Okay, you obviously want to say something. Spit it out.”

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Sam shrugs, raising the mouth of his beer to his lips and speaking into
the bottle with his eyes trained on you. “Skinny.”

“Thank you.”

He takes a sip and laughs with a closed mouth and puffy cheeks before
swallowing. Shiny lips, bulging eyes and a facetious tone. “Why’s that a
compliment?”

“Every girl knows that’s a compliment. And I don’t care how shallow
that sounds.”

“Huh?” His head whips over both of his shoulders before turning back
to you, his eyebrows pulled into a frown as he glances over the top of
your head next. “Who’s talkin’? I can’t see you, you’re too fuckin’ tiny.”

He doesn’t bother to bat your swat away. He wants you to touch him.
And you swear you can feel your fingertips tingle when they make
contact with his shoulder. “Clod. You’re so opinionated.”

“I plead the fifth.” Sam swipes his forefinger and thumb around his
mouth. “I just hope you’re takin’ proper care of yourself, drinking water
and sleepin’ and all that. I know how bellyachin’ touring is.”

“I’m fine, Dad. But thank you for your concern.”

I’m fine.

Daddy.

Both of your shoulders tense and then like clockwork or a pair of

synchronized swimmers, you both clear your throats and drop your
sights to the bar top.

The abrupt faultline that your stolen intimacy slipped through when
Sam’s memory glitched has left a tender, gaping hole inside both of
you. Proper closure can’t be obtained from wandering around a dark
forest of sticky questions alone, with doubts hiding in the shadows and
wicked memories popping up like snakes to nip at your toes when you
least expect it. There was so much left uncharted between you that
your daydreams and your nightmares seem to expand into time and
space forever. But now an opportunity has presented itself that you
were starting to doubt would ever happen again: Sam is sitting directly
in front of you with milk chocolate curls, bubblegum lips and a mouth
full of sugar, seemingly eager to suck the guessing-game out of you in
that peculiar way that only he can.
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And similar to how he was when you first met, Sam is allowing you to
guide the course of conversation. But dissimilar to how he was when
you first met, he’s clearly gone out of his way for it.

It does leave you curious to discover when and how and if his more
dominant side that you held in such high regard is still in there, ready to
leap out of the bushes as soon as you flicker whatever mystical signal
he must be waiting for.

A stealthy panther surveying you up top, a juicy plum anticipating a

taste down below. The hunt and the chase over and over again.

“So, I’m guessing you sold The Pink?”

“Mhm, in Mexico before I left the continent. Had to. Traded her in for a
bike.”

“What?” Mexico? “A motorcycle?”

“Yep.”

Imagining Sam on a motorcycle is a daydream you never knew you

needed. The flamboyant rev of an engine that can be heard miles
away, the blur of his body on wheels as he weaves through traffic in his
leather jacket. Pink exhaust pouring from the tailpipe, a type of magic
that only he can produce. “Wow. Really? What kind?”

“Oh, are you a greaser now?” He laughs, that beautiful small chuckle
that tastes like a piece of warm homemade birthday cake crumbling
between your fingers, thick buttercream frosting sticking to your
knuckles. “She’s a ’67 Bultaco Matador. Looks like a red wasp. She’s
my little piggy magnet, especially when I drop it back. Pop a wheelie.
Why, you wanna go for a ride sometime?”

I’m a performer. A thrill seeker.

“Well, I’m pretty sure wheelies on the streets of London are illegal, so
that would make you the piggy magnet. Doesn’t that frighten you?”

“Exact opposite. I like the rush. I kicked a cop car once. And no, he
was too slow to catch me. The goon squad isn’t as bad there as it is in
America where they’re so brave and good at army. What’s a British cop
gonna do, hit me with a spicy marble?”

“Sam!” You allow exactly one small bubble of laughter break free
before attempting to note his reckless behavior again. The thought of
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Sam zipping through busy London blocks on one wheel, the roaring zip
of his engine irritating and stirring everyone around him is somehow
thrilling to you. And imagining yourself in that scenario with him, your
arms wrapped around his waist as he expertly guides you through the
unknown at recklessly high speed feels eerily similar to how he guided
your relationship. The command of attention, the boldness of
eccentricity, the flirt with peril. It’s perfectly Sam. “You wear a helmet,
right? My mom calls them ’murdercycles’.”

Sam cracks open a peanut shell between his fingers and teasingly
raises his eyebrows up and down a couple times. “Yeah? Well, I
thought we already established your old lady is a drag. Keep up.”

“That’s right, I almost forgot. So….. did you name her? Your bike?”
There aren’t many things that Sam hasn’t fondly named in his own
Sunny language, after all.

“Mmm. It’s a secret.”

I did pick a name for her, by the way, but you can’t have it. She’s my
secret. I miss her.

“Can I ever know?”

Sam stares at you with wry smile for an intentionally prolonged stretch
of seconds — a stare that teases you and challenges you — before
smashing his lips together and shaking his head. “Depends how long
you stick around for.”

There’s a beat a silence before you add another line, a line that
concisely insists that you’re certain of what he’s named his new
beloved bike without having to outwardly say so. “Red is not your
color.”

“Maybe not, mais je suis toujours amoureux du rouge.” He allows you

to study his face and search around in his eyes for about three ticks
before he laughs softly past his front teeth and runs his fingers around
the outside of his mouth. “Red’s really pretty, so.”

“Pink is really pretty, too.”

Sam’s fingers tip toe towards you and when he’s close enough, he
pauses to brush your pinkies together. A slow wave of friction rolls from
skin to skin. You both take sips of your drinks as Sam’s legs drift open,
his knee tapping yours. He revels in the closeness as he sips his beer,

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then looks at you, looks at your hands, chokes on sand in his mouth,
dries his palms on his trousers. Wishing it was your hand instead, he
drops his chin into his palm and scans your figure with sudsy eyes. His
heart-shaped mouth soft, his skin shiny, his voice scratchy. “Tell me
somethin’.”

One of the first things that you noticed about him comes to mind,
quietly, and a little hesitance blooms through a small, cottony smile.
Gin surges through your veins, pooling heat to your cheeks and
lubricating your confidence. But mostly, you’re astronomically adorable.
“You have lots of new freckles. On your nose and your cheeks.
Forehead.”

“Yeah? Fuck.”

And after seeing that your comment has surprised him into a proverbial
corner, you rest one forearm on the bar and drop your chin into your
hand as well, your eyes bright and affectionate. Watching and admiring
his appearance that you’ve missed dearly, realizing now with time and
space apart that he’s even more attractive in person than in
photographs. Even more attractive than you remember. Your smile
grows slowly and proudly, lit up with enamor. “You’re so admirable. I
never stopped admiring you. I’ve never seen someone withstand so
much with such self-awareness, perseverance and grace. I doubt you
see it that way, but I do. And so do lots of other people. I did worry
about you for a long time when you disappeared, but when you just
emerged on the beach with fire on the tail of your surfboard, it made
sense. And I knew. I knew you were on your way to feeling mostly
okay. I hope you’re as proud of you as I am.”

Vivienne fucking surefire. He somehow misses you more even though

you’re sitting directly beside him.

Kiss, please. “I feel a lot closer to okay right now.” My heart’s goin’ and
I need extras.

Dropping his hand on the bar beside yours, he flips his palm up and
nudges your finger, hoping that appearing like a turtle rocking around
his back that you’ll volunteer to steady him. And when your fingertips
smooth over his wrist to align your palms, you and Sam share a sacred
moment of sweetness. Comparing the length of his long fingers to
yours, his hand a little cool and damp from the frosted beer bottle,
warm metal from his rings, smooth fingertips, callouses on his palms.
Memories from being partners. Memories from being lovers. His fingers
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slip through yours but your embrace dissolves when you both mutually
retreat, slowly, unsure of where to let them rest.

But you salvage the moment by softly clearing your throat. “Your turn.”

Sam tugs on the small braid that frames your face, highlighting the jut
of your cheekbone and cinched off simply at the bottom with a small
rubber band.

Over the past couple of years his eyes have somehow gotten even
prettier. They’re clear, but not just visually. In this moment, they’re
thoroughly undistracted and slowly flourishing with the kind of luster
that one can only achieve when they’re staring at the person they love
with a new perspective. Staring at the only person who makes them
feel a very particular way, regardless of time and distance.

“You look free. Which is so much bigger than lookin’ pretty, yeah?” A
few pink ashes fall from the end of his cigarette before he taps it off into
the ashtray, then without deliberation, passes it to you with a tick of his
eyebrow. Always caring for you, always caring for something. “It’s far
out.” Sam’s watches carefully when you suck the smoke through your
teeth as you always do before handing it back to him, a little ball of
cotton candy dissolving on your tongue. “It’s comin’ from inside you.
And I missed the sound of your voice. It tastes like basil, y’know? Like,
soft florally herbs and bubblegum. You’re hotter than fuckin’ ever,
Cherry.”

And he’s never wanted something so much as your regard. Right now,
its pull is not much different than what the sun does to the grass,
waking him to stretch up from the dirt like a zombie with spindly arms
and a strong appetite for oblivion.

Sam has taught you a lot both in his presence and absence, helped
shape you into the person you are today in regards to what you want
and what you don’t want. Sometimes you wonder how things would
have been different if he’d never lovingly trampled through such a
formative time in your life. Because of Sam, and through all the
whiplash of struggle and bliss, you’ve learned to set necessary
boundaries in all sorts of relationships. You’ve learned that it’s okay to
not be one thing. You’ve learned to accept and improve on the
strengths and shortcomings of your mind and body. You’ve learned
that fluidity is essential and easy once you’ve canceled out the static of
other people’s opinions. You’ve learned what makes you happiest in
the whole world and also what makes you the most miserable.
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The thing about the Sun is that the marks it leaves on your skin don’t
become visible without a little time in the shade.

Most importantly, you’ve learned that the risk and transcendence of

love is worth it. It’s all worth it, because it’s everything. It’s why mothers
sacrifice every bit of themselves for someone else’s success, why the
cycle of inspiration and creativity is possible, why money becomes
nothing but an inconsequential piece of paper in the face of
devastation, why artists push through blocks and pain, why people
sacrifice their time and their bodies for justice. Why a lover chooses to
walk away without a trace from an environment that is toxic for both,
regardless of how satisfying the partnership within it can feel at times.
Love sharpens and dulls everything around it.

Ultimately, when every single plausible circumstance is boiled down,

love is the essential reason to stay and it’s also the reason to leave.
And when it refuses to quiet down, it’s also the reason to come back.

Love is. Sexy as fuck.

Reaching forward, you pluck the cigarette from between his fingers
again and steal another drag, watching his face disappear and then
reappear through the haze. “Thank you, Sam. That was really lovely.”

“Mhm, that’s alright. Gospel. How’s my Beau?”

“He’s great. It took him awhile to warm up to me. He missed you a lot
at first, I think. He used to pace around the theatre restlessly, searching
for you.” Which you can relate to — even though you knew Sam was
never coming back, nothing stopped you from peeking in to practice
room two every so often in the hope that you would be blessed by a
pink, smoky mirage of him. It was a cruel existence to be forced to
change in the same dressing room where you and Sam had sex for the
very last time, to perform on the same trapeze where he used to hold
you, to walk past the fountain in the courtyard where his friend’s still
gathered and past Banana Split on your way home while fighting off a
fury of sameness and despair. “I brought him with me when I moved to
San Francisco with Nettie and Ash, so I learned that he wakes up
super early. He keeps me on the same clock that you used to.”

“He sleeps in your bed then?”

It’s a bit of a layered question really, Sam’s coy attempt at discovering

whether or not you share your bed with anyone else. Since Beau is
pretty large it would be tricky for him and another human to fit on your
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squeaky-as-fuck mattress. And he doesn’t exactly like that the topic

hasn’t been breached yet, since it’s a key factor in how he should
conduct himself for the time being. And can be a deal-breaker for the
entire purpose of his trip. Throughout all of the information that was
passed on to him by Mose and some other covert sources, the one
thing he could never get a handle on was your romantic life. You did an
excellent job of keeping that pretty mum. Every little thing about you
seems airbrushed from far away, but Sam supposes it always had.

“Usually.”

Well, that was no help.

“Groovy. Tell me somethin’ else.”

“Nettie feeds him bowls of cereal. With milk and bananas.”

“Damn. Lucky fuckin’ dog.”

You snort and the sounds seems to physically pain Sam, with the way
his expression falls before tightening up, his forehead pitching against
his closed fist as he stares at the bar below his sweating palm.

It fucking hurts to stare at the Earth’s most precious diamond with

empty pockets.

And for some reason, maybe it’s the gin or maybe it’s thick mixture of
smoke clouds overpowering the room or maybe it’s his injured reaction,
you feel the need to breach this moment with a thorn of honesty. It may
be your only shot at it, after all. “Sam? It’s kind of difficult for me to be
near you and not see your eyes glitter. Your dimple and all that. Silly
faces that change from one expression to the next faster than I can
keep up. Humor drier than a salt block and also somehow goofier than
a cartoon reel. The color pink as a boy. Your hands are still just as
busy, though. But I expected that.”

The coaster presently being shredded to bits in Sam’s hands drops to

the bar upon your keen observation. You are still a detective with
quirky timing and paradoxically soft and ironclad words. With the
sweetest fucking disposition, the sweetest sentiments pouring from
even sweeter lips. Shamefully, he had almost forgotten. Those types of
memories dull for everyone but seem to still stay close, shrunken away
like a sleeping flower that needs a little nudge to remember who they
are.

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Sam shakes his head, feeling as though his experiences throughout

the last few years and the courage needed to show up here aren’t
being received as they should. You have to know how difficult this is for
him; you have to know how difficult this has all been for him. “It’s not
fair for you to say that to me.”

“Probably not, but I was thinking it and I know you love to know what
I’m thinking.”

“You miss me.”

“It’s hard not to when you’re right here. Anyone would.”

“I miss me, too. And you. And us.” He watches you shift in your
barstool and feels your emotional recoil. “Too much?”

“I mean…..” A laugh rolls from your tongue and it tastes kind of bitter,
but Sam thinks it sounds like wind-chimes accidentally sprayed by a
hose and drying off through the warmest shades of a rainbow, so he
waits for you to finish your sentence before passing any judgements.
Both of you and himself. “You’re sitting here after how long and I can
barely believe it, so. It’s hard to know what my threshold is.” Before you
so much as step another foot in the direction this conversation seems
to be going, there’s one major thing you’re eager to know. “How’s your
memory, by the way?”

“Dynamite. I remember shit that hasn’t even happened yet.”

“You haven’t had any more—”

“Zip. You can swallow that chill pill now. Can I say somethin’?”

You’re wishing you could run away and find a payphone for another
quick pep talk from Nettie before this conversation wanders into
territory that you are ill-prepared for. But it’s much too late in San
Francisco. It’s much too late here. Even though they weren’t meant to
apply to your current situation, her words from earlier suffice, as they
always do.

You’re living your dream. There’s nothing to be afraid of. Literally

nothing. Do your thing.

“I…..” The air thickens in the space between your gazes and instead of
getting too scared and backing out, you decide to keep it simple and
hear him. “Yes. Go on.”

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“You’re the first and last thing I think about every single fuckin’ day, V.”
Sam notices the red flare in your cheeks before you feel it yourself, and
you suddenly become very interested in the tips of your fingers as you
twirl your martini glass between them. He soldiers on through the
silence, “and you have been for years, so I felt like I needed to do
somethin’ about it. Thought you should know.” His anxiety from your
silence is starting to get the better of him and as always, he can’t help
but elbow you a little, “…..’Kay, so now pretend we’re having a
conversation and you take a turn sayin’ something.”

Your smile is striking but your smile is directed at the bar top, likely
because you’re much too overwhelmed with sensory input and
information and churning guts to aim it at the person who’s produced it.
Sam waits patiently though, his hands itching to touch yours or pinch
your chin and force your attention to him like he would have done in the
past. But that’s the past, existing in its stagnant pastdom, and this is
the present, blistering in vibrating presentness. And the future
continues to be vague in its futureness.

He waits patiently, because you’re so fucking good at saying the right

thing at the right time. He trusts you. He spent months while you were
together begging you to say what you really meant, but little did he
know that all he has to do is wait.

Also, maybe Sam’s spent his fair share dabbling in the art of patience
in the space of your time apart — patience for himself and patience for
the future. Primarily, patience with the past since that is what holds the
key to everything else. And coincidentally, the piece that he historically
shoved away the hardest. Because maybe there simply are just other
ways to be.

“And how.” Your gaze meets his at a coy angle, a seductive angle with
all the lights and shadows of the room cutting across your bone
structure, the nearby candle dancing across the glitter in your eyes and
the glitter in your lipstick. Two cherries that kiss when you purse your
lips and glance down at his steady hands before turning to him slowly,
your noses just a cigarette’s length away from touching. “I have dreams
about you. Often. And each time, I wake up sad when I remember
you’re not there. It’s cruel. But it does give me something to look
forward to when I go to bed each night.”

Frozen in space for a few splendid broken heartbeats, Sam slides his
hand across the bar, crawling to a pause when he nears your wrist. He

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reaches his pinky towards yours, brushing your knuckles together and
drowning in the feeling of a thousand tiny pieces of confetti jumping in
his stomach. Then settling, but completely rearranged from before.

Often, you’ve wondered if your residual feelings for him are so strong
simply due to lack of closure. If the course of your relationship would
have eventually fizzled to an end if it weren’t so brutally interrupted, or
if it would have stacked its building blocks so high that by now you and
Sam could have been more curious and undeniable than the Great
Pyramids.

“Fuck. That’s real sexy. Hey.” Trying desperately not to stare at his
heart-shaped mouth, your eyes sting through his with defiance. Sam
thinks you look beautiful when you’re trying your best not to lose
control and he always has, because that means that you’re on the brink
of progress. Your resilience may just be his favorite thing about you.
He licks his lips slowly, already craving another cigarette. “Who the
fuck still says ’and how’?”

Your teeny giggle pierces his heart like a balloon. “I’m bringing it back.”

“Good luck.”

“Maybe you could help me, since everyone in the world fawns over
your every scarce word.”

“You’re on your own. You’ll never catch me sayin’ that shit.” Without
much consideration aside from the fact that his stomach is burning and
flipping and drowning to know the answer, Sam switches pace with
less grace than he would ideally like. He draws his gaze to the bar top,
rapping twice with his knuckles as if contemplating something, but then
finally lands on an impulsive blurt. It’s something he’s still working on
after all, and you’ve always been drawn to his spontaneous nature
because it’s so different from your calculated nature. It compels you to
speak and act in a way that you don’t normally do for others. “’Kay, so,
you gotta boyfriend I have to hate, V?”

You panic for a second, knowing that this moment was going to come
at some point and even though you rehearsed what you would say in
the bathroom mirror, regardless of whether or not you’d ever have to
speak the words out loud, every thought that you have dissolves into
the tips of your fingers and then escapes.

The sweetness of the conversation and physical closeness that you

had just been sharing is suddenly bitter, shredded and distant. You
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both know it before anyone utters another word. Even though the
distance between you has not changed, you suddenly feel miles apart,
stretched across opposite sides of this crowded bar. And since the
information had to leak eventually, sooner is likely better than later.

Sam’s hair is beautiful a little grown out, shaggy bits framing his ears
and the back of his neck in thick hazelnut waves. And swimming
through them right now is a nice, wanted distraction. One that you just
know will only last for the next three seconds, tops. “Um….. no. Not
now.”

Sam’s heart careens into his throat, the sick twist of jealousy
overpowering him from his head to his toes. His breath carries actual
weight in his chest. He’s the master of avoiding questions and can
smell the same tactic on you a mile away. Your hesitant statement is
loaded; burdened by an oozing sense of guilt, overwrought with a
tangle of roots below the dirt. There’s more to it. A lot more. Reading
between the lines of your two words reveals a matted, underwater
seaweed-infested cave of unspoken, assumed revelations:

Not now, but you did.

Not now, but very recently.

Not now, but there’s pain coming.

Not now, but adding anything else will destroy him and you know it.

Not now, but there’s no time but now.

Even though there is an audible tremble in your voice, he still won’t

look at you and your gaze is so heavy that it’s chiseling holes into his
profile. Sam thought he was ready to hear your answer, but he was
wrong. He was ready for an answer that suited him, not one that would
rip him in half.

“Right, so…..” His tongue slinks out to wet his bottom lip and his
heartbeat is so painful that it hurts to breathe. His stomach hurts, his
head hurts. Everything hurts. The room around him evaporates,
overcome with urgency. “How long were you with him and when’d you
split?”

“Sam—”

Before remembering his surroundings, his question starts off at a high

volume before immediately dropping to a whisper after the first spurted
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word. A Sam-whisper, which is still kind of loud. “Would you just

answer the fuckin’ question so we can avoid any apologies or spare
minutes of heartbreak? Haven’t we learned the truth always comes out
anyway? Just say it.”

“Shh, shh….. fine, okay. We were together for a little more than a year.
I broke up with him just shy of a month ago. Right before I left for
tour—” The scrape of the barstool’s feet against the floor that hallmarks
his escape is so jarring that your skin prickles at the sound. Porcupine
quills poking at every single pore. “Sam, no. Please wait—”

Crushed little fragments of the lord’s name tumble up with broken

curses before he finally spits, “don’t. I’m not mad at you or anything.
You’re cool. I just— I’m stunned, yeah? Fuck, shit. Fuckin’ shit. Gimme
a sec, alright?”

Abandoning his beer, Sam pushes through the crowd and weaves
through the lobby before slapping open the front door without bothering
to wait for the doorman’s assistance. You have to stifle the tears
crawling up your nose when the bartender asks if you’d like another
round, because this severely-anticipated rendezvous might have just
ended before it even began. Exactly like your romance. A prune before
it was ever a plum.

You wait. Because Sam doesn’t say things he doesn’t mean and right
now, he needs time to let his jealousy engulf him in flames and fizzle
out before he can carry on a proper conversation without burning you
alive. And you hope, both for his sake and your own, that he doesn’t
impulsively decide to hop into a passing taxi before the flames have a
chance to fizzle.

Sam paces into a dark alleyway, the only color the glow from the tip of
his cigarette, taking long drags that light up his face pink.

We were together for a little more than a year.

It doesn’t make any sense that Sam had been effectively kept in the
dark about this, that throughout the course of an entire year that no one
bothered to clue him in on your big secret. While Sam was trying to sort
out the shambles of his life, you were moving on with ease and
everyone around you seemed to support it, based on the resounding
powerful silence.

He couldn’t even begin to imagine filling the space that you took up.
When he imagines the two of you together, jealousy swells inside of his
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heart, green and atrocious, pumping through his veins and reaching
the farthest stretches of his body. A whole ass boyfriend for a whole
fucking year. Someone named fucking Bobby or Tom. Someone who
doesn’t value your worth and talent. Someone safe and polite.
Someone your mum likes. Armed with cheesy jokes. A stiff hugger.
Khaki trousers and sweater vests. Sad in the sack. No fucking spark.
No fucking throw-down. No grit. No drive or lust.

He can hear the resentment echoing around in his skull as he tries to

convince any worth out of your ex, needling him with that old, tired
insecurity of not being good enough for you. Not being presentable
enough for you. Not being grounded and conventional enough. Not
smart or practical. Not truthful or dependable. Not the kind of person
your family would willingly allow you to stand at the alter with. And the
worst part about it is that he agrees with your family and for good
reason.

Right before I left for tour—

His anger and envy has him overcome with the urge to toss you onto
the nearest surface just to prove a point. Ripping your tiny dress off,
wrapping his fingers around your neck, growling into your mouth a
selfish question of whether or not Bobby or John ever fucked you this
way, if Bobby or John ever made you come in their mouth with a spine-
shuddering mewl, if Bobby or fucking John ever bent you over their
knee and left a heavy red handprint on your skin. In the way you
deserve.

But he doesn’t, because that spunk in him feels like it’s been burned
out.

But he doesn’t, because for the first time, he’s uncertain of whether or
not you want him to.

But he doesn’t, because he doesn’t need to. He knows the real answer.

He knows because he speaks from experience. Your chemistry is a

special blend of oxygen and fire. You burn hot and fast together. Blue
untouchable flames and thick black, blinding smoke. But also, slow and
full of trust and safety. The perfect build up, the perfect climb and
crash. The kind of climb that distorts reality and the kind of crash that
wipes that reality clean. Bobby or fucking John can’t do that and neither
can a burner. No one can.

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Sam’s evidence lies in the passage of time and how even though it has
paradoxically crawled and raced by, his feelings for you have remained
the same. And since Sam can read you like his favorite memorized
poems, he senses you’re having the same experience. Except, just like
always, you’re holding it just out of his reach. Tucked away under lock
and key, probably like all of your fucking jewelry in your hotel suite
safe.

Based on the cigarette butts on the ground, Sam gauges that he must
have been outside in this alleyway for nearly fifteen minutes. And
knowing you, he assumes you’re sick with dread and worry about his
history with temper tantrums and how he has allowed them to guide his
actions in the past. The time leading up to this point, the flight, the stop
at the bodega for sunflowers, the clenching of his stomach as he
waited for you to appear in the green room. It would be a crying shame
to let all of his efforts, now and throughout the course of your
relationship, crumble because he’s a jealous little pansy.

With that, Sam charges back inside with another cigarette tucked
behind his ear for easy access. He takes note of the fresh round of
drinks sitting on the bar and takes comfort in the trust you held of his
return. He plops down on the stool beside you and before you even
have an opportunity to speak, he’s freeing himself of the truth to
absolve him of liability. Truly, his rage and envy have far less to do with
Bobby or John or you, but everything to do with himself and the two of
you as a couple. And that’s exactly how he plans to steer the rest of
this conversation.

“Hey, so. Ya know….. we were too big for ourselves, for each other.
Our love was fuckin’ massive and we didn’t know how to handle it. We
loved each other like no one else can, even though I was shitty at times
and there were a couple times you weren’t sympathetic enough with
me. Has that crossed your mind ever or am I screamin’ into an empty
fish bowl?”

This is the moment you’ve been waiting for. The moment that knocks
the alcohol buzz straight out of your bloodstream, the moment that
forces you to scrape your jaw from the floor, the moment where you’re
both compelled into shining honesty because there’s nowhere else to
back up. His accusation causes you to stumble for a second, especially
because it’s not at all what you were expecting to hear from him after
the landslide of information you just released on his frail state of mind.

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But in perfect Surefire fashion, it only takes a second to regain your

footing.

“Yes. Of course I recognized it. And sometimes it would pop up

randomly, while I was brushing my teeth or walking past dance studio
two.” Which you refused to set foot in ever again. “Not because I held
you back at first, honestly, I don’t regret that. I don’t regret being careful
about the fragility of my career because I earned it fair and square and
it was as thin as ice. But the way I dismissed your doting, the things I
didn’t communicate when I should have, the walls I threw up so fast
when your memory slipped….. yes, I regret all of it. But I can’t reach
into the past and change it, I can only notice the warning signs in
similar dark woods in the future. That’s all I can do. And I apologize, of
course. I’m sorry I put myself first at the end. I’m sorry I wasn’t honest.
I’m sorry I waited so long to have sex with you, because I wish I
could’ve tasted you just a little bit longer. I’m sorry I didn’t chase you
out of Rusty’s office when he fired you. I didn’t appreciate you enough
at times.”

The last hour, the last hundred pages, the last mile home. It seems like
you wait a lifetime to arrive there and once you do, it’s gone before you
can savor it.

“Killer. Thank you. I know you fuckin’ hate when I say this, but I wasn’t
good enough for you. I was a piss baby. I filled your ears up, but I
wasn’t doin’ enough work on myself and my own shit. I didn’t have the
proper tools and I couldn’t give you what you needed. I did a lot of shit
that wasn’t okay. And I’d do it a lot differently if I could.”

“Me too.”

“Hey, babe? Don’t be so fuckin’ bad to yourself. How many times do I

have to rattle off that same lingo? You appreciated the fuck out of me
and you said so all the time, how could you forget that? Didn’t you read
my letter? I never fuckin’ forgot it. Or maybe you didn’t recognize your
acts of appreciation when they happened, but I felt it, so that’s all that
matters. Also, if it makes you feel any better, I wouldn’t have heard shit
from you if you chased after me when I was fired. That was the
beginning of a very deep and dark spiral. Wanna know what I did that
night?”

“Um….. do I?”

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And you just know it’s much darker and abysmal than the surface
statement Sam gives you. His short statement carries the brawn of a
short story.

“Went for a swim.”

Sam stays quiet and allows you to feel your feelings. Watching as your
eyes turn shiny, watching as your hands fall into your lap and your
gaze follows. Watching as your heart physically splits down the middle
and stains your clothing with dark red blood. Honestly, he has fear too.
Not in the hopeless search for pity for his past actions, but in the
uncertainty of losing his only shot at winning you back because of his
biting honesty. Which is something he’s always feared when it comes
to you; that his genuine self with all of its tarnish and mistakes and
baggage isn’t something you’d choose to stick around for. And even
though he is a piece of shit, but he still thinks he’s one of the good
ones.

“But I chickened out. Crawled from the water and hacked up salt for ten
minutes. Fell asleep in the sand and then tried it again as soon as the
sun came up. Chickened out again, swallowed all the ’ludes Bunny
gave me. Dreamed about you for twenty-four hours, hopin’ I wouldn’t
wake up so I could dream ’bout you for eternity. Woke up anyway.
Finished off your letter and brought it to you right after I trashed Tex’s
car and house.” And maybe murdered Riff, but he’ll ask about local
obituary reports later. “I had no clue how to take care of myself, by
myself. But I do now. We knew it was over as soon as I forgot who you
were. You couldn’t even look at me the same after that, after I showed
you a glimpse of our mortality. It was too hard for you to stomach. You
couldn’t even bear to have a conversation about it. And once my visa
got revoked, I had nothin’ left to lose. Nothin’. And before you start
spoutin’ off, I couldn’t leave you with that bombshell before I skipped
town. I know you’re stunned to be hearing it now, but please try to
understand. I’m sorry I hurt you so much. I’m sorry I’m hurtin’ you now.
I’m so sorry.”

So, I’m sorry. You’re fired, Sam.

Sam fucking hates apologies, both giving and receiving them. It’s a
weak pardon of guilt, someone else’s peace of mind at the expense of
his time and emotional energy.

And his apology is so foreign that it almost slips by you. Almost. But
then again, not much slips by you.
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In short: Sam is notorious for self-inflicted downward spirals when

things feel out of control and he ends up hurting himself. And those
who love him, as displayed in your big watery baby deer eyes right
now. But you always knew this about him, even when others were
completely blind to it. “So, you tried to drown yourself twice and when
that didn’t work, you tried to overdose?”

His eyebrows pull together in a sharp frown at your succinct language

and it urges him to pause and consider the lengths at which he took to
escape pain. All that time ago. Sam doesn’t consider himself the type
of person who gives up fighting, but in the same vein, he has felt so
overwhelmed in moments that he wishes he could just stick a needle in
his brain and suck all the bad foam and gunk out of it. “Sounds bad
when you put it that way. Just wanted a long nap. Who wouldn’t?”

“Sam…..” Your elbows hit the bar top, your face falls into your palms.
Raging and warring emotions completely consume your insides and
outsides, trying to make sense and justifications for his past anger and
impulsivity that you’re well aware of, while also simultaneously
retracing your steps back to that day and the following two days
afterwards to try to remember what you were feeling and thinking.
What he was feeling and thinking. But it’s a fog, a mind-swept trauma
hiding under a rug somewhere. As trauma does. “I’m so worried about
you.”

All of those times when you quelled the intuitive ache in your stomach
over what Sam was going through, all alone somewhere on planet
Earth, with his brain turning on him and convincing him that he’s not
good enough for things start to bubble up and surface. Mostly, you
don’t want to make this about yourself and turn it into one of those
situations where he feels remorse for your sake. Walking that balance
beam of sympathy and personal distress towards someone else’s
suffering can be challenging because there simply isn’t enough room in
our bodies for the entire world’s pain, on top of our individual miseries.
And yet somehow, we manage.

It’s simple; the more you love something, the more it hurts you.

“Don’t be. It’s long gone. I feel like there’s a nuance in recognizing your
hardships and the validity in them, but also understanding how that shit
taxes the people around you. Ya know? Nothin’ is easy. For anyone. I
used to get pissed when it felt like my support systems were crumblin’,
but like, they need to take care of themselves, too. I guess what I’m

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sayin’ is we’re responsible for ourselves and we’re lucky when people
are there for us. I’m lucky for every nice word you ever said to me,
when I needed to hear it most. And I don’t blame you for protectin’
yourself when it got to be too much. I woulda done the exact same.
Just sayin’. I can’t step into the future without accepting my past. And
same goes for you. Please try an’ understand. Can I hug you?”

As soon as you nod, Sam’s gripping your wrist to guide you off the
barstool and between his legs, wrapping you up in one of those hugs
that feels like a fuzzy terry cloth beach towel after it’s saturated itself in
poolside sunshine. Warm and soft, sinking into each one of your hollow
crevices to protect you from that particular sweeping chill of dusky air
when your body is soaking wet. A superior comfort uniform, more
reassuring than wrapping yourself up in your favorite precious fucking
cardigan.

His arms fold clear around you, his nose and lips pressing into your
hair when he mumbles into your ear, “love is forcin’ someone to look at
themselves. Really look at themselves. Are you surprised I avoided
that shit for so long? And that you did, too? Who wants to willingly face
that? It’s hard.” He pulls back to look at your face, but keeps you in his
arms. “Be mad at me as long as you need, just not forever. ’Kay? Even
the moon has to slowly build its way back up after it’s been veiled in
darkness. New moons aren’t instantly full again the very next night. It’s
just not how life works, babe. Pain level on a scale of 1 — 10?”

You missed him. You miss him. And it feels so good to have him here
that you’re scared to let him in, for fear of how much the scars would
burn if he were ripped away once more.

“Five. Six?”

“Is that a cool yellow or creepin’ closer to red?”

His gaze follows as you sit back down on your barstool, your legs
crossed towards him, your knees touching. There is no sensation of
looming tears in your sinuses or your chest and as you take a moment
to mentally scan your body, searching and searching for any feelings of
tension, there aren’t any. And it feels like even if you waited for your
body to catch up to your mind, the tears still wouldn’t come. Maybe
there is a greater bit of understanding in there than you’d previously
realized, a detachment of yourself from his destructive choices. A
realization that someone can still love you more than anything else on
the planet, and still not be able to demonstrate it all the time. It’s
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somehow freeing, to unburden someone of your ideal expectations and

just allow them to live beside you and not in relation to you. Existing as
an extension of themselves and themselves only.

“Still yellow. I’m not mad at you, for any of it. It’s just hard to feel the
right kind of pain over something that happened so long ago.” Holding
on to residual panic out of principle seems unfair, especially after he’s
taken a leap with stabbing honesty, but that logic doesn’t do much for
the sting of sadness still worming its way around in your heart.
Transforming personal concern into interpersonal understanding is a
difficult bridge to cross. Objectively judging actions as slight or severe
when you’re in love with someone is even harder. “Is that the only
time?”

“Yeah. That night was brutal. Findin’ out you had a serious boyfriend
for a fuckin’ eternity is a close second.”

“A year. On and off. It wasn’t as serious as it seems.”

“Yeah? Well….. that’s still three hundred and sixty-five days of

commitment and decision-making based around another person. Stop
shrinkin’ it.”

In a matter of words, Sam helps you realize that you were indeed
trivializing your relationship for the sake of his feelings. That you likely
trivialized the entirety of the relationship as a defense. And any bit of
dishonesty, as you’ve learned, is not helpful for either of you. “You’re
right. I’m sorry. It’s been looming in the back of my mind for this entire
conversation, wondering how and when I was going to tell you and
then bearing the brunt of….. whatever reaction you were going to have.
I’ll admit it was better than I excepted, though.” Your stomach starts to
violently plunge through the air upon the vocalization of your next
question. “I find it hard to believe that you haven’t dated anyone else?”

Sam’s shrug meets his ears. “Handful of burners. Didn’t tell half of ’em
my name. Couple repeats.” He takes a long swig of beer and speaks
with a mouthful before swallowing, as if he were attempting to swallow
his confession as soon as it leaves his lips, “couple dudes.”

Couple repeats hurts harder than you’d like to admit and it makes you
wonder if within the spaces of him sleeping with people, and after some
considering and reconsideration, if he’d thought about the possibility of
moving on with someone else. If he tried to force himself to, like you
had. If there was someone who came close to outshining you. If he

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dreamed of someone else, whispered French to someone else, shared

a bed or clothes or a massage or a fork with someone else. But then
you remember how uncomfortable he must be feeling about the
magnitude of your ex and decide to let that sting of jealousy slowly
wane to death. It’s probably better not to know any of those things,
because right now, his current actions are outweighing all of those
things.

“Wait.” Your jaw drops gradually and hangs in the air. “Did you say you
were with men?”

“Testin’ it out.”

Your nose scrunches up in wonder, but doesn’t exactly let a snort

loose. “Did you have sex? Were you—”

“Shut up.”

“Can I guess?”

“No. Shut the fuck up.”

“Okay.” You eat one of the cherries from your French 75, but you can’t
let the topic go without one more question. You can never let anything
go without one more question. “Did you like it?”

“Mmm—”

“I think you were a recipient.”

His smile and soft chuckle light up the entire room. A ray of Sunshine
breaking through the clouds, a rush of a thousand soft memories that
you thought had been hardened forever fiercely swim their way against
the current. This entire interaction is akin to a spring day at its most
unsettled; the roll of clouds, the burst of a fighting Sunbeam, a
momentary downpour, bright light working its hardest to stretch on a
little longer than the night before.

“’Kay, I instantly regret flappin’ my gums.”

“No, no. Don’t. You should feel proud of yourself. That’s hard to
confront and admit for most people, let alone explore. But….. you liked
it?”

Sam raises his eyebrows, his eyes trained on you as he puckers his
lips and takes another long sip of beer.

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Your fingertips drum your lips before you break into small giggles.
“That’s a yes. It’s actually not all that surprising.” His wanton kiss with
Tex at the fountain flashes like a bolt of lightning and the thought of
Tex still makes your skin crawl and urges your mind to naturally slide to
thoughts of Riff, so you shut the image down hard and fast before that
resentment starts to seep into your current, and frankly, much more
important conversation. “Look, I’m sorry, Sam….. thinking of you with
other people makes my blood boil with envy. I know that’s not fair of
me to say because it’s your life and I wasn’t in it. Of course you’ve
done nothing wrong and I’ve done the same exact thing, but kind of
bigger in a different way. But it’s still true.”

“That’s what I wanna hear.” You’re perfect. “How ’bout this?” Propping
his elbow on the bar, Sam rests his chin in his palm and nibbles on his
bottom lip, his eyelashes flicking when his sight drops to your mouth
then back to your unwavering gaze. “Drunkenly called one of ’em
Cherry by accident.”

“Was it one of the men?” Sam laughs, but your smile doesn’t quite
reach your cheeks. His confession makes you feel sad for him and he
can sense it based on how the volume and conviction of your voice
drops. “Liar. Better than ’Clyde’ I guess.”

“Seriously? Ouch. Don’t drop that word around here. Fuck off. Don’t
you know me at all? No one has a chance against you. No one. You
think that’s changed just because my memory hiccupped for a few
fuckin’ hours and then I roamed the earth aimlessly, alone, meditating
on my pain and mistakes and bad luck for the next two years? I was
workin’ on myself. Not erasin’ you. There’s a major difference. I didn’t
know what was gonna happen with me since I was chased out of the
U.S. and you had so much fuckin’ potential that I couldn’t dare squash,
so I cut you loose. I hope you can understand that at some point, even
if it’s not today.”

And that’s exactly why it hurts so fucking badly that you can jump right
into a year-long relationship with someone. Sure, Sam had his need of
connection and intimacy met on a few occasions, but it was merely
that. But you — a whole fucking year. Just like that. As if the two of you
walked away from completely different relationships and the one that
Sam was in was much more impactful than yours was.

It’s not that he didn’t expect you or wish for you to explore around a
little bit, to gain perspective and narrative and experience, to be happy

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and fulfilled and lucky like you deserve. But a year is serious and a
year is a long time and a year is unexpected. A year could have easily
snowballed into two or three or marriage and pregnancy. A year is
twice more than Sam could give you and it makes him feel short on
luck. It makes him feel inferior. It makes him feel remorseful. Jealous.
After the destruction from the Sunny/Cherry earthquake, it doesn’t
match the magnitude of the aftershock you both felt.

Or maybe it does. Maybe he’s just too sensitive. Maybe Sam is just in
the outfield all alone and never realized, isolated by impact and
dodging fly balls while you were collecting home runs. A crowd cheers
for the opposite team, the phantom scoreboard finally manifests in the
distance to read a score that he didn’t even know was being kept this
entire time.

Vivienne: 1

Sam: 0

A fucking year?

The reasons why Sam left Malibu have never been a mystery to you.
Even if he hadn’t been deported it was glaringly obvious, even through
your heartbreak, that it wasn’t the right time for you to try to be
together. Even though the backlash of his brain injury wasn’t his fault,
you still couldn’t see him as a Sunbeam quite yet. Because he wasn’t
fully there; he was stomped to dust on the hot sidewalk, crushed into
the creases and stuck to dry cement. He was dressed in black from
head to toe like a walking shadow, moth-bitten holes allowing his light
to bleed from his clothing. You were both lost and unable to shoulder
the weight needed for the other’s prosperity. You both had a lot to learn
about love and it seemed as though that could only happen in the loss
of love. Awareness through absence.

“I did understand it eventually. It took me awhile, mostly because you

leaving was the last thing I wanted. But reflecting back on it, I was glad
you tore that bandage off so that we could properly heal. We would’ve
kept poking at each other’s wounds and left uglier scars than we
intended. And trying to make it work by patching up our problems with
sex and enabling validation would’ve only complicated everything. I’m
on your side, believe me.” But it still doesn’t mean that it isn’t a
complete shock to be telling him all of this in person.

I broke up with him just shy of a month ago.

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Sam feels the need dig into you for more details, even through your
soft bout of sympathy. “Alright, let’s hear some lingo. Were you livin’
together? What’s his name? Actually— no, stop. Fuck that. I don’t
wanna know yet. Don’t tell me.” And as soon as the dig flies from his
mouth, he immediately regrets it.

Did he hold you all night long? Help you put your cardigan on before
you left a restaurant? Pull out your chair? Open your car door? Was he
your sunshine or merely a flickering lightbulb? What nicknames did you
call him? What did he call you? Did he meet your parents? Did you do
things for him that you wouldn’t do for Sam? Did you discuss your
relationship with him? Did you tell him that Sam deserved everything
that happened to him? Did he make you blush? Did he make you
laugh? Really laugh? Did he make you come? Really come?

Did he even fucking dance with you?

Who is even good enough for you?

If only you could see yourself the way that Sam sees you, you’d
probably never settle for anyone. Even him.

Or especially him.

Were you in love with him? Were you more in love with him than you
were with Sam?

“Do you want me to tell you those things? Because I will—”

“Nah, I’m not ready to hear it yet. I’m still too surprised. I really wasn’t
expectin’ you to say that….. you don’t jump into shit. I thought you’d
mess around a little, but not this. Could this guy walk on fuckin’ water
or somethin’?”

The expression on your face and the stark flip in topic says enough.
You know the answer, but you need to hear him admit it. “Did you
come to New York just for me, Sam?”

Taken aback by your forward, assuming question, he’s forced to pause

before he answers with his eyes dead set on yours. “Yeah. I did. Right
next to a loud-ass cryin’ baby. Just for you.” He battles between sipping
his beer, eating a handful of peanuts or lighting a new cigarette to quell
his sudden oral craving, but settles on none of them. Instead his
fingertips blindly find the coaster, picking away at the sad, frayed edge.
“Or maybe I was the cryin’ baby, I dunno. Somethin’ tells me I might be

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on the flight back. Do you know how hard it was for me to let you sleep
in my van that first time? I’d never let anyone in like that before, not like
that. And I haven’t since.”

Your relationship spins by on a blurry colorful wheel, the dice never

landing in a pocket to give you a solid answer. It would be impossible
for the dice to land anyway; the beat of your heart is violent enough to
keep the wheel spinning for hours.

“Okay…..” You’d figured as much, but it’s still intense to hear it spoken
out loud. The validation of being unique to him I’m terrified of being
ordinary reinforces that his abandonment was on his own accord,
rather than overwhelming slights of your own. Ones that you’ve broken
down and broken down and broken down for years, while whittling
yourself to the bone on your knotted rope, drowning your face in tears
as you read The Pink Envelope to the point of memorization. It forces
you to think back to the events and thoughts throughout Sam’s last
twenty-four hours or last few days and weeks, months even. How long
has he been planning this reunion?

With Sam, it’s impossible and possibly forbidden to know if he’d been
scheming this very interaction from the moment he left Malibu, pausing
and breathing until he felt ready to face you. Until he was confident his
actions could match his words, exactly how they did the first time he
told you that he loved you. And then there’s the possibility that he’s
acting on complete impulse, tired of being lonely or just ready to take a
risk on an uncertain outcome for the hell of it. Because the moon and
some purple flowers and the wind told him so. There’s really no red line
in his history that would help you draw a definite conclusion.

The blood pumping from your heart to your brain and back again is
moving so fast that you feel the need to grip your barstool for stability.
“And what were you expecting exactly? Closure? Or—”

“Yeah, at least. Maybe more.”

Your throat is tight enough now that air is having difficulty moving
through, hopping and skipping over each notch in your trachea. “More?
Meaning?”

“Yeah, like….. some drippy residual feelings. Or big, obvious ones.

Good or bad. I can’t see shit through your poker face right now.” The
pad of his index finger drags through a watery heart of condensation on
the bar top. “I waited, y’know. I waited until I couldn’t wait anymore. I

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waited so long that I tried to start convincin’ myself that I could be

happy with an irreplaceable piece of my life missing. But it didn’t feel
right. It’s not what you’re thinkin’. It’s the other way ’round. I was
countin’ down the days until you were outta Malibu and until I was
ready.”

Still not willing to raise your hope for the sake of a broken heart, you
nod and allow him the space to speak. Because even though your
insides are being spun through a wash cycle and hung to dry, his are
likely being cut to pieces with scissors. Blades so sharp he can’t even
feel the injury, but the amount of blood and frail tissue pouring from him
is extraordinary. It’s not hard to admit that an effort like this takes a lot
of bravery, after all. A willingness to be completely destroyed for a slim
chance at satisfaction. “Ready for what?”

“For the right time, a time that made sense.” Your questioning is
fucking him up. Throughout the many times that he’s imagined this
interaction, his thoughts and explanations were markedly more linear.
You somehow manage to throw a boomerang into each one of his
considerations, but he supposes that’s something he’s always
respected about you. “A time when you would hear me.”

“Okay….. I appreciate the amount of thought you put into this. I do. But
Sam, please try to see this from my side, too. You left and I had no
idea where you went. You didn’t want me to find you, remember? You
made me love you with every single bone in my body and when things
fell apart literally overnight, you just left without another peep. Zero
communication or hope. For two-and-a-half years. Before we even
really had a chance to dig deep into our feelings and discuss what
happened or consider the next step, you made the decision for both of
us. I know that whole shitty situation was hard, traumatizing and unfair.
Sad and scary, and frankly, horrific. For the both of us, yes, but
especially for you. Your injury was not your fault, what happened to
Indy was not your fault. Our secret relationship wasn’t solely your
responsibility. I’m so sorry that happened to you, that you lost so much.
And I know it must really hurt that I’ve been with someone else, but
what did you expect by just disappearing? That I would stay completely
holed-up on the slim chance that you would reappear on my doorstep?
I truly thought I was never going to see you ever again. Ever.
Especially as more and more time passed. I’m sor… y... I’m so sorry.
But I couldn’t just wait around with a vague hope and a broken heart. I
didn’t want to, but I had to try to live my life.” You choke on your
honesty, “I thought you were gone forever. Just poof — vanished. And
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now you’re back on your own time and on your own accord and it just
feels like everything is on your terms. Your capacity, your needs, your
timing. I can’t grasp this so quickly; I can’t just pull the right answers
out of thin air without contemplating it. It’s heavy. Our past is really
heavy.”

Sam opens his mouth to shout, but instead sucks in a lungful of air and
decides to keep his voice down for the sake of public scrutiny. He
doesn’t want the entire room to hear him unleash a fucking hailstorm
on a two-and-a-half-year long draught after all.

“Hey, how the fuck else was I supposed to do it? I fuckin’ had to split,
alright? I lost everything that was important to me in the span of what,
two days? My girlfriend, my job, my friendships, my home. My fuckin’
brain. My residency. I burned every relationship that I had in that circus
to the goddamn ground. That was rock bottom for me, don’t you get it?
I had zero spiritual stamina. I needed to heal. Did you forget that you
wouldn’t let me fuckin’ discuss jackshit with you? I tried. I showed up
cryin’ like a pansy on your doorstep after I went to the hospital and then
tried to bring it up at work before the finale, but you shot me down
every single time. I’m sorry I hurt you, but I left for you as much and I
did it for me. Everything was for us. Look at where you are now. You
wouldn’t have achieved all this if I’d stuck around back then, sneakin’
around Malibu hopin’ Rusty wouldn’t spot me. Lingering in the corner of
your mind and driftin’ in and out of your apartment while you were tryin’
to succeed. I would’ve been a fuckin’ drag. I would’ve sucked the life
outta you. And I couldn’t pursue my own career in Malibu, because it
would’ve been too fuckin’ obvious I was still in the country. And you
think you’re the only person with a fear of abandonment? Why do you
think I pushed you away so hard at first? I’ve known since I’ve met you
that you’re too fuckin’ good for me. That I’d destroy you. I was scared
shitless you were gonna leave me the whole time we were together
and that’s why I hid all that shit from you. I know it wasn’t right and it
was selfish as fuck and ended like shit, but I didn’t want to just give you
another reason to walk away. It felt too good. Too good to be real. I felt
like if I breathed the wrong way, everything around me would
disintegrate and it turns out I wasn’t wrong. I was really fuckin’ good at
tellin’ you what you deserved, but I couldn’t do the same for myself. I
don’t think any of us can. Catch my drift? Or should I keep goin’?”

“Oh….. okay. Wow.” Nothing could have prepared you for this.
Fidgeting is unusual for you. You’re a poised person. Fidgeting is
usually Sam’s domain, shredding coasters and twisting off the filters of
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his cigarettes, touching his lips and his hair and his neck, twirling his
rings and drumming his kneecaps. So, he feels it instantly when the ice
from his storm starts to melt on your skin, dripping from your hair and
clumping your eyelashes together. He feels it instantly when you start
to pick at the skin around your nails and tug on the hem of your dress.
When your gaze falls, hallmarking your resignation. “Okay, yes. But
you didn’t even try to contact me once in over two years. And it’s not
like I could contact you—”

“I had to catch my breath. I’d never fuckin broken up with someone

before. Not like that. You think I wanted to end it either? You’re fuckin’
batty. That was the hardest thing I’d ever done.”

Once Sam started to realize that although the present is powerful and
the present is important and the present predicts the future, he also
realized that he’d been spending so much time there in order for the
devastating past and questionable future to seem tolerable. The
landscape flattened. And then he started to do things for himself. Active
mental carnage, rather than the carnage of those around him; writing,
yoga, meditation. Lots of weed. Throwing his entire body into what he
loves most besides you and himself: surfing.

“I have to use the restroom. This conversation is so sudden, loaded

and happening so long after the fact that I’m having a hard time
properly wrapping my head around it. Excuse me—”

This is the exact opposite of what Sam expected or wanted. It’s

completely backwards. He should have known better; he should have
known that you’re tough and impenetrable. That you safeguard your
feelings to avoid unnecessary pain, just as he does. It seems stupid
now, but all of those daydreams about sweeping you off your feet and
jumping your bones and swallowing each one of your grateful moans
the instant you saw one another again are being sliced in half and
tossed to the side like unwanted food scraps. It would appear that he’s
guilty of mentally romanticizing you to the point of illusion. He should
have known better.

Love is not a fairytale; love is a psychological thriller.

“Shit.” Sam knows that you explicitly said to drop any expectations that
he may be having, but it’s hard to when one builds up the courage to fly
across an ocean to a foreign city and finagles their way into CBS
Studios in the vain hope that they can somehow salvage a dusty,
thousand piece puzzle that has a hundred missing segments. “No…..
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please don’t book it. I’m know I’m pushin’ you. I’m sayin’ too much, I’m
completely unloading. I don’t mean to, I just— seeing you again—
there’s no one like you, V. You’re really fuckin’ select. It’s driving me
fuckin’ crazy all over again. I’m a sick puppy. I mean—” He spreads his
palms out in the air in a gesture of begging for your self-reflection. “Just
check yourself out. How could I ever act decent? I barely could before
and you’re so heavy now. Foxy. Please, just. I don’t know, don’t walk
away and leave me like this before I even have a chance. I have so
much to say to you. Please.”

Your palm lands on his forearm and squeezes tight; his chest clamps
down in response. “Shh, I’m just going to splash some water on my
face. It never crossed my mind to leave you. I’m not anywhere near
finished with this conversation. This is very romantic and so very brave
and heart-breaking that I need a minute to process it. You’ve had time
to understand it because you knew it was coming, this is all a surprise
to me. And besides,” you point towards the lobby, “you know I’m
staying in The Sunset Suite tonight. I don’t have that great of a hiding
spot.”

“The Sun—” Sam actually hadn’t known that, but you sure have a way
of asserting yourself with crafted grace and dignity. So fucking cunning
and he’s starting to think you have a solid clue. He mentally races
through the large lavish room with its likely spectacular lofty view and a
variety of surfaces to fuck you on; bathroom sink, sofa, desk, coffee
table, arm chair, nightstand, California king bed, baby grand piano,
breakfast table, shower, wall, window overlooking Park Avenue and
most of Midtown. Then quickly, his eyes flick from your toes to your
face. “’Kay.”

And suddenly, in opposition to what he thought just one minute prior to

your sneak attack, it sounds as though there’s no one else you’d rather
have here with you in this moment. And that just has to mean
something remarkable.

You stand to your feet and wait, going back and forth in your mind
about whether or not you should say this out loud, but wind up throwing
caution to the wind for his sake. “Hey, Sam?”

“Vivienne.”

“Part of me never stopped waiting for you. Part of me knew that no one
could ever and will ever take your place. You never left the back of my
mind and I don’t think you ever will. I don’t really know what I’m
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supposed to do with that information and more importantly, what you’re

supposed to do with it. But I know you like honesty, so there’s a little.”

Sam’s face is so expressive and beautiful; such wide, broad, shapely,

colorful, proportionate and distinctive features. Both beautifully
masculine and feminine, depending on the lighting and the focus.
Technicolor and discordant, bleeding patterns of madras and
houndstooth; pink and green and brown and black and white. A
painting that you never tire of appreciating. You could easily pick him
out a crowd of thousands. You could easily pick a bouquet of tropical
flowers from his silhouette alone. Anyone could. But especially now,
with his heartbeat written on his skin, pulsing blood flow to his cheeks,
his bottom lip shiny red from the busy work of his anxious tongue and
teeth. A healthy sprinkle of new freckles on his nose and cheeks and a
new twist of thick waves framing his temples paint him as elegantly
rugged. He’s undoubtedly the most breathtaking person you have yet
to see or will ever see. You’re sure of it.

Both of your breaths catch in your throat when you brush his shoulder
and then bravely, rebelling against the sick thud of your heart, cup the
back of his neck and hover close to his heart-shaped lips. Sam stays
fixed, not breathing, his stomach tossing violently at your sweet scent
and your proximity and your gall and you and you and you.

Vivienne fucking Surefire.

Your fingers tangle into the hair at the nape of his neck and the tip of
his nose depresses against your cheek, his fingers slowly tiptoeing
across your stomach. An explosion of pins and needles, crushed velvet
organs and the tiny splash of a champagne bubbles popping on your
chin.

Kiss, please.

Tilting your head, you sponge a kiss to his scratchy cheek and he
graciously returns the gesture to your soft one, your noses brushing
when you pull back and take one wobbly step away with your eyes still
locked. And then another step, before spinning on the ball of your foot
to retreat to the restroom.

“Hey, V.” You find him over your shoulder, his body fixed and stiff.
Tense and wanting. “You made me love you with every single bone in
my body, too.”

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And because you know his dormant arrogance needs a bit of a

competitive shove, because you know that his confidence historically
stems from action and praise, because you know what difficult patches
feel like and you know that every unique facet of Sam is simultaneously
clawing at itself and that he obviously wants you because he’s here
and you obviously want him because you’re here, a piece of him or
maybe all of him. Because that feeling has never stopped or even
shrunk and now it’s humming to life with the force of summer Sunshine
through layers of cold, frosted dirt, you push. Because you know him
and you know what he needs. You push.

“Just for you.”

A chrysalis creaks open, needless red meconium spills out in search

for a new purpose, a single newborn butterfly bounces around violently
in Sam’s stomach. “One more thing.” He pinches his bottom lip
between his fingers, making you wonder if he still tastes the same;
orange juice and cotton candy and secrets. “Did you want me to meet
you at your hotel so that you couldn’t make a run for it no matter what?”

“And how.” You’re much too curious a person not to pry into a situation,
after all.

Fuck this. Sam didn’t come all the way to New York to continue an old
fight and rekindle a teasing dance that was left inconclusive two years
ago, nor did he come here to continue a dishonest emotion-sucking
rollercoaster that the two of you started in 1965 and can’t seem to find
the lever for the brakes. He knows that you told him to drop his
expectations, but he fucking has expectations and that’s okay and
rejection is okay and fear is okay, but repeated history and cold feet
are not. Cowardice to break through walls is not rejection, it’s a missed
opportunity.

There’s too much to sort through and it can’t happen without an

intense, habit-breaking reconnection. And an intense reconnection
can’t happen if you’re still harboring years of anger, sadness and
confusion.

So, he’s going to fuck it out of you. Because you have to start
somewhere.

Throwing a wad of cash on the bar with a stroke of full-blown long-lost

momentum, Sam drops his suitcase off at the front desk and asks to
have it brought up to the Sunset Suite. Following in your path, he waits

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in the concealed hallway outside the bathroom against the opulent

wallpaper with his foot kicked up against the wall behind him.

And when you emerge, cheeks pinched and lips pouty with a fresh coat
of gloss, his heart thumps inside of his throat, his palms breaking out in
a sweat. Faking confidence in the vain hope that he can somehow
manifest it with false bravado, he grabs your wrist and pins you against
the wall. One hand lies flat on the wallpaper beside your head, his
fingertips trail up your arm and across your shoulder to your throat for a
quick little squeeze that prompts you to tilt your head back. His hand
swivels to clasp the back of your neck, keeping your gaze set on his.
Keeping you in his physical and metaphorical palms. “We should
probably check and see if there’s anything still kickin’ around between
us then, yeah?”

Blurry, blurry, blurry.

Circling your arms around his neck to crane him close, you pant out a
puff of air against his lips and he can feel the echo of it glittering in his
stomach. “Couldn’t hurt.”

Blurry, blurry.

“Famous last words.”

Blurry.

The tip of his nose nudges yours. Once, twice. Then the long lost,
familiar golden lock and key is snapped into place when your lips fold
together without hesitation. Slow and sweet, a direct contrast to the
grip on your neck, a couple of aching seconds that buy the both of you
just enough time for a pull of breath through your noses. Just like he
had always kissed you before; the right amount of candy and control,
taking charge of your course and comfort, pioneering the role of the
cog that keeps the two of you churning in sync. Chasing your tongue
for more, sucking on your bottom lip, little hums to convey his
appreciation. Your tummy flipping every second. Your supple melody
inciting his own curious murmurs past his teeth. Your absolute favorite.

“Mmm…..” Each kiss has more heat than the one before it and it takes
everything inside of Sam to stop himself from hitching your leg around
his waist. “Fuck.” His hand moves to your jaw and his eyes flick from
yours to your mouth, letting loose a single line of, “I miss you, baby,”
before crashing back in for more.

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Clear.

Sam is made of orange peels. And your expertise have missed one
another; the inexplicable chemistry of two ice cream flavors warming
and melting together into a puddle to twist into a new taste. Strawberry
and chocolate, sweet and rich, an opposite and complementary pairing.
A sweep from the tip of his tongue against the tip of yours before his
lips close and suck on your muscle with a tight moan. A perfect
molding that increases in volume, a perfect molding that starts with
your mouths and resonates in your stomachs. It’s addictive. Everything
has been very, very empty without it. But your body remembers,
because once you’ve had it, chocolate never forgets what a thick
frosting of strawberry tastes like.

His breath is still Sunshine. Hot, alive. Pink, pleasant. And each time
he breathes against your lips, your core flutters in response.

They say the best relationships are the ones that feel like no time has
passed once you’ve reconnected. And Sam is just like you
remembered: the Sun’s light on the longest day of the year, hovering
and hovering in the very center of the sky, expertly lighting the way
while barely casting a shadow. Except now he’s dipped in gold. A
reminder of love momentarily lost but never forgotten, as Sam crawled
from the dark depths of amnesia and suffering to demonstrate.

As his mouth sneaks to your neck and collarbone for a little nibble, your
fingertips dip into the neck of your dress to retrieve your room key. You
drop the key into his open, waiting palm and a tingle runs up your spine
when he clicks his tongue in your ear, “lucked out.”

“Where’s your bag?”

“The Sunset Suite.”

The fire that you’d missed since your romp in the dressing room after
the finale starts up again with a soft hiss against his lips, “how bold.
Tell me something?”

Tell me somethin’.

“Jesus— Vivienne….. I wanna fuck you. And then make love to you.
And then fuck you again. In that order. Over and over. Hard, slow.
Hard, slow. Please let me fuck you and make love to you.” His lips
hover over yours, hot panting breaths. “Fuck, please. I need to know.

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We need to know. We didn’t have enough time. You haunt me. I’m
beggin’.”

“Please.”

And when his soft whine curls up from his tummy and hits the air, your
core squeezes itself so hard that your control disintegrates and propels
your mouths together again. And he practically has to peel the two of
you apart and pry his hands away from your tits to drag you to closest
elevator, punching his knuckle into the button repeatedly as you hug
him from behind, your palms smoothing up his stomach and chest.

The elevator ride and the jaunt to your suite are just as frantic and
tense, with Sam’s hands wandering up your skirt and your hands
slipping underneath the shoulders of his jacket, pausing every couple
of steps to kiss again which only snowballs into another heated
makeout session. Finally, he gets you to the door, trying desperately to
unlock it as your fingertips distract him and dip into the waistband of his
trousers, your lips attached to his neck. And as soon as the lock clicks
open, you’re both stumbling inside and pulling off each other’s clothes
with your lips sealed together, breaking away only to slip his wifebeater
and your dress off over your heads.

A trail of clothing follows behind you in your path to the closest surface,
causing Sam to trip over one of your abandoned shoes and grumble a
teasing shut up through your sweet laughter. He backs you up against
the couch, palming your breasts and dipping to suck a dark spot in the
skin just above your collarbone. And then dipping further to suck your
nipple between his teeth. “Mmm— fuck, Honey.” Your little mewls and
urges have an unparalleled ability to send his brain on a lusty spiral, a
dark and forbidden place that only you can access. “Taste like seventh
heaven. Missed your skin.”

When your fingertips trail down his chest to unbutton his trousers, the
sensation of a metal chain stops you dead in your tracks. You pull back
and catch his gaze first before guiding the charm from between his
shoulder blades around to his stomach, allowing the red heart-shaped
locked to bounce against his skin. Finding the clasp with your thumb,
you lock eyes with him again and wait for his permission.

Sam licks his lips and nods to push you forward, his chest heaving as
he tries to catch his breath.

“Do you—”

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“Yeah. She stays on. Have a peek.”

Popping it open, you find the same headshot that you originally tucked
into your gift, but in the other side it would appear he’s added one of
your photobooth pictures from the Golden Pier. And with that, leaving
hardly any space for you to formulate an opinion, Sam gathers your
hair in a fist and spins you around to bend you over the back of the
couch, winding up to leave a heady spank on your ass that sends fire
to your toes and forces you to rub your legs together with a whimper.

His hand makes his way to your throat as he pulls you back up to
standing, his mouth meeting your ear and electricity shooting up both
of your spines when he mutters, “get on the dresser. And strut a little
bit for me, yeah?”

With his cock aching and straining against the fly of his pants, he
watches as you toss your hair over your shoulder and saunter away
from him in nothing but underwear and smooth legs. And when as you
make it to the dresser, you glance at him over your shoulder, just in
time to find him pitching his trousers to his ankles and kicking them
away from his feet. Pulling yourself up on the surface, you part your
legs and plant one foot beside you, gaping as he sinks his hand into his
briefs and moans at the sight of you spread open for him. Because he
was uncertain if he would ever be able to have this again.

“C’mere, Sam.”

“I’m memorizin’.” Because he’s still uncertain if this will be the last time
he can have you or not.

“Can you memorize a little closer? I miss your hands.”

Once he’s positive this memory will never go to waste, he paces

towards you and presses his hips against yours, propping your
foreheads together and breathing a shuddering sigh against your lips,
“I miss everything ’bout you.” His palms smooth up your hips and sides,
cupping your neck and jaw as he taps his nose against yours. “Kiss
me.”

With each kiss and each passing second, heat builds and builds in your
centers and your stomachs as you roll your hips together. His length
presses against your entrance with firm pressure, causing you to tip
your head back and moan out a single, blunt request. “Sam….. spoil
me. Don’t check on me. Just have me. Okay?”

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“Are you—”

Indifferent to his question, you nod, because whatever he asks you

know the answer is likely yes. Yes to rough, yes to disrespectful, yes to
wicked. Yes to anything he wants.

Yes to (etc?).

Sam glances down when he feels movement between your hips and
his heart nearly sinks into his stomach when he finds your fingers
pushing your panties aside and slipping into your cunt just like he
taught you. Just like the very last time you were together, a moment
that still crackles in the back of Sam’s mind like a coal that won’t die
out. Like no time has passed, like all great relationships.

A sharp cry resonates from inside his eardrums but he’s not sure which
one of you it came from.

“Jesus Christ.” Like a shark or a fox or a snake, his eyes pool with ink
at the scent of carnage. “Haven’t had a proper fuck in years, have
you?” Just as he’d suspected. And he also suspects you may have
thought at one point or another than you’d never have good sex ever
again, but he makes a mental note to ask that later. After he’s proved
himself to be the one for you.

Your head is pitched back and Sam can see your coy quip rolling up
the ridges of your throat, “I dunno….. remind me?”

Brushing your hand out of the way, Sam immediately redirects you into
his briefs, gripping him in a fist for a few quick pumps. The pad of his
thumb swipes little upward motions on your sensitivity, his nostrils
ticking and his breathing picking up when your head lolls to the side to
watch the work of his fingers. You circle precome around the head of
his cock and then drag your fingertips up his stomach, leaving a wet
path behind before slipping your fingers onto his tongue for a taste of
both of your excitement.

Sam moans and sucks so hard that you can feel his teeth scraping
your knuckles and the ridges on the roof of his mouth. His expression
crumples and he whines at the taste, missing and missing and missing
everything about you. You’re right here and you’re on his tongue and in
his hands and he misses you so much that if he leaves here without
you, he doesn’t know what will become of him. There will never be
another you. And likewise for you, there will never be another him.

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Soon it all becomes too much and you’re both tearing off your
underwear, your hand guiding his cock to your folds for several wet
pulses before he finally squares off with your entrance, dipping his tip
in just a bit. Just enough to have you purring and rolling your hips
forward for more. “Please….. like only you can.”

Sam wonders how long you’ve been wanting to say that, if you’ve been
able to push your pain aside and fantasize about him and all the slushy
hot moments you shared together, if you’ve imagined it was him
fucking you instead of your lame stiff-ass boyfriend. If, like him, you’ve
ever accidentally moaned out the wrong name when pleasure swept
you like a surprise riptide. If it did in fact ever sweep you like a surprise
riptide.

After all, you can’t be haunted alone. It takes two to tryst.

Cupping the back of your neck, Sam folds your lips together in the
same moment that he plunges inside of you, both of your eyes
squeezing shut at the sensation of the ground falling out beneath your
feet. And when he’s filling you to the brim, tight and hot and wet, he
pulls back an inch to examine your expression, scorchy and drippy and
full of passion. “Fuck—” He licks his lips, trying to get a handle on his
breathing. “Alright? Want this to be the hard or slow one?”

“Hard. Slow is for the morning.”

That reassurance of you wanting him to stick around for longer than
tonight is all he needs and without hesitation, he strokes inside of you
slowly at first before gaining momentum. So much momentum that
objects start toppling over beside you, neither of you concerned about
where they may land. His hands drop to grip your hips tightly, dulling
your skin in the spots where his fingers burn. You wrap your legs
around his waist and hold him close, whispering praises on his tongue
between kisses, toffee jelly fireworks brewing in your stomach and the
tips of your curled toes. And when Sam’s release starts to churn in the
base of his spine, his typical muddy sludge of dirty talk starts to roll
from the tip of his tongue. Just like before, but his voice sounds much
more urgent and desperate this time.

“No one like you. Jesus, baby you make me feel like I’m on fuckin’ fire.
Am I makin’ you feel good? Mm?” His thumb circles your clit, spinning
and spinning in harsh little circles until he feels you pulsing on his
length. His breath hitches in his throat when your moans and sobs
reach a fever pitch that makes his heart beat twice as fast as before.
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“Oh— god. Come with me. Shit. Come on my cock, sweet girl. I can
feel you, you’re right there. That’s it. So beautiful, you’re so— Please.
Please—”

His sweet coaxing draws you to the edge and violently pushes you off,
his throbbing and your throbbing persuading the intensity of your
releases. Both of your hips speed up before eventually losing cadence,
but neither of you seem to want to stop until it feels necessary to draw
in a full breath. And when you finally slow down, your fingers tangled
into his hair and his hands squeezing your breasts with the melting
residue of a kiss, he props his forehead against yours and chuckles
softly in the aftermath. “Holy fuck, I miss you. Mm—” The high-pitched
whine that curls from his throat has you clamping down on him from the
inside, further prodding his satiated and dire cries, “I miss you. I miss
you. I miss you so fuckin’ much, V.”

Your smile is much too wide to be tamed. “I miss you, Sam.”

Grabbing your waist, he picks you up and guides your legs around him
before he starts blindly searching your dark and fucking massive hotel
room for the bed, flicking lights on as he goes. “Got a show tomorrow?”

Pausing the trail of kisses you’re leaving on his neck, you shake your
head and only manage to get a few words out. “Just an interview at
one—”

But your answer is cut short with a big squeal and a small snort when
Sam finally locates the bed, tossing you into the impeccably smoothed
linens and climbing on top of you. He mumbles into your skin as he
trails south with kisses and licks, dipping his tongue into your belly
button before pushing your legs apart and ghosting his fingertips
through your folds. “Good, ’cause you’re not sleepin’ tonight, my sweet
girl. You’re not goin’ anywhere ’til I’m done with you.”

Hiccup.

“What’s up, you got the hiccups? You’re the worst with champagne.
Hold your breath.” Sucking in a lungful of air, you and Sam keep your
eyes fixed as he nods in encouragement, “keep holdin’ it.” Several
seconds tick by and your chest is starting to hurt a little bit, but you
trust him and his odd knowledge of homeopathic remedies. Except he
just nods again, pulling a drag from his cigarette and slowly letting the

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pink smoke seep from between his lips as if bragging about the ease of
breathing. “Keep holdin’ it.”

You manage to open your mouth and squeak out a couple words,
“Sam, I—”

“No, psst! Nah uh. Keep holdin’ it.”

And when you feel like you’re about to explode and when Sam’s grin
starts pulling at the corner of his lips, you let go of your breath and
smack him in the arm as hard as you can. Your pretty words splinter
through pretty laughter, cut short by another harsh hiccup. “Ow— are
you trying to kill me?”

“If I wanted to gag you, I’d have you do it a much sexier way.”

“Sam!”

“Surefire!”

“You’re lucky I didn’t just pass out.”

“You’re lucky you didn’t just pass out, smooth brain. Can’t believe you
fell for that. You’re just layin’ here not knowin’ things.”

After Sam went down on you, and you went down on him, and then
another round of sex, he made it his business to order food and
champagne from room service. And while you waited for room service
to arrive, Sam flicked on the radio and jumped up on the bed, dragging
your tired ass up from the mattress for a proper dance session that you
haven’t shared with a partner in years. “Chain of Fools” rang through
the room as the two of you did The Swim, paddling in the air towards
each other, tossing backstrokes over your shoulders, shaking your
heads side-to-side, pretending to hold your nose and wiggling down
into a squat. Your toes tangling up in the sheets.

Eventually it got too silly and he tackled you back down into the bed,
which propelled you both onto the floor in a pile of limbs and cackles.
But once you were there and he started kissing you again, he made
love to you right there on the carpet. Slowly, in the way you expressed
was only meant for the mornings. But in perfect Sam manner, he was
not wrong in his decision.

Throughout the past hour of your afterglow, you’ve learned a little bit
about how Sam has spent his time in the last two years. Not exactly
explicit details, but rather broad sweeps of ideas that you’re dying to
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get to the bottom of. Traveling, surfing, writing, meditating, learning,

connecting, grieving, moving. Everything feels wide-open and hazy, but
you’re hoping that through the softness of your new connection, he’ll
eventually flip over some new pieces so that you can start to paint a
thorough picture.

“Where is she?” Sam rolls his head to look at you, sucking on the final
drag of his cigarette and exhaling thick clouds of pink before dropping it
in the bedside ashtray. “I miss her. Can I see her again?” His question
brings tension into the air, as tight as a rubber band and ready to pop
with a snap of his fingers.

You laugh, “how can you miss her? You just saw her.”

“I’m not talkin’ about Her.” Pulling a deep breath of air into his lungs,
Sam flips onto his side and smooths his palm underneath your pillow.
“Je suis encore amoureux de toi, hm?” Following his powerful intuition,
Sam feels as though he doesn’t have to wait to say it again because
just like last time, he knows his words match his actions. He knows it
matches what you already know. The only difference with this time is
he doesn’t know if it matches what you feel. And this time, he can’t
really stick around for the perfect moment. It’s now or never. “L’aime-t-
elle?”

“Elle n’a jamais arrêté.”

Sam had always thought that love was reserved for objects. For
material things, for animals or for people. He didn’t know he could love
a place, a time. He wants to dissolve into this bed these walls your
skin, but then he realizes that the place doesn’t quite matter at all.
Because he loves you, he still loves you. And he never stopped.

You’d translated his behavior as modest, nervous, maybe a bit timid

when he sat back and allowed you to guide the majority of your
conversation in The Monkey Bar, but it seems as though you were
actually witnessing a vicious battle with impulsivity on his part. It
appears that Sam has a better handle on the one thing he’s struggled
with since the day you met him: control. Self-control to be exact.

And mostly, his resilience is the sexiest thing you’ve ever had the
honor of witnessing. It’s trustworthy, it’s steadfast. By its very definition,
it’s power.

It doesn’t feel exactly like the two of you are picking up where you’d left
off, in a good way, because you’re meeting one another in brand new
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places. His power is making you fall for him from the beginning all over
again, because the one thing you always feared from him is his
impulsivity and his abandonment, but this is the opposite of that. This is
truth through action, not words. Which is the only real truth we have.
It’s one less hurdle to consider and now the biggest worry is how much
stress can we handle together? And is this another case of right
person, wrong time?

“Yeah? Fuck. I knew I did but it almost fuckin’ knocked me on my ass

when I saw you again. I know how you probably feel with me just
showin’ up like this. I know you’re confused and tryin’ to make sense of
everything. I don’t really have a plan. You’re doin’ amazing and I don’t
wanna crash back into your life like a dumbass hippo if you don’t want
me here. But….. I thought you should know I really wanna be here.
Wherever that is. With you. Whatever that takes.”

Searching his eyes for a couple breaths, you brush his hair from his
face and roll onto your side to match his posture. “Sam?”

“V.”

“I don’t want either of us to get hurt. I’m scared that something is going
to happen with your memory again—”

“No. Nothin’ even remotely close to that has happened since that
morning two and a half fuckin’ years ago. Nothing. Jack shit’s gonna
happen, ’kay? It was a one-off blip and nothin’ more.”

“But how can you be sure? What if you have another surfing accident
or what if—”

He covers your mouth with his palm and speaks against his knuckles.
“I said no. Fuck off. Don’t manifest it. You can’t live life that way, askin’
’what if’ to every little thing, it’s gonna drive you bananas. That’s life,
okay? People get hurt and people get sick and people die. It’s fuckin’
risky to love things. I shut it out for years until I got my head bashed in
and I’m afraid you’re doin’ the same shit. But in a neater, more-
controlled, Vivienne fuckin’ Surefire way.”

You peel his hand away and weave your fingers together, your joined
fist falling to the soft sheets with a soft thud. “This isn’t little. It’s kinda
huge. That was scarring for me.”

“I’m sorry.” A rapid-fire apology from him manifests a rapid-fire eyebrow

raise from you. “I wasn’t tryin’ to minimize your experience. I know that
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was the rawest thing you’d ever experienced. Please….. I didn’t mean
it like that. That was boneheaded. I wasn’t tryin’ to be. Just hear me
out; that traumatized the ever living fuck out of me, too. All of it, that
whole accident and every repercussion it had. I’ve thought about it
every single day. Every fuckin’ day. I meditated on it, alone, for two
years straight. Do you think I just fucked off and pretended like nothin’
happened? That I wasn’t haunted and that I’m still not? Look at how my
life has stacked up over the past decade. I could’ve never imagined it
would be this way, but I’m doin’ the best I fuckin’ can with it, yeah?”

You squeeze his hand and the comfort rockets up his arm, past his
shoulder and through his heart. And his chin falls immediately into your
palm when you offer him his favorite resting spot with a consoling
squeeze. “I know. I can feel every drop of work you’ve put into yourself,
Sam. I know that you drove yourself crazy thinking about it. I think
you’re doing absolutely wonderfully. I see everything you’ve been
through and how soft it’s made you. Your softness makes you brave,
much braver than before. I don’t mean to invalidate you. I’m just trying
to voice my own fears without negating your own experience. I won’t
discredit your pain and your effort and your progress, because I can
feel it clearly.”

“Hey. Dunno if you realize, but you taught me a lot about not allowin’
myself to soak in shame. Our luggage has value, y’know? Our stories
deserve narration; celebration of protagonists, analysis of antagonists.
Our stories connect us to ourselves, to each other. The fuckin’ world.
Resilience is humanity. Our stories teach us ’bout all the shit we don’t
wanna return to.” He drags you closer through the sheets, loving the
way your arms and legs and bare skin automatically mold with his,
dropping the rumble of his voice so that you have to watch his mouth to
properly hear him. “Nothin’ tougher than a broken woman who’s rebuilt
herself. You always intimidated the everlivin’ shit outta me, but I think I
just figured out exactly why you’re so spooky now. Good spooky. Can’t
fight a warrior princess and come out alive.” His fingertips paint a
streak across your lips and his voice is a whisper now. “Can I kiss
you?”

“Please.” Air is forced from your lungs with the muscle behind Sam’s
kiss as he rolls you onto your back and pins you to the mattress, his
tongue twisting around yours before he sucks it into his mouth with a
loud, agitated hum. He pulls the sheets up and over your heads,
allowing them to fall like a feathery parachute around your love bubble.
Gathering your wrists, he stretches you out below him and savors your
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breathing and absorbs your goosebumps, then presses your palm to

his chest for a flavor of his pounding heart before he dives in for
another long stretch of slow, warm play. Hands roaming, feet tangling,
sweat building. After a few minutes, you pull back for a breath of air,
unaware of your softly heaving chest and the thirst in your eyes.
Unaware of your silent secrets spilling out into the sheets. Unaware of
Sam’s memorization of it all.

“Hi.” You mouth your reply and your smiles grow and shrink together,
making way for him to dip forward to seal your lips together again, and
then again, and then again. Then softly, another vibrating moan plays
out the length and resistance to interrupting your last embrace for a
little humor mixed with a lot of honesty. “Mmm….. you’re a fuckin’
knockout in the sack. Like mind-bendin’. Almost forgot your name
again.”

“Sam!” His laughter plays through the room like a set of chrome bells
and you never thought it possible, but his joy is somehow more
attractive than it ever was before. Maybe because he’s fought for it with
every half-baked cell in his body, slowly flipping each one over to allow
the pruning, pale parts their chance to plump up underneath some
much-needed summer sky. Your palms hide your face and he allows it
for exactly three seconds, his teeth nibbling on his bottom lip as he
patiently waits for you to return his sentiment with something that will
make him feel equally as squirmy. “Just for you. You’re the best I’ve
ever had, no contest. Fireworks. Loud, bright, obnoxious ones. You
squash all my fantasies and create brand new ones.”

Sam: 1

Your Ex and Every Other Bitch Square: 0

“Bitchin’. Really hot. Y’know how you’ll be readin’ a paragraph and lose
your place for a sec, but once you backtrack you know exactly where
you left off? And you can pick right up with the story, just sink into place
again and find yourself? Like a super comfy brain spot that can’t be
imitated?”

“Yes, I know exactly.”

“Is that us?”

Great relationships are always like that. Understanding without explicit

interpretation. A steadfast bookmark inside of a novel that opens and
closes at exactly the right times, without feeling lost upon your
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reintegration. Yet again, Sam has managed to put language to what

you already held to be true.

“And how.”

“’Kay, if you say that one more time, I’m gonna feed you a knuckle
sandwich.”

“I’d love to see you try.” Maybe you’re taking a cue from his annoyingly
playful tactics, such as when he trudged through five months of calling
your roommate a different name depending on the slip of paper he
blindly pulled from his brain that day.

Sam curls his fist in the air and snarls his lip, his playfully threatening
gesture dissolving into your hair when he hums against your mouth
with a smile, then rolls you onto your stomach for a hard spank that
echoes through the room. And his method of assuaging your pained
shriek is to toss you his pack of cigarettes and a book of matches. He
waits for you to light one up, your face crumbling into a pout as you rub
your sore bottom which has received its fair share of brutalization
tonight.

“Listen….. I journal now. It felt so fat to write that letter to you that I
haven’t stopped since. I write down everything that happens before I go
to bed each night. Every piece-of-shit, sinister thought and every lamby
one. And I read it all back first thing in the morning as soon as I wake
up. And then I write again. Every night and every morning. And it’s all
there. No mysteries, no blanks. I won’t allow anything to disappear
again. I remember everything that happened between us and
everything that’s happened since. I haven’t lost a single memory in two
years. And if I ever do, I know exactly how I can find it, yeah?” Sam
climbs from the bed and digs his thick, weathered journal out of his
bag, pink-tipped pages, well-seasoned and soggy with black, felt tip
ink. Gently wafting the scent of Papier D’Armenie in your direction.
“This is my thirteenth one. So far everything checks out. Every single
word. Go on.” He tosses it onto the bed at your curled-up feet, the
sheets billowing away from its weight as if the force of his written
thoughts had enough lead to detonate an atomic bomb. “Read it. It’s
mostly about you anyway. And me, I guess. The me that exists
because of us.”

He’s working on himself. He has been working on himself. He found a

solution that works for him, and even though memory loss doesn’t
seem like a problem he’s had to deal with, he sticks with the labor of
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managing it anyway. His impulsivity has slackened. His control is

taking shape. He’s regulating and parenting himself. He’s maturing and
taking responsibility. Most importantly, he’s written down every action
and want and need, documenting it in permanent ink over the course of
two years, living his life and transforming and growing and challenging
himself and through all of that, through all of his self-reflection and
progress, he’s concluded with metallic determinism that he wants you
back in his life. He’s had plenty of time to think and stew and consider
and change his mind, but all of the neon arrows in his head still point to
you. He’s crazy about you and it’s healthy, examined. Focused. And
that just has to mean something remarkable.

And apparently, he apologizes now as well.

“I’m majorly impressed.”

“Was that sarcasm?”

“No, not at all. That’s satisfied shock.”

“I’ll take it. Read it. Doesn’t have to be now, but whenever you’re ready.
You can just dig it the fuck out of my bag without askin’. You have my
permission.”

You make the conscious decision in that moment to never read it or

any that he generates in the future. His personal thoughts and
awkward speculations and intimate day-to-day events are for him only.
Besides you know if you start reading it, you’ll find something that can
be easily twisted out of proportion in your mind or taken out of context,
skewed and dismantled, thrown back into his face during a heated
argument. Those thoughts deserve to be his private sanctuary of mirror
gazing, an asylum of self-trust, but it doesn’t make you appreciate the
gesture of transparent honesty any less. And curious. Just a little bit
curious.

Death bed resolutions.

Tossing his journal aside, you gesture him close with a flick of your
fingertips, pink ash dropping slowly like snowflakes in the air. Sam
obeys and sits beside you, the pads of his fingers brushing lines up
and down your stomach.

“Where’d you go? After you left Malibu.”

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“First Oaxaca. That’s where I sold The Pink. Then to Oahu, São Paulo.
Home for a bit. Then Bali, Bondi Beach, Sri Lanka, Phuket, Morocco,
Southern France. All primo surfin’ spots. Then home again. And I’m
there whenever I’m not workin’.” Always chasing the Sun on the crest
of his god. Or maybe one step ahead of it. Or maybe he’s just the Sun
himself, propelling the earth in circles, a happy little shrinking and
swelling moon tacking his days like an implicit calendar.

“Wow, that’s incredible, Sam. I should’ve asked where you didn’t go

instead. I think you hit every continent. So….. home home? As in,
England home?”

Sam nods but chooses not to add anything and the notion of his
omission is enough to keep you from prying for now. You know he
traveled the world first before landing home on purpose, to garner faith
and muster courage. You know something both old and new and nasty
regarding his father must have come up. You know he misses his
mother and worries about her and pities her. You know he feels guilt
over abandoning his sister, his entire family, for his own mental health
and needs. You know that he’s here because he’s either lost or found
and ready to shed another layer of skin. But what you don’t know is
what’s going to happen, negative or positive, and how long the effects
will last.

“Do you live on your own in London?” Sam pauses the lighting of his
cigarette for a beat too long before shaking his head, his cheeks
hollowing when he pulls in a drag of hot pink. “Oh. So, you have a
roommate then?”

“I guess you could call her that.”

Your heart starts to pound at the prospect of his explanation, your mind
immediately and involuntarily wandering into a dark cave which tells
you that Sam has something to hide. That he’s been keeping a secret
that will break you, that whatever he says next will cause him to
somehow slip away.

Call it trauma.

“I live with my mum, yeah? Or she lives with me. Either way.”

She’d been trying to leave for years and never felt ready or didn’t have
the financial or emotional support. And Sam, being seventeen at the
time when he was kicked out of his house, didn’t have either of those
things either. He used to beat himself up thinking about it, but he’s
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learned over time that we arrive at things only when we’re ready. And
that time was now.

Since he spends most of his time away from home traveling and
competing, it feels more like his mum’s place on his dime where he
sleeps between surfing tournaments. His sister has a copy of the key
and visits a lot while he’s out of town, both of them taking turns cooking
meals and having tea and keeping the place clean. All of which Sam’s
gotten pretty good at.

“I wanted to get her out of that house. And I didn’t want her to be alone,
so. I mean, she is a lot of the time ’cause I’m traveling, but my essence
is still there, y’know. I hope it’s comforting. I just didn’t want her in
prison with my drunk of a father anymore, okay?”

One thing that he’s always known in his heart but couldn’t properly
execute until this point, was that if someone wants a steady, healthy
home, then one has to work consistently at it. Physically, mentally and
financially. There’s no achievement in static.

Sitting up, you cup his cheeks and kiss his heart-shaped lips and
basking in his soft hum, admiring his face and his spirit. Admiring every
little shred about him. “That’s the nicest thing I’ve ever heard you say.”

“Thanks, babe.” He sucks on your bottom lip before lapping your

tongues together just once, the hair on his arms prickling with a fresh
set of goosebumps. His fingers tangle into your hair to keep your face
close. “Mmm….. I’d forgotten everything I’d taught myself, learned and
worked so hard for the second I got home. So, I could only imagine
how stunted mum felt. My patience and wisdom wilted and flew out the
fuckin’ window as soon as I stepped into that same fuckin’ house.
Patience I’d learned for myself and for my parent’s shortcomings. Self-
love. Forgiveness. Everything I’d worked so hard to bounce back from
after the past few years. All gone. I became an angry kid again and I
had to leave again, except this time I brought mum with me. I only
stayed in London for a bit, found a flat to come home to between
competitions, kissed my sister and apologized for being a piece of shit
brother and then fucked right off again. Sometimes I wish I wasn’t the
most important person in my life, but I’m also grateful for that if that
makes any sense. Second only to you, of course. Even though it might
not seem that way. Men aren’t like women, no matter how hard we try
to be sometimes.”

“Men try to be like women?”

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“I do. Yeah. I’ve yet to find a woman who’s a worse example of a

human being than I am.”

“Sam….. no. Don’t talk to yourself like that, it’s breaking my heart.
There’s a difference between being dealt a crappy hand and creating
your own destructive path. You suffered accidents. They don’t make
you a bad person.”

“Am I sayin’ somethin’ you disagree with or some shit? Or you just
don’t like the way the truth sounds comin’ out of my mouth because I’m
sayin’ it so bluntly? Look at my fuckin’ track record. Everything I touch
dies. Tell me otherwise.”

“I completely disagree with what you’re saying.”

“I’ll sprinkle some sparkly sunflower seeds into my sentences for you
from now on.”

“No, no. I don’t mean to censor you. You can say what you want to say,
however you want to say it. I just think you’re being too hard on
yourself.” And knowing him, likely has been for the past two years. But
in his own way; silencing the mind with surfing, sex, drugs and alcohol.
“You touched me plenty and I flourished.”

“Can I touch you again?”

“One squeeze.”

Sam laughs and palms your tits before gathering your cigarette butts
and tossing them into the ashtray, lowering the both of you back down
into the sheets and folding your limbs together in a passionate knot.

“What else did you do while you were away?”

“You want the whole lowdown, huh?” You nod and he shrugs.
“Dropped lots of acid.”

“What? Really?”

“Yeah. One time I stayed up until 6 A.M. and saw this dude just walkin’
on the beach with his dog, bein’ all productive and shit and I thought to
myself, ’I’m gonna say hi to him. I’m gonna be normal. This is fine. I’m
alive, he’s alive. We’re empathetic beings, it’ll be a great connecting
moment.’ And I got closer and closer to him, yeah? And as soon as we
were about three feet apart, I just fuckin’ ran the other way.”

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“You ran?”

“Like a wild animal. His face was orange and meltin’ off his skull. The
sand turned to glitter each time he took a step, then the glitter stuck to
the bottom of his feet and glowed like a film projector. His dog was
wearin’ a hard hat. There was grass growing out of my palms. The sun
fell out of the sky. A seagull called me a narc. It was fucked up.”

“Did you answer it? The seagull?”

“Yeah, I told him fuck piggies and fuck the system. That kinda thing.
Really gave him an earful. Feel like he heard me though.”

“Before or after the grass started growing?”

“Alright. Dry up, knucklehead.”

“I want to try acid.”

“Shit me not?” He waits for your nod before pouting his bottom lip in
consideration. “I’d pay good money to take a trip with you. It’d be a
spazz parade.”

“Total sideshow.”

Sam clears his throat, finally feeling ready to hear about the parts of
your life that accelerated at a societally-accepted normal rate, easily
leaving him behind in the dust with a broken heart that ached for you.
“Tell me about him.”

One eyebrow perks. “Really? Sam…..it makes me a little

uncomfortable for you. I know you’re going to feel jealous and hurt, no
matter what I say. Are you absolutely sure?”

“Um….. I think so. Tell me his name, his job, how you met. And then
tell me three personal things about him, two negative and one positive.
Then tell me why you broke up. Lay it on me.”

Sam watches as you gently inhale and then exhale even more slowly,
your perfect lips full and bitten from his hungry teeth. In all honesty, he
can feel vomit rising up his esophagus and his face is hot, forcing him
to wonder if it appears as red and tense as it feels. As soon as you
open your mouth to speak, he wants to take it all back, but he keeps
quiet for the sake of creaking, painful growth. For the both of you.
Because historically, honesty has never been either of your strong
suits. No matter how much it felt like it was your expertise years ago.
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“Okay. His name was Flint.”

A small scoff interrupts you and you’re kind of glad for it, hoping that
maybe he’s changed his mind and taken you off of the hook, on the
verge of interfering you and violently flipping topics to avoid
confrontation that will hurt him like he does at times. But actually, the
sound is coming more from the fact that Sam is annoyed that he was
wrong about Bobby or John. And perhaps his former judgement was
more a reflection of his jealousy and his feelings for you rather than the
kind of man who would fall for you, and that thought alone makes Sam
feel ashamed. You deserve excitement. You’re not bland. You’re not
gray. You’re neon electric red and Sam is jealous, simple as that. He
hates that there could possibly be someone better suited for you than
he is, because the reverse seems impossible. The realization tightens
the muscles in his neck and shoulders and rather than fight it, he
breathes and lets it be. He lets himself feel. Because Sam now versus
Sam then means self-confrontation and constructive confrontation with
others.

The word acceptance comes to mind.

And he doesn’t see that as a negative aspect of his personality.

Flint doesn’t sound stiff at all, and now his curiosity dam has sprung a
leak, but that doesn’t necessarily mean he wants you to stop. Because
he could still be right about the sweater vests. And he absolutely loves
being right.

Sam also didn’t miss your use of the word “was” to cement your ex’s
position in the past, and whether or not that was your own feeling
towards the situation or intentional for Sam’s sake is uncertain. But that
doesn’t make him any less glad for it. Because it feels like hope.

You study his face carefully, his expressive beautiful face and find no
traces of regret but decide to check in anyway. “Are you okay? Should I
stop?”

“I’ll tell you to stop if I can’t take it. Or you’ll get a face full of projectile
vomit. Either way. Go on.”

You’re so beautiful when your nose wrinkles with tiny laughter. “Okay,
here goes. He was an electrician and musician who was hired to
maintain the lighting and sound system at the theatre in San Francisco.
Acoustics, wiring, technical repairs….. that kind of thing. I saw him up
on a ladder during rehearsal and—” You were immediately attracted to
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him and wanted to get to know him, you needed to feel the pull of
another person for the fear of being stuck in Sam’s mysterious gravity
forever. But you can foresee the cracks in Sam’s heart breaking open
with that information so you backpedal and decide those details aren’t
significant anyway. “Um, someone introduced us and……e... hit it off…
So... um, are you sure you’re okay?”

“No. Sounds like you’re not either. But keep goin’, I think we need this.
The whole skinny. Open your mouth, girl.”

Trust his process. He’s pretty in tune with himself. Be vulnerable as hell
because he thrives on that shit.

“Sorry. Okay, three personal things…..” You decide to go with the

positive-negative-positive sandwich technique here that employers and
administrators use when critiquing an employee’s job performance,
except reversed for the sake of Sam’s feelings. You’re also careful to
avoid anything too personal, meaning sexually-leaning, since he’s such
an intimate being that you know he will dwell on it and mentally explode
the narrative no matter what the information is, positive or negative.
And the difficulty with Sam exploding the narrative means he’ll either
internalize it and flee with no further communication, or impulsively say
things that he regrets. Luckily for you, you’ve learned from your time
together and your time apart how to navigate his particular eggshells.

“Um, he fixed things around my apartment. Like leaky sinks and

running toilets.” The images that Sam conjures up of you bringing him
a glass of orange juice or kissing him as a thank you are dark and
hateful. He tries not to show it on his face, but his scalp is suddenly
really tingly and he has an urge to pull on his hair really hard. But he
manages to stay frozen as you continue. “He liked to drink sometimes
and had a short temper because of it. It got worse as our relationship
went on—”

“Did he put his fuckin’ hands on you?”

Sam starts to sit up like a bolt of lightning but you’re quicker than him,
pressing your palms to his chest with a soft hush past your teeth.
“What? No. Never. Sam— he was a nonviolent person. Don’t start
freaking out.”

“Lyin’?”

“No. Stop, okay? Just let me finish what you asked for. He worked hard
and was loyal to me. He was nice, but….. serious. Mostly responsible,
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predictable. We didn’t laugh a whole lot. He couldn’t make me belly-

laugh like you do. No one can. And that’s my favorite thing about you.”

Sam’s smart. He’s aware of your tactic and the fact that you’re pitting
them against each other in order to paint Sam in a positive light in
contrast, showing a comparison between the two of them to express
that something was lacking and it’s because Sam had set the bar that
way.

Also, whether or not you realize to admitting this, you were actively
comparing them throughout your relationship which means that Sam
never left your consciousness. He sees your subtleties but that doesn’t
mean he doesn’t like it. In fact, he kind of loves it. A lot. He loves the
way you communicate; straight forward, but still careful and well-
considered, like you’ve rehearsed all of your dialogue ahead of time.
Organized. Delicate, fluid and strong all at once.

“He smoke?”

“Yes.”

It takes a good chunk of seconds for envious imagery to surface, but

once it does, it continues to cascade like a forest fire in the wind. Did
you share cigarettes with him like you had with Sam? After a shot of
rum? After sex? After smoking a joint, poking a finger into the vividly
wispy ringlets in the air, the mysteriously-colored plumes that complete
Flint’s personality. He’s curious now if you’ve ever compared the two
men’s smoke, if you like the flavor of your ex’s cigarettes more than
Sam’s loyal flavor or if it’s just simply different. No comparison. Apples
and oranges. “’Kay. And what flavor?”

“Maple.”

Sam retraces his entire jealous musing once again, but this time with a
rich lens of gingerbread haze seeping from your mouth and through the
room, your legs curled around white cotton sheets with a sprinkle of
hazelnut ash on the pillowcase. Wondering what type of music the two
of you listened to together while you made him breakfast, stealing
drags from his buttery sweet nutty-sugary cigarettes, commenting on
the flavor of his tongue after he’s pulled away from a kiss. Wondering
if, in the back of your mind, you ever searched for the sweetness of
cotton candy in the aftertaste, but each time found it not quite as
distinctive.

A whole fucking year of that shit?

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It’s almost too painful to consider, but did him and Nettie also have
heart-to-hearts?

“Cool.” Candyass. Or otherwise known as, I’m much too jealous to form
more than a single word right now, because anything else that comes
out of this mouth will have a lick of blue flame behind it. But since Sam
is trying to win himself a spot back into your life, it’s likely not a solid
plan to go straight for the throat in the first handful of hours of his slim
opportunity. He can at least wait until tomorrow morning for any
meathead passive-aggressive remarks to roll out.

“You couldn’t sound less impressed.”

A wide-mouthed toothy smile splits across his lips, his dimple sinking
into his cheek that somehow aids to convey an even less-impressed
remark. His thumbs up acts as the ultimate sarcastic whipped topping.
“Cool!” He flips onto his back, studying the paint on the ceiling before
knotting his fingers into his hair before swiping his pack of smokes from
the nightstand. It’s a miracle he made it this far through the
conversation without one. “Impressed? What d’ya want me to say, V?
I’m still tryin’ to get a grip on this. And before you harp on me for even
askin’, I can’t fuckin’ help it, alright? Feels like betrayal. I know it’s
actually not, but it feels like it. ’Cause I never got over you. I’m the first
pancake.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean the batter wasn’t quite thick enough, the heat was cranked up
too high, I flipped too soon and too sloppily, I didn’t take enough time to
cook through. Burnt on one side and raw on the other. The first
pancake. Set you up for a more successful batch and then I got tossed
in the trash ’cause I was inedible. Half-baked and scorched.”

“Sam, no. If anything, you were the fluffy dick-and-balls shaped

pancake drowning in butter and syrup and powdered sugar and lemon
zest. Served with a really tall, freshly-squeezed glass of orange juice
on ice. You were — are — everything delicious. Sunshine on a plate.
You set the pancake standard. If anything, Flint was half-baked.”

His beautiful laugh rings through your ears, light in his eyes and heart
on his tongue. “’Kay, thanks. I wanna believe that. Why’d you break
up?”

“I didn’t want to be tied down while I was touring. I didn’t want to be

worrying or checking in on someone. I wanted to be on my own. I
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just….. didn’t want to be with him and so it felt like a good time to end
it.”

And now for the question Sam fears most, which he knows will
honestly only breed more questions and now he’s suddenly sick to his
stomach. “You initiated the split with him then?” You nod and Sam just
tosses another question without pausing to think too much. “Did you
plan on goin’ back to him after tour?”

“No, I— no. No. And I doubt there will be anything there for us after
eight months apart and no communication.”

“Well, there’s somethin’ here for us and it’s been two and a half years
with no communication, yeah?”

You don’t disagree. To Sam’s satisfaction, you don’t disagree and you
respond quickly. “This is different. We’re different.”

Your heartbeat and Sam’s heartbeat are so violent and turbulent that
it’s amazing you can both carry on with any semblance of normal
conversation through the sickening palpitations. You’re saying
everything he wants to hear, kind of, mostly, but for some reason he
feels incredible unease and it just must mean something remarkable.
You’re validating what he’s felt since you first met and everything that
lingered afterwards, that your connection and chemistry is different and
simply unique. You push each other’s buttons and stoke each other’s
fires, you compel one another to succeed, you both regard the other as
inspiration. You fly at the same heights, you both have an insatiable
sweet tooth, you speak the same love language. You’re perfect dance
partners, both on your feet and on your backs. And it can’t be recreated
or reproduced. It can’t be explained. It can’t be duplicated. And it can’t
be easily forgotten. Some people you just can’t shake.

“’Kay, so. You don’t wanna be tied down while you’re tourin’ or you
don’t wanna be tied down to him while you’re tourin’?”

“I hadn’t gotten that far in my thought process because he was the only
person I was breaking up with. Or even thought to consider.”

“’Kay.” Sam rolls onto his back and studies the impeccably high ceiling,
flawlessly maintained and painted, beautiful moulding and a wall of
thick, lavish velvet curtains puddling to the floor in his periphery. A
rolling cart to his right filled with silver and bone china and hot tea,
vegetable crudité and flourless chocolate cake. So completely opposite
of the hotels that he asks Mose to book him in. Sam prefers low key
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and humble residing spaces for himself; local and serene, eccentric
and quaint. Easy to hide in. Unexpected to an outside eye, kind of like
his personality. That’s not to say that he doesn’t really, really enjoy
curling up with you in utter wall-to-wall hedonism. It’s not much different
than the comparison to The Pink and your duplex in Malibu, except a
couple notches more luxurious on either end. “Thanks for bein’ honest.
I need a smoke and I need to think, yeah? Gonna try to squash him in
my brain so that I’m not comparin’ him to me and to us and convincing
myself that he’s better for you.”

“He’s not better. You don’t have to convince yourself of anything. You
two are opposites. There’s no correlation. Apples and oranges.”

Lights a cigarette and scratches his forehead with his thumb. “Were
you lookin’ for my opposite?”

“I wasn’t even looking. Besides, I couldn’t find another you if I spent my

whole life trying.”

“Were you livin’ together?”

“No, definitely not. We were too off-and-on for that. I wanted my own
space, my own sense of order. I wanted to be close to Nettie.”

Sam’s confidence grows with every answer you give him, especially
because it seems as though you were calling most of the shots in the
relationship and it seems as though most of the calls were leaning
towards emotional distance. Nothing like what you two shared, with a
constant need for proximity. On-top-of-each-other proximity. Between
working and lunch breaks and dating and making each other moan and
sleeping, there weren’t many times that you were apart. If his memory
hadn’t glitched, who knows where you two would be now. Good or bad;
it’s hard to tell. You might have driven one another to the brink of
insanity for all he knows. But one thing he does know, whether or not
you agree, with the way your relationship ended, the physical distance
was necessary for the sake of reflection and process. And he doesn’t
need to remind either of you that you were practically living together.
Unofficially. He had his own key, he was paying rent, cleaning the sink
and buying groceries, after all.

“Did you love him, Vivienne?”

His eyes follow the little bobble in your throat before bouncing back to
your watery gaze. “Yes….. I think I did.”

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“Did you love me?”

“And how.”

Stubbing out his cigarette and rolling back onto his side, Sam weaves
his fingers into your hair and threads your legs together, your eyes
locking into place one moment before he slots your lips into a supple
heart. He kisses you until it hurts to breathe, your tongues lapping in
soft, languid strokes before he breaks away and presses his forehead
against yours. “There’s a ton of shit I wanna know but it’s probably rude
to ask, so I won’t.” Quite different from his former personal burial
techniques and habit to pry for your secrets, but not so different from
his tendency towards perversion. “Just tell me one more thing.
Anything. Somethin’ that will lighten the load in my chest, yeah?
Distract me.”

“I prayed that you would show up again. The whole time. I wasn’t
finished with you yet. I wasn’t surprised to see you because I didn’t
want to see you, but because I’d imagined it so many times that it was
hard to believe it was actually happening. You’re a mirage.”

“That’s it. Fuck. Y’know you’re so good at that?” Sam groans and then
finally blurts what he’s been wanting to blurt for hours. And although it
comes across as a joke, you both know that he’s serious. “Alright…..
so, how was he in the sack?”

To his pleasant surprise, you don’t back down. Not even a little bit.
Your answer is both vague and clear, perfectly you and perfectly
appeasing. But just the slightest bit more mature and confident.
“Nothing like you, my first pancake.”

“Holy shit— fuckin’ sweet baby angel.” He grips your jaw, tilting your
head on an angle and hovering his mouth over yours. But the pressure
from his thumbs doesn’t at all compare to the force of his long-awaited
and well-missed demand. One that he delivers with unwavering eye
contact, a galaxy of shooting stars in his eyes. “Hey. Kiss, please?” He
moans on your tongue the instant your mouths connect, nibbling on
your bottom lip and studying the curves of your face.

“Y’know, I think the most compelling way to know that a partner is a

good fit is to ask yourself if you want to be like them or not. If I don’t
wanna be like someone, then I don’t wanna be with them. Which is why
it took me so fuckin‘ long to find someone worth fittin’ that spot because
I’m a big fat fuckin‘ narcissist. I completely understand why you had

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that internal battle, why you didn’t wanna be with me after my memory
slip. I didn’t want to be like that person either. I was drawn to you from
the start ’cause there were parts of you that I admired and wanted to
emulate and match. Strengthen. Then I started to see parts of you that
irritated me, because shit that irritates us in other people is just a
reflection of things that we don’t like about ourselves. And when that
happened, I started seein’ little bits of myself that I wanted to change.
My reactions to things; my impulsive shit, the jealousy, escapism,
narcissism, arrogance. And I dunno when I would have seen those
things, if ever, if we never got together and I also wouldn’t have seen
them unless we split. Remember when I told you I wanted you to teach
me to be good enough for you?” His sight darts to your throat as it bobs
on a swallow, then pulls up in time to see you nod, “well, you did. And I
think I’m a better person for it. So….. thank you. I get it now. I get why I
avoided connection with anyone for so long. Because if I connected
with someone, I’d have to self-reflect and confront and process, and I
fuckin‘ hate those things. You know that. I love/hate them. I love them.
It drives me fuckin’ crazy, I dunno. It’s life. I guess what I’m tryin‘ to spit
out……s... I wanna keep growin’ with you. Right next to you.”

Throughout Sam’s speech, your smile slowly and softly grew, your
eyes filming over with a wet shade of happy tears. “That’s the loveliest
thing anyone’s ever said to me. I wish I could taste those words and
eat them and keep them forever. I like this version of you….. maybe it’s
my favorite yet.”

“Yeah? Fuck. Mmm….. semi-city.”

You’re awakened the following morning with a slow peel of your sleep
mask away from your eyes, Sam’s silhouette and wild curls outlined by
the light struggling to break through the curtains. A spring dawn is
much different in New York than Los Angeles. Light in Los Angeles is
blurry and soft, warm and yellow on the horizon. Everything here is so
angular, sour sunbeams reflecting off of perfect metallic right angles,
the streets somehow both cold and humid from the shield and
hammock of buildings.

And being on the road for a month, this is the first time you’ve ever
missed home so dearly. Luckily, Sam is the embodiment of everything
that makes Los Angeles special; palm trees, ocean, escape,

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idiosyncratic, seedy, classy. A fancy cocktail served in a frosted glass

with pretty garnish in a dingy dive bar. Pure Sunshine.

Your own private, portable Malibu beach nap.

After carefully studying your face for a few seconds, Sam’s eyebrows
pull into a frown before he tilts his head in curiosity. “What the fuck? Do
I know you?”

“Sam—?”

A slow, curling grins spreads across his cheeks and then quickly
shrinks away at a failed attempt at seriousness. “Too soon?”

“Oh. My god?”

Gatherings your wrists into a fist, Sam drags them up over your head,
sending them crashing through the luxurious down pillows and the
linen sheets and the fluffy cloud-like comforter that only a hotel like this
would have. A hotel that you would choose, no — demand, to stay in,
one that’s good enough for you, dripping in richness and satisfaction.
“Take it easy, I’m just razzin’.” You grumble and try to push him off for
a few more minutes of rest but his grip is too powerful, and his
persuasion is certainly too powerful when he speaks against your lips,
“hey, stop snorin’ and wakey wakey, beautiful. Full English on the
table.”

The Sun is rising again. You can already tell that Sam is less somber
than last night, even though he was full of love then. Now in hindsight
you can feel the apprehension that he tried to cover up with faux
confidence. And you can feel how it has slowly drifted through the
windows last night as you slept, replacing the clouds with something
much brighter and more familiar.

Your kiss is mushy lazy languid at first, your fingertips smoothing over
his shoulders and up his neck into his hair and as it gets more heated.
You roll him on top of you and circle your legs around his waist and
Sam groans into your mouth, mumbling with a sludgy sleepy brogue.
“Mmm….. it’s fuckin’ unreal to wake up with you. Last night was outta
sight, mm? Wanna play with me a little bit?” Electricity swims through
your stomachs and to your toes when your lips seal together again, his
palm smoothing up your stomach for a handful of your curves. “Mm,
shit. I really miss you, baby.”

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This is the wake up you should’ve had after your first time together, but
maybe it’s okay because it’s happening now and maybe it’s okay
because what happened before had to happen. It’s the same, you’re
the same, he’s the same, the two of you together are the same. Except
now you’re here and he’s here and you’re grown and he’s grown. It’s
as if you’ve both woken up from the same nightmare, finally placated
and warm in this castaway sky rise in a New York City dream.

Rolling you onto your side, Sam snuggles up behind you and gives you
the slow morning sex that he knows you’re desperately craving.
Spooning and cuddling, sticky messy and humid, your body slow to
wake exactly how he remembered. You both cry out at the feeling
when he sinks inside of you, his fingers hopping back and forth
between slipping in circles on your clit and shaping a V over your
connection. With his jetlag and your interrupted sleep, you’re both
sensitive and dreary, two whole bodies created of exposed nerve
endings. You can feel every tickle of his breath and every brush of his
fingertips, every taste bud on his tongue when he sucks your nipple
into his mouth.

He’s in the perfect position to mutter in your ear as he coaxes you

along, little sprinkles of sugar like how’s that feel? and tell me and
heart’s poundin’.

And when you both reach your highs, Sam pulls out just in time to
pump himself to release on your stomach. Before you have much time
to deliberate your first orgasm, he’s sliding his way down to lick you to
another one. You whine about being sensitive but he merely hushes
you with a little kitten lick, groaning at the puffiness and wetness of
your cunt. Dizzy from jetlag dizzy from his high dizzy from your high.
Dizzy from the whirlwind of being accepted by you, again, after clawing
through the fear of possible rejection. He brings you to the edge again
in half the time, for a slightly less powerful but still mind-numbing peak.
And a harsh spank.

He fucking loves you in the morning.

On his way back up, he pauses for a little nibbled greeting to his
favorite freckle and a mutter so soft that you don’t catch it. “Bonjour,
miette de biscuit. Coquine.”

If morning sex with Sam were a physical object, it would be a warm

chocolate chip cookie, crumbling and gooey. Chunks of melting
decadence held together with clumps of brown sugar and butter.
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After Sam cleans you up with a warm washcloth, he snoozes for a bit
with your nails scratching up and down his back and into his hair, his
nose buried in your tits and his fingertips tucked into the waistband of
your underwear. When he pulls himself from sleep again, you lie in bed
for a bit longer, kissing and sharing a soft afterglow in the soft morning
light. The phone on the nightstand rings and violently cuts through your
intimate moment and you groan, knowing that it’s a waste of a wake-up
call that is acting as merely a distraction from what you crave.

Sam stays lying on top of you and swipes the receiver from telephone,
pressing it to his ear while his fingertips tickle up your bare stomach,
his skin warm and soft, his body heavy and loving. “Hi.”

“Good morning, this is a wake-up call for Cherry. It’s seven a.m., is
there anything you’ll be needing this morning?”

A balloon swells and pops inside of his heart, confused for half a
second as to why the front desk is referring to you by Sam’s personal
wayward nickname that has haunted him in ice cream parlors and
grocery shops and cocktail lounges for years, and then quickly
establishing that it must be the alias that you’ve chosen for checking
into hotels in order to keep media and fans off your back. And there’s
no way that you could’ve known beforehand that Sam was going to
meet you here before you’d checked in, so he concludes that this is
your own habitual nostalgic doing. A comfort. A name that keeps Sam
close to you, a name that you trust, a name that you love. A secret that
you still keep between you and him.

A name that hasn’t lost its meaning.

He perks an eyebrow at you before a slow smile starts to crawl across

his face. “Miss Cherry has arisen and shone.” As soon as you realize
your covert, mildly embarrassing mishap, your palms fly up to cover
your face but he’s gripping your wrists to remove them. “We’ll call you
back for breakfast in two shakes. Peace.” A sliver of long-awaited and
well-deserved cockiness breaks through with a single tick of his
eyebrow. “Somethin‘ weird just happened. You just got a wake-up call
for someone called Cherry.”

“Are you sure you heard right?”

“Fuck outta here. Is that the name you always use?”

“…..Yes. Maybe. Sometimes. Usual… y... yes.”

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“Shut the fuck up. Surname? Sit tight, lemme guess. Simone?” Your
lack of answer is the only answer he needs and he shows it by
laughing; first in your face and then towards the sky after he flips onto
his back. “You’re certified. You cannot hide for shit! Fuckin’ biggest
dork that has ever dorked. Get it together, little Honey.”

Sam is likely awaiting your snort that typically accompanies his

wheezing laughter, except it never comes. It doesn’t come because his
accusation has made you realize something, and it makes you feel
broken in half. Stitched together, but still broken in half.

His head lulls to the side, fuzzy warm on the inside from the sight of
your expression, the delicacy in your baby deer eyes. Rays of natural
light beam through a crack in the curtains and pave ribbons of pearls
across your cheeks. Drawn onto his side, he traces a stripe of rainbows
with three fingertips from your belly button to your jaw, his pretty eyes
journeying your bone structure. His new freckles soften him, or perhaps
they just help to expose his personal victories. Little battle wounds from
the sun itself. “Spit it out.”

“Sam, you’re the only person in the world who thinks that nickname is
obvious. You realize that….. right? You’re the only one.”

“Oh shit.” Sam takes a moment to digest your meaning and flips
through a mental photo album of the people closest to you for evidence
in your statement. Your family, your friends, your exes. Yeah, for a long
while, Sam knew you better than anyone else. Since he stepped foot
from Banana Split, it’s been years that he’s even been physically near
you. You’ve had so much time and opportunity to bring new love and
new comforts close to you, perhaps even closer to you than he was,
but it seems you haven’t. He just knows that you didn’t open up with
Flint the way you did with him. Because Sam knows that you need
prying for trust to blossom and he knows it’s not easily obtained,
because he happens to be one of the very few people to have
gracefully achieved it. He’s never met your ex and hopes he never will,
but just the shallow pool of neutrality reflecting dull light back at him is
enough to provide clarity. “My tummy just did somethin’ grotty. Little
pancake love flip. Sizzlin’ now.”

“Yeah, same here.” Your fingertips walk in a tiny two-step beat up his
chest before spreading out over his clavicle, forcing you to recall each
and every time your hands were on him both professionally and
romantically, at a time when you allowed yourself to blindly trust him

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with your entire soul. And this little intimate action alone, even more
than the act of having sex with him, makes you wonder if you can
possibly let that possibility back in without the residue of your history
lingering behind. “What’s your secret name?”

“Beau Minnow.”

“Oh my god.” This time your snort hits before your laughter does, a
stop-motion display of a strawberry ripening on the vine. “Here I was
thinking it would be the perfect complement to mine, like Sunbaby
McCartney or Sunshine Gaye, but no. It’s the dog and the imaginary
duck. You’re right, I don’t think I’d ever be able to find you if I tried.
Maybe my name is lame after all.”

Scooting closer and threading your legs together with a little hum, Sam
cups your cheek and tilts your head towards him. It’s so fucking
adorable that even after all of this time, you’re still somehow clueless to
your own musings and clever insight. To your own ability to love
someone deeply and holistically, even if it means putting yourself and
your fiercely-guarded career at risk. Even though you pretended that it
was a hard, almost impossible decision for you. When in actuality you
fell heavily and blindly, your brave passion demonstrating itself hot and
loud when you’d defended Sam’s character to your boss without a
second thought to the contrary. Here you are; blind to the depth of your
devotion and your keen attention to detail, a benign riddle to yourself of
sorts. Especially when it comes to your ability to trust others, comfort
others, emote with others. Especially when it comes to your timing.

Sam supposes that is one thing you both have in common, the self-
perception of feeling unlovable. Even when the whole world claims to
love you. Even when someone is breathing the words into your skin.

“Hey. You remembered the name of the imaginary pet duck that I told
you ’bout once. One fuckin’ time.” His breath puffs out against your
mouth, your lips brushing together as the volume of his voice drops
and disappears down your throat. “You realize that. Right, Cherry?”

“I do now, Mr. Minnow.”

“Nice ring. Say it again, I’m hard.” He mouths the words kiss, please
and hums and your immediate obedience. “Mmm….. I think I’m in
heaven. The last time I felt this good was with you.”

“Ah, back in ’65.”

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“The good ol’ days.”

“That’s what I hear. It makes me think of the line, ’I just never felt so
fantastically rocky in my entire life.’”

Sam speaks through a perfect laughing smile and a waggling index

finger in the air. “And how. Fuck off with the Salinger, we haven’t even
showered yet.”

Your index finger hits the air with a little bobble in return as you mirror
his every dramatic move. “And how.”

He keeps his wiggling, too. “And how, bitch.”

“And—”

“Shut up.” Sam crushes you into the mattress and pulls the fluffy down
comforter over your heads, a little tent of paradise, warm and soft and
skin and skin and skin. “Get your ass in the shower.” He seals your lips
together and hums tightly, the little vibration rocketing down your throat
and echoing in your underwear. “Mmm….. or don’t. Why don’t you toss
me another Salinger quote.”

Your fingers coil through his hair and scratch against his scalp, keeping
his head close so that your lips brush his when you mutter, “’You’re
lucky if you get time to sneeze in this goddamn phenomenal world.’”

“Bitchin’. My favorite. And ’To me, everything is beautiful. Show me a

pink sunset and I’m limp.’”

“You would say that. You must’ve already said that at some point. I
think Salinger owes you a paycheck for that one.”

“No shit. Speakin’ of Franny and Zooey, y’know we’re in New York?
We’re gettin’ dim sum.”

“Aren’t you supposed to eat pizza in New York?”

“Sure. Rookies do. But the real ones know that you’re also supposed to
eat dim sum, pastrami sandwiches and dill pickles, babka, gyros, street
hot dogs, soft pretzels, pierogis with sour cream, Boston creme
doughnuts, rugelach and fat pumpernickel bagels with cream cheese
and lox. And like, linguini Alfredo with truffles and clams. Fuck, I’m
starvin’. Dim sum then? I need buns right fuckin’ now.” He reaches
across you for the phone, but not before grazing both of your nipples

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with his knuckles. “Whoopsie. Oh, good mornin’, look how the suns rise
just for me.”

“What are buns—”

“Yeah, hi again. Ms. Cherry and Mr. Minnow here.” His attention has
already shifted to the front desk’s voice in his ear, his fingertips lazily
circling your belly button as he concentrates, his other hand easily
gripping the handset. “I’ve got a really pertinent, life-threatenin’
situation— huh? No, no. God, nothin’ spooky. Just need directions to
the closest and best dim sum joint. Doesn’t have to be like, really close.
Just best. Mhm. ’Kay—” He rolls on top of you to reach the pen and
pad of paper on the night stand to jot down notes in his lazy, morning
chicken scratch. Half cursive, half capital letters just like the heart-
shattering letter he left you to memorize for over two years. “It’s nearby
then? Thirty block— Great, kid’s cryin’ now, thanks.” You laugh and
swat at him but Sam allows it this time, his mouth spread open into
silent laughter as he tries to reel it back in for the sake of the front desk
person. “Nah, that’s cool. Hit me with the cross streets.” He hovers the
pen over the small pad of paper and you tilt your head to watch him,
your arms and legs wrapping around his torso to hold him close. A soft
hum of appreciation ripples up his throat. “’Kay, all systems go. Hey,
d’you know if they have chicken feet?” He taps your nipple with the cap
of his pen, his eyebrows perking up at your unamused expression.
“Yeah? ’Kay, rad. Sounds legit. Thank you, hey!” His fingertips tip-toe
up your tummy, tracing half-moons below your breasts. “I hope your
day is good. No bossy or flustered patrons, y’know? Just straight
cruisin’. Thanks a lot. Peace.” The receiver drops onto the base and his
eyebrows wiggle in devious rouse as he palms your breast for a little
squeeze. “You and I have a date with Gold Garden, sugar tits. Hope
you like chicken feet.”

“Ew. Are you kidding? I bet that’s really….. boney.”

“That makes two of us. Can I have a kiss?” Tugging him closer, you
both hum on one another’s tongue and savor the sweetheart bubbles in
your stomachs before he inches back to rasp, “mmm….. I’m just razzin’
about the claws. We need to fatten you up with coconut custard.”

“Sam. I don’t need fattening.”

“No, mm?” He pinches your hip bone as if communicating that he begs

to differ. “What d’ya need? I could fill you up with some of my coconut

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custard but….. I don’t think it tastes as good. You’re a champ though

for offerin’.”

“I didn’t offer that, Sunshine.” Your giggles are so sweet and he’s so
sweet when he says stupid things for the pure reason of being graced
by those sweet giggles. “Can’t we stay in bed for a little bit first? It’s so
early. Why do you even wake this early when your surfboard is
thousands of miles away?”

“Sun—” His stomach is still on a rollercoaster from you dropping that

wayward nickname out of fucking nowhere. And admittedly, it helps to
stir up the beginning of a hurricane of confidence, a little but mighty ray
of light breaking through the fog. Does this mean he’s back in your
eyes? That the Sun is peeking up over the horizon to melt the snow
from a long winter? “Muscle memory. Out of my control. I’m the
sunrise. Hey,” His hand sweeps up your chest and lands on your
collarbone, his fingertips gently wrapping around your throat for a
friendly or maybe not so friendly little squeeze that pairs his question.
It’s hard to tell with him most times. “Any obligations besides the
interrogation at one?” You shake your head and swallow against his
palm, swallowed up by his gaze. He drums his fingers on the back of
your neck in contemplation and allows the little hurricane of confidence
to sweep through in the form of your love language. “Alors….. je peux
te emmener pour un film plus tard……u...”

“Dépend. Laquelle?”

His heart kicks him in the ribcage, twice, violently, at how seamlessly
you slip into it. Just for him. “Mmm….. est-ce que tu me taquines?”

“Peut être.”

“Mmm….. Rosemary’s Baby?”

“Mmm…..”

“Space Odyssey? Some campy horror shit in 3-D space vision like, The
Bubble. A new dimension in terror.”

“Non, s’il te plait.”

“Barbarella? The Sound of Music? Look, I don’t give a shit which one. I
just—”

“Well, then say what you mean.”

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His eyebrows tick and slump into a frown before his tongue trickles out
to wet his bottom lip. You got him there. And with his own words no
less. “Slick. ’Kay, this is what I mean: I don’t wanna leave you anytime
soon. I wanna take you out on a date. On a ton of dates. I want to be
with you; physically, emotionally, spiritually, romantically. I’m ready to
share a hundred percent of my affectionate time and brain space and I
know who I want to do that with, I know who I want to figure that out
with. Time is the best gift you can give someone and I want you to
have mine. I want yours. I’m just waitin’ for you to be on the same page
so that we can rock the shit out of this. I wanna be your main squeeze
again. I’ll push through the long-distance blues and support your
career, I’ll make you come over the phone when we’re apart. I’ll do
whatever you need. I miss you and I’m askin’ to have you back.
Exclusively. My girl. I’d do almost anything.”

“Okay…..” That was brutally honest and beautifully comprehensive and

you don’t know what you were expecting, but that wasn’t quite it.
Perplexed on how to properly respond, you cover your face with your
palms as if they could somehow act as a curtain for privacy. But he
doesn’t like that and as always, he doesn’t let it last very long. He peels
your hands away, his eyes flicking between yours as you struggle to
give him an answer. “Har… y... remember you’ve had lots of time to
decide what you wanted before you come to this conclusion. You came
here with a mission and sprung it on me. This option just came
crashing back into my life twelve hours ago. I don’t know what I want, I
hadn’t come close to conceptualizing anything like this. I’m weary to
commit because I’d emotionally let you go and I just started a long,
crazy busy tour. You’re practicing constantly, making appearances and
competing every few weeks. The timing is crazy. It kinda seems like
the timing will always be crazy, that our schedules are just steadily
active. I’m happy you’re back and I don’t exactly want you to leave just
yet. I just don’t know how it would work. I don’t have a clear yes or no
answer for you right now. I need a little time to think. Is that okay with
you?”

“I dunno….. I dunno how to act. I just told you what I want and it
doesn’t match what you want. I’d absolutely fuckin’ ruin my life to go
steady with you a… d... I honestly think I’ve always felt that way, but I
wasn’t right before. I feel right now. I know it’s a brain fry for you, but I
had to come here with a clear purpose or nothin’ would’ve stuck. So,
what am I supposed to do now? Am I supposed to push you or back off
or what? I dunno what’s right. Do you?”

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“I don’t.”

“Blind leadin’ the blind. Or BLTB, if you will.”

Sam physically held you in his arms and carried you, trembling, back
into a dancing career. He’s always vouched for you, trusted you,
supported and encouraged you. And here he is, continuing to do just
that. By waiting to reappear until he felt ready, acknowledging the
importance of your career and happily stepping aside to give it proper
breathing room, appreciating every dip and freckle on your body while
he has it. Even after so much time and space have elapsed. But it
simply has to be more complicated than that. Doesn’t it? “You know…..
you kind of did ruin your life to go steady with me before.”

Taking a moment to comprehend your truth, Sam’s eyebrows rise and

fall before pouting his bottom lip. You’re right, except he’s unsure of
whether your statement was intended to be a warning or not. But
instead of interrupting you and pushing you to speak, he waits for your
honesty to flush out on its own.

“Listen, Sam….. I want you, too. I just don’t know how that can happen
right now without a lot of stress on the both of us. It seems
inconceivable for me to keep another plate spinning, I feel like I’m at
my max as it is.”

The thing about the Sun is that when you stare directly into its light
regardless of the burn, it can turn you blind.

“Christ. Fuck. Shit….. ’kay.”

Now begins that terrible middle ground in relationships where the two
parties try desperately to see eye to eye, to claw through the bramble
of their deeply rooted personal inner workings to see if they have the
correct energy and capacity to make two misshapen pegs fit together.
The confusion is unsettling for the both of you, knowing what you know
now, with Sam’s feelings and offer clearly laid out on a table in the way
a professional card dealer would do in Las Vegas. Hearts, diamonds,
jokers and all, as if he’s foolishly turned his body inside out to blatantly
display what was meant to be a secret in order to properly play the
game. Your ace of spades trumps his two of hearts with a sharp slice
to his ego. And Sam has never been a betting man.

He told you himself that he doesn’t play to lose, but now he has to do
exactly what his impulsive and decisive nature loathes; wait for your
poker face to drop so that he can collect your chips clean off the table,
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cash them in for something a little more worthwhile than an uncertain

game with questionable outcomes. Can he go through all of that?
Again? He thought for sure that he would slowly unravel into insanity
the first time, but this time, he’s battling against the scars left behind on
the both of you by his own self. Everybody knows that scar tissue is an
aggravating brew of sensitive and rugged. And he fucking hates it. He
hates that he’s scarred you. You were so perfect before he wormed his
nails under your skin.

But there seems to be something even more perfect about a castle with
a little graffiti.

“Okay. Oui.”

“Oui quoi?”

“Oui, Rosemary’s Baby. And after that, I don’t know. I have no idea
what’s going to happen, I feel like I need more time to make a proper
decision. Is that okay?”

“I guess it fuckin’ has to be.” Sam rolls over onto his back beside you,
studying the ceiling before finding your gaze again. “So, really? Even
after I fucked you like that? Still don’t know? You came so hard I
thought you were gonna spit my candystick out and send it whizzin’
around the room.”

“Sam! Was that not because of how hard you came?”

“I mean….. group effort.”

“Besides, sex isn’t every single part of a relationship. Especially in our

situation, we have unusual circumstances that most people don’t have
to deal with. Pressure. Spotlight. The press. Noisy audiences. Busy
careers. Hectic schedules. Nosy strangers. Our families. Big distances.
Difficult pasts. At this point, having a relationship would mean letting
the whole world in. It’s a lot to consider and risk.”

Swiping his pack of smokes from the end table, he pops a cigarette into
his mouth and pauses for a moment before lighting it. His cheeks
hollowing out, his jawline popping when he exhales a blushing blur
towards the ceiling. “Yeah, well, we live in the world so we’re always
gonna be letting it in, whether we’re together or not. And that’s the
kinda sex you make time to voluntarily go apeshit over.”

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He’s not wrong. Even if he is avoiding the most important part of what
you were trying to communicate. And whether or not he’s aware of that
is just another Sunny-mystery. One thing you’ve come to trust about
him over time though is that his truth always comes out, eventually.
Maybe not when he’s ready, but whenever the truth is.

“Alright. Rosemary’s Baby and some chicken feet first. Can you also
take me to Central Park? I’ve never been.”

“Oh, I see. Now you’re milkin’ this.” A high, broken falsetto voice meant
to mock yours falls from his lips, “I dunno if I want to date you, but take
me out on a bunch of dates like we’re dating? And buy me dinner and
hold my hand during the movie and pine over me and cry over me and
cuddle me for hours and sacrifice sleep and sanity and send me gifts
and call me in the middle of the night and let’s have a fuckton of sex
and ooh, did you see that yellow Givenchy dress in the Barney’s
window? I wouldn’t mind one of those either. Thanks, Sunshine Non-
Steady Babe Love! I’ll keep you in the loop!”

“Oh, can we also stop by Barney’s?”

Sam’s bright laughter paints the ceiling and splashes you with a pink
monochrome rainbow, his thumb scratching his forehead before his
hand drops to his belly. “Can’t say I saw that on my Bingo card.
Whatever you want, Honey pie. I guess I’m your love servant now.”

“I kinda like the sound of that.”

“It’s not so bad, yeah. You dim sum, you lose some.”

And he’s already absorbing your giggles and blocking your strike by the
time your hand hits the air.

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The Double Encore

“Ow? Jesus fuck.”

Something about the sensation of pain dead in the center of night,

halfway between sunset and sunrise, gives it a grisly romantic quality.
Robbery at knifepoint, alarming self-realizations, spine-racking sobs,
ghostly hauntings and demonic possessions, the onset of stomach
viruses, desperate confessions of love, existential dread below the
break of an ocean wave, black-and-white dreams and colorful
nightmares.

They all seem to occur somewhere after the dark and before the light.

It wasn’t so much that Sam couldn’t fall asleep last night but rather,
stay asleep. Actually, it was one of those nights where he crashed out
hard and fast, his stomach stuffed with his favorite snacks and a splash
of orange juice mixed with Murky Lagoon. He’d almost passed out
midway through his routine nightly journaling session, a relatively
recent and now-essential habit that he’d established two years ago,
when he no longer had the comfort of your tits to ramble into as he
murmured himself to sleep.

Much like a toddler, Sam fought being pulled into unconsciousness last
night until it was no longer in his control. Physically holding his burning
eyelids open at one point and chain-smoking three more Crush
cigarettes before his pen reached the end of the last pink-tipped page.

Sam has fond memories of journaling and scribbling blackout poetry in

several corners of the world. Inside of The Pink for the last time, on a
beach in Oaxaca just after a long surfing session that ended at eight in
the morning. On a crowded, smoke-filled airplane that hovered
somewhere over the Pacific Ocean, in a shaded hammock strung
between two palms in Oahu, on the mattress on the floor of his
bedroom in London before the new bed frame had been delivered.
Coming down off of a mushroom trip in Phuket, poking away at an
omelet and rice between drags of his pink cigarette, distracted by the
orange rising sun.

And notably, the morning after he woke up in New York with you two
weeks ago, his heart bleeding out onto the page as you applied lipstick
in the vanity mirror in preparation for your interview with The Times. “I

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Can’t Stand the Rain” by Ann Peebles crackled through the radio
speaker, guiding his pencil as he shaded in the corner of your lip in a
newspaper margin beside six strategically blocked-out words.

her legs wrapped around

my

love

And just like clockwork, for the third sleep in a row now, Sam shot up at
four A.M. with a red static buzz between his ears and his heart
pounding out of his chest. No whispers of dreams lingering, no sounds
aside from the hum of this new hotel room’s fan and his heavy
breathing. The sheets damp and clingy from his sweat. The dim light
from the bathroom flooding out onto the floor and staining a slice of
lemon meringue pie on the soft carpet in the hallway, beckoning him to
follow the path through the darkness until he was squinting against the
white harsh lightbulbs.

It must have something to do with the fact that tomorrow is coming in

hot. And there’s nothing that Sam hates more than a looming ultimatum
in which the outcome is completely out of his control.

A deadline.

And if I don’t?

Then you can kiss your precious partner goodbye.

Sam sucks his sore thumb into his mouth and then shakes his hand out
a bit, squinting in the halogen lighting of the bathroom to see the
misshapen red mark burned into his skin. A pair of slim-fitting gray
joggers are cinched at his waist by the drawstring, leaving him bare
everywhere else, and rendering him that much more vulnerable to
being burned by an open flame.

Holding the sewing needle between his teeth, he runs his thumb under
cool tap water for a moment before trying again. With the scrape of
another match on flint and a flash of yellow that flickers across his face,
Sam carefully heats the needle and then drops the match into the sink
to take its final breath of oxygen. And before he can convince himself
otherwise, he leans forward and peers into his own eyes, then plunges
the hot metal straight through the lobe of his ear. A singe of pain runs
up his spine and forces him to clench his teeth. His stomach tosses a

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bit. The surge of adrenaline promises that he won’t be going back to

sleep anytime soon.

“And there she goes.” Once the sting subsides, a wave of relief bowls
Sam over, drowning and dizzy with the sight of the needle sticking
through his ear. Properly filling in the shoes of the masochist he tends
to believe he is from time to time. “Another hole in the old melon.”

After lighting a cigarette, he cranes his head to the side for a closer
look at his work, curls of strawberry mixing with curls of chocolate as
smoke swims around his face. A little spot of blood circles the sewing
needle through his ear like a stuffed, tiny bloody mouth. Or a javelin in
the grass. Or the laid-out miniature victim of Cupid’s arrow, happy and
righteous to be chosen. A reminder that pain is temporary and its
residual marks, good or bad, always look distinctive to the owner once
they’ve healed.

Throughout the past two weeks since the day he jump-scared you in
New York, Sam has learned many things about himself and the world
around him. That love is blurry and confusing as all fucking hell. That
consuming anything other than tomato juice and peanuts on a flight
makes him feel queasy, that bartenders in hotel bars skimp on the rum
unless they’re being watched like a hawk, that Oreo cookies upgrade
significantly when he twists them apart and spreads the dry side with
peanut butter, that he’s beginning to enjoy a hot shower every now and
again, that hotel food tastes better on someone else’s dime, that
having material to journal about comes a lot quicker with the flavor of
heartbreak lingering on his tongue. And that love is as crystal clear as
a polished vase in the morning sun, filled to the brim with sunflowers
and brightening up the darkest corners of any room.

And throughout these past two weeks where you and Sam have spent
every cloud-nine moment together, Sam has become incredibly
familiarized with your schedule, your degrees of disposition and your
day-to-day personal habits. Some he had already been closely familiar
with, but under the pressure and stress of a new and intense routine,
the volume at which the two of you have become reacquainted is
nothing short of loud.

The second you arrive at a new hotel, Sam has learned to take his time
filling up a bucket of ice to allow you the space to finesse the room to
your standard. Pacing in circles as you tweak the lighting and
straighten art on the walls. Beauty products and knickknacks and

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clothing laid out and neatly arranged in the bathroom, on the vanity, in
the dresser and in the closet. Fluffing the pillows and the sheets,
acquainting yourself with the local radio stations, adjusting television
antennas, lighting candles. Perfecting and perfecting and perfecting
until you strip down and settle in to memorize the room service menu.

A place for Cherry and Cherry in her place.

On your days off, you like to stay up late with him to dance hard to the
radio and then sack out even harder, with your silk mask covering your
eyes and smooth legs twisted up in the sheets. Teeny tiny snores
every few breaths. Waking late the following morning and playing all
afternoon, then sneaking around the city on surprise, covert dates in
Mary Jane pumps or heeled booties and slinky baby dresses; slipping
in through restaurant kitchens and cozying up in private booths,
tiptoeing in and out of dark movie theatres, hogging the jukebox in
unsuspecting seedy bars where the patrons pay no interest, cruising in
cars with tinted windows and sealed partitions, kissing in emptied-out
diners and ice cream shops, meandering walks under streetlights after
dinner, drowning in French 75s over several rounds of pool. Staying
out until sunrise at secret underground dance clubs, the names and
locations of which Sam has to aggressively wiggle out of local staff.

Sometimes you don’t last very long in dance clubs before you’re
breathing into his ear to take you back to the hotel. Especially when the
two of you find a dark secluded corner to make out, your head knocked
back against the wall and your panting drowned out by the live music,
Sam’s thigh between your legs and his mouth on your neck.

One time you didn’t even make it back to the hotel.

The very opposite schedule on travel days, with early evenings paired
with relatively silent rest, a heap of covers ending up on top of Sam
that he’s learned to drape back over you so that you don’t get cold.
Packing and reorganizing your suitcases two or three times before
leaving for the airport, sitting on top of your luggage with a grouchy huff
as you struggle to zip it closed. A final, meticulous sweep of the room
before locking the door behind you. Impossibly clean politeness with
everyone you interact with; from your manager to bellhops,
stewardesses and photographers and receptionists, makeup artists
and fans.

Behind closed doors, your stress manifests in one of three ways: you
either babble like a brook, stitch up invisible seams on all of your
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performance costumes or completely emotionally suck into yourself.

Hands busy while you stare off into empty space and clean the wheels
of your skates, seemingly deaf to the outside world. Reserved when
pushing around steamed vegetables on your plate or when asking for
help unzipping a dress or clasping a bracelet closed. Lost in a world of
over-analytics, silently bad-mouthing yourself and organizing mental to-
do lists. Struggling to exactly pinpoint what’s hogging the majority of
your mental space. The kind of anxiousness that doesn’t need to be
vocalized in order for those who know you to know it’s there.

You’re still too fucking polite for your own good sometimes.

I’m fine.

On days when you have a show, Sam has learned to wake you around
six or seven A.M., depending on his appetite for breakfast and level of
mischievousness. Mornings are particularly sensitive for him and if he
wants any quality playtime with you that day, it has to be before the sun
rises. Because you like to arrive at the theatre hours and hours before
a performance, nitpicking the shit out of your routines and then
spending two hours costuming up before you hit the stage. And
apparently mascara should be applied first, because the amount of
times he’s heard you shriek after accidentally painting your cheeks with
miniature black fans is enough for him to attempt to learn the art of
makeup on his own, just to take one less weight off your shoulders.

Or to upstage you, either way. Nettie has always insisted that he looks
pretty in eyeshadow.

During your pre-show ritual, Sam usually explores around the city on
his own, swims laps in the hotel pool or kills a couple hours reading or
journaling in the suite. But when it comes time for you to hit the stage,
he’s there to squeeze the stress from your shoulders and stretch out
your ankle before you put your skates on. Watching from the backstage
curtain shoulder-to-shoulder with Roach, whistling loudly with his
fingers tucked into his cheeks and trying his damndest to get on her
good side. Just in case it might come in handy one day.

Witnessing city after city wake up to the fact that you’re the best dancer
on fucking earth may just be the most fun Sam’s ever had. The ground
kisses your feet as you skate all over it.

After a show, you either need to cool down with a couple rounds of
pool and Pearls from the closest dive bar or unleash a craving for fine

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dining, arrested by a case of the hiccups after a single glass of

champagne. And then back at the hotel it sometimes takes several
spins and dips and several Honey Slowdowns before you’re relaxed
enough for quiet.

One evening, you’d bravely admitted after three French 75s that the act
of post-performance decompression with another person had never
been a habit for you until Sam had come along, both right now and
when you were dating in Malibu. Typically after a long grueling work
day, you prefer time alone in your precious fucking cardigan with a
small plate of sugar or a bowl of mashed potatoes, followed by the
discipline of an early bedtime. But when Sam’s around, it’s different.
You’re different.

Just for him.

It makes him wonder how you’ve been surviving the stress of this past
month all on your own.

That very same night, you had also admitted that sometimes it seemed
like your ex wasn’t paying attention to you when you spoke, and that
visual shriveled Sam’s stomach up like a raisin. Imagining all of those
perfect secrets and confessions and observations wasted, inflating like
pretty little rainbow bubbles into the room and then popping without a
trace or a sound, leaving behind a sticky film of invisible soap on the
carpet. The bubbles that Sam would have gladly caught in the palm of
his hand, frozen solid in fear of disrupting them. Watching as little oily
alien space signals floated around in their skin, quiet spheres of
shadows and light.

In the mornings, especially on days of rest, you’re a particular kind of

malleable. Before the stressors and boomerangs of the day have a
moment to swoop in and redirect your thoughts. Warm thick ribbons of
Cherry pie filling, uninhibited enough to be happily coerced into
keeping your sleeping mask on while the two of you play. Your
stomach tightening when his fingertips disappear under the hem of
your underwear, teasing and teasing you until it only takes a full minute
to hit your high spot on his finger. The sobs and moans that leak into
the sheets when he fucks you face-down particularly hard, his own
orgasm hanging on by a thread as you tighten around him and cry out
his name. That quiet, relieved gasp you radiate yes when he slowly
slowly sinks inside of you after you’ve been edged for a long while, the

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single sexiest fucking sound he’s ever heard in this lifetime. And maybe
the next lifetime as well.

Preceded only by the sound of you shredded to shit with laughter.

Nothing feels better than taking breaks from kissing to laugh. Or taking
breaks from laughing to kiss. Two gardens of passion bridged by a
river of joy. And Sam never could decide which one he liked more, but
he supposes he doesn’t have to.

Sex of any and every kind is typically followed by languid unwinding

sessions, with his head between your legs to rest on your stomach.
Your fingers twisting into his curls as vanilla sugar smoke pours from
his lips, his palms smoothing up your shins. The sun burning a hole
through the window. Silently asking himself if your skin actually
becomes shinier after you’ve come or if it just seems that way because
he views you through a fuzzy halo of frosted glass, surrounded by
those little sparkles that ride on the crests of waves when the sun
begins to set.

He loves fucking you in the morning.

Sweet breakfasts are for days of rest. Baby silver dollar pancakes or
waffles with lemon and powdered sugar, a warm pitcher of maple
syrup, thinly sliced cantaloupe, a tall glass of orange juice on ice.
Savory breakfasts are for work days. Scrambled eggs with toast and
butter, a cup of hot water with lemon and honey. Oatmeal with brown
sugar is for days when you are late. Late because you spent a little
extra time in bed with the one and only person who you’ll allow to make
you late. Late because Sam is undeniably excellent at the art of healthy
flirtation.

One time you missed your flight.

He has also mastered the art of reading the emotional cues that center
around your eating habits, because you feel deeply and you can’t
always talk about it, so it ends up manifesting in your green room rider
and room service requests. A Honeybee Jamboree after a performance
means it’s okay to flirt with you to the point of nearly getting slapped in
public, but hot chocolate with baby marshmallows at midnight means
it’s time to keep his smart mouth shut. Honestly, he’s happy with either
scenario. Because both of them result in being in your presence.

In terms of food, Sam’s diet was much more stringent in Malibu. With
working a consistent schedule and living in a van, he was forced to
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default to easily-prepared meals and packaged foods. But when the

world is his oyster like this, he’ll devour it. Because Sam just eats
whatever the fuck he’s craving in that moment. And then he eats what
you didn’t eat. And you don’t know this yet, but when you leave for an
interview or a rehearsal, Sam orders more of whatever he’s craving in
the next moment.

Then he’ll bide his time by flipping over a fancy knife from room service
in his palm to check his teeth in the reflection of the blade, before
contemplating whether or not this silverware was only intended for
eating endangered species. Or endive. Snacking on apples, triple-
decker stacks of caviar, cheddar and Ritz crackers and sucking green
pitted olives off each of his fingertips, thinking up new slogans for
peanut butter companies that involve eating ass. All while pacing the
spacious hotel room with tall ceilings, staring at the same giant house
plant with holes eaten out of the leaves like swiss cheese.

Nutty Peanut Butter: So rich, you could eat it out of a butthole. Nutty.

Meals only stick to someone when they sit down to eat them anyway.
The acts of standing and eating cancel each other out, just like the
terms “jumbo shrimp”, “instant classic” or “living dead.”

Gobbling up.

You are outstanding at saying or doing the right thing at exactly the
right moment, as if you’ve processed actions and words in real time
and then spun them into a viewer-friendly fable with a heavy dose of
positive reinforcement. And you’re even more outstanding at that
luscious act of simply dragging your fingernails up and down his back
and into his hair and against his scalp with decreasing pressure until
he’s a puddle of melted ice cream and fudgy chocolate brownies,
mumbling on about all the different ways an egg can be cooked until
he’s no longer conscious.

And sometimes the two of you end up in fits of laughter that absolutely
ache, your stomachs burning when you try to pull in a squeak of breath
and your cheeks sore from the grins slicing your faces in half.

In the beginning of your partnership and later, romantic relationship,

you would speed walk alongside him in an effort to keep up. And while
you were dating in Malibu, you had started to become a fair contender.
But at times now, he finds himself doing that same speedwalk beside

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you. Because you know exactly how to play with him. And he likes it. A
lot.

Vivienne fucking Surefire. You’re stunning.

One fit of laughter had even gone so far as to leading to a root beer
spit-take in the theatre when he took you to see Rosemary’s Baby in
New York. Which paved the way for his explode-cackle and a couple
flying popcorn kernels in your direction, which caused the entire theatre
to shush you as Sam leaned close to whisper in your ear, don’t laugh.
It’s extremely upsettin’ for people to hear.

Which only made The Smiles worse.

The most alluring part of your beauty is that you seem to be immune to
it. Sam has caught men stopping in the street or looking over their
shoulders on their bicycles to stare at you and the best part about it is
that you have never once caught them. But he has, every time. And he
tells you, every single time.

And you blush, every single fucking time.

Meatball scopin’ the sauce, nine o’clock. Hey, don’t let me catch you
makin’ bedroom eyes with any of these tapeworms. You’ll be in deep
shit.

Say it louder, Daddy.

Fuck you, Honey.

You’re a maneater and you have no fucking clue.

The quiet moments in between work, dates, dancing and playtime

might be his favorite. The ones that most people might find seemingly
meaningless. I Dream of Jeannie reruns, ribbons in your hair and your
precious fucking cardigan when you’re needing the feeling of normalcy.
A purr of cunning smut against the tip of your tongue at surprising and
impeccably timed moments. Watching you with a cigarette in one of his
hands and a pen in the other, his journal in his lap, as you pace around
the room with a couple of books stacked on your head to practice your
posture. A red lollipop sucked between your teeth, the dip of a tendu
every few steps.

Or sprawled across the bed in his briefs and a headscarf reading a

book, legs on legs. Studying the room service menu and reciting the
descriptions of desserts out loud to Sam with a gush of sensuality.
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Your toes rubbing together and your hair curious. Your tits alive and
whispering against the fabric of the wifebeater you’ve stolen.

Because Sam is a hopeless romantic and it’s second nature for him to
find sentiment in every chocolate-smudged pie plate and every crushed
lollipop stick in the ashtrays.

Just for you.

You still line up your French fries and eat them smallest to largest. You
still stick your finger in his mouth when he yawns and smack his
shoulder when he makes a dumb joke. You still request a proper slow
dance before bed and steal his cigarettes straight from his mouth. You
still crawl into his lap when you want attention and clean when you’re
sad. You still snort when you’re laughing so hard that no actual
laughing sounds can come out. You still get bitchy when you’re hungry.
You still take flaming hot showers. And he missed it all. Because he
loves you.

Just as Sam had suspected by finding you in New York, you’ve

successfully nudged at that sleeping part of him that he thought would
never awaken again. Even if that gamble with vulnerability has been
the very thing making his stomach toss with dread these past couple of
days.

Because after spending a few days with you in New York, Sam did not
put up a fight when you asked Roach to book him a ticket on your flight
to Philadelphia. And after several more days with you in Philadelphia,
Sam did not put up a fight when you asked Roach to book him a ticket
on your flight to Washington D.C. And after several more days with you
in Washington D.C., Sam is still patiently not putting up a fight as he
awaits the verdict on whether or not you’ll want this relationship to
continue after he steps on his flight to Biarritz, France in thirty-two
hours and counting.

You know….. you kind of did ruin your life to go steady with me before.

The anticipation of waiting is worse than any answer he might receive.

Like watching a horror film, the scariest parts are the ones leading up
to the encounter that involve all those moments of dread, suspense
and uncertainty. The horror — the culmination — is actually a relief. Or
so he hopes.

“Pancake…..?”

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The soft mew of a kitten has Sam shifting his sight in the mirror to find
your quietly hovering figure in the doorway, his button-down shirt and
briefs covering you up, itchy eyes and a little yawn. Your sleeping mask
pushed up onto your forehead and squashing your hair underneath.
Your heartwarming presence, both in the way you take up space and
each carefully-chosen quip you choose to share with him. The
nickname you stole from his temporarily pessimistic hands and
wrapped in the shiny paper of optimism before handing it right back.
Pancake.

Sam wasn’t expecting to see you this early. Typically, you sleep
through his inhumanely early mornings, through his trips to the hotel
swimming pool and through his journaling, his cold showers and his
endless cloud of pink smoke, his cold pre-breakfast Pop-Tarts and one-
off tiny masochistic stabs through the ear. All until he slinks back into
the sheets and whispers into your hair that you feel extra warm and
gooey, then tangles your legs together and sponges a line of kisses up
the back of your neck. Drowning in that feeling of a woman in his bed
to return to. The only woman he wants to return to.

Sam wasn’t expecting to see you this early, but that doesn’t make him
any less stoked to see you.

Leaning over the sink with one of your earrings hovering at his earlobe,
Sam examines his reflection once more before his sight darts back to
yours. “Une marmotte, she caught me. Hi. Est-ce qu’elle va bien?” He
straightens up and tosses the earring into the soap dish, peering over
his shoulder for a better look at how fucking adorable you are. “C’mere,
baby. Shit, breakin’ my heart.”

He loves when you’re sleepy, soft, slow. He loves it when you cross the
room with squinty eyes and smooth skin, two crooked zombie steps,
snuggling up behind him with a hum and folding him up in a squeezy
tight hug with your cheek smushed between his shoulder blades. Warm
and snuggly. A really particular type of melty. Your voice a rustling leaf,
“Mm….. je suis bien, merci. Can’t sleep again?”

“Nah, it’s lunch time last I checked.” With his chin on his shoulder, Sam
eyes the pillow creases pressed into your cheeks. “You really sink into
la la land, dontcha?”

“Bed is my most favorite place.”

“Why’d you jump off the lily pad then?”

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Once your long, exaggerated yawn is finished, your cheek presses into
the back of his neck and the feeling alone has Sam ready to scoop you
off your feet and carry you back to bed himself. “I wanted to find you
and see if I could convince you to come back. It’s so much better with
you there.”

“Oh yeah?” He expertly pushes away the image of him getting brained
on a giant lily pad, surrounded by a little jungle of lotus flowers and
frogs that won’t shut the fuck up. “’Kay. What’s your second favorite
place?”

Squeezing him tighter, you glance over his shoulder into the mirror,
watching as his thumbs spin little circles on the back of your hands.
“Doughnut shop.”

“’Kay. And third.”

“Your bellybutton. And the spot where your shoulder dips into your
chest, the perfect little pillow for my cheek. Puts me right to sleep.”

“Belly—” His face melts into a playful frown, one that displays
realization. “Pretty sure that one is just ’bed’ again, Honeypie.”

Since Sam is leaving tomorrow, silent stress has been weighing on the
both of you and Sam is in a perpetual state of talking himself out of
pressuring you for an answer on the status of your relationship. He
considers bringing it up several times a day, but shakes it off every
single time. Because he’s aware that he’s quite assertive and he
doesn’t want to be like that anymore, to coerce you into re-traumatizing
yourself with a particularly complicated love affair at a time when you
were least expecting or wanting it.

Although, he would forever be uncertain of how to proceed in life if you

were to reject him after this two-week taste of utter bliss or worse yet, if
you chose to send him off to France with an open-ended landscape on
the horizon. But at the same time, he knows that you require a little
pressure when it comes to giving straight, decisive answers. Except
there’s a slight difference between unhealthy arm-twisting and healthy
prodding, especially when it comes to the two of you as a couple.

Especially when it comes to him.

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Besides, when one makes room to speak about what exists, then
there’s no time wasted on wondering what was left unsaid.

When he thinks of the prospect of walking away from you empty-

handed, Sam imagines a cluster of birthday balloons. A dozen of them,
all red, held together with golden ribbon as they slip from his fingertips
and tangle with the breeze, dancing higher and higher into the sky until
they’re nothing but a red dot bleached by the sun.

He is conscious of his pushy tactics in the past, the ones that bordered
on persistent and obsessive at times. Perhaps even manipulative.
Sure, it had once pressured you to cave into something that was briefly
remarkable. But there’s also a reason why it collapsed. This time, Sam
wants you to come to him when he’s proved himself to be the one for
you. Because even though he’s always known it, he’s learned the hard
way that love and support is proved through consistent actions, not
words. Those pesky tendencies towards stubbornness and bluffing and
sprinting away just got in the way before.

Because he’s spent the last two-and-a-half years figuring out how to
prove himself to be the one for you. To be the person that he saw
reflected back at him through your eyes. Because Sam fucking hates
apologies, so the most eloquent one that he can give you is changed
behavior.

I want you to teach me. I wanna be good for you.

Sam knows that he has to put more effort into meeting you where you
are, into burying his need for immediate action, quickly followed by a
need for the next immediate action. He knows that he prefers risks and
you prefer caution. He knows that you love freedom but you also love
fierce intimacy. He knows that you love him but you also love yourself.

It took him a long time to realize that when you had insisted you didn’t
want to talk about the devastation of his memory slip until after the
season Finale, what you were really trying to say is that you were not
yet able to hear it. What you were really trying to say was I still love you
and want you, but I need to get through the immediate priorities of
tonight before we tear into the darkest parts of our hearts. Like
checking off a to-do list, with conquering the tasks that come easiest to
you and saving the ones you dread for last. And now that he
understands that, he can support your need for emotional
procrastination. Your slow walkabout to fully understanding yourself
and those you love. So long as he can handle the pressure of waiting.
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Truly, it’s humorous in the same way that watching a puppy be

confused by an oscillating fan is humorous. Sam knows the answer,
but sitting close by and trying not to facepalm while you figure it out is
maybe just as amusing.

Although he’s been good about giving you emotional space throughout
his trip, he is concerned about how the rest of the day will pan out.
Because it’s when we’re out of our comfort zones that we typically
begin to see old, unfavorable behaviors that we were certain we’d
shed. Falling back on habits is easy and subconscious, but what we
need to consciously remember is the reason why we began to drift
from them in the first place. For Sam, those old behaviors are burial,
impulsivity, escapism and hostility. But he’s not giving up on himself
yet. And hopefully those behaviors won’t blurt out after a couple of
post-performance Murky Lagoon shots and Pearls tonight, when he’s
reached the end of his countdown and composure rope.

Logically he knows that the two of you should ease back into a
relationship. And emotionally, he wants what he wants. But logically, he
knows he needs to wait. But emotionally, he’s tattered.

Besides, instant gratification is killer, but bonding with you slowly until
you suddenly realize you’ve fallen madly in love with him again is way
better. Right?

“Mmm….. you feel so choice right now.” Sam’s palm finds yours,
guiding your journey up his warm stomach, your fingers weaving
together when they reach his chest. His eyes on the charade in the
mirror the whole time, the sight of your hands all over his skin. “It’s
home improvement time.”

“What are you doing?” Sam picks up the needle from the sink and
holds it over his shoulder for you to see, your eyes exploding open with
a little more vigilance than before. “Are you sticking that in your ear?”

“I already did that part. I burned it with a match first.” He plucks one of
your earrings from the soap dish, shaped like a daisy with a little yellow
stone in the center surrounded by white petals. They were just too cute
to pass up, even if Sam was technically doing that thing where he’d
rather ask for forgiveness than permission. “And I hijacked a pair of
your earrings from the safe. Cool?”

When Sam figured out the code for the safe and found your humble
collection of jewelry, organized in velvet pouches with drawstrings tied

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into bows, he smiled and appreciated the balance of disparity. Quite a

difference from his method of caring for his belongings, which is
liberating his shoes into the ocean one by one and selling his van to a
random surfer in Mexico. Which is the exact same way that he had
procured it in the first place, before driving his transient home up to
Malibu back in ’65. To Sam, it’s the fluid poetry of life that counts, not
the static stockpiling of it.

Love is truly on and on-ness, an extended glance at what’s been stared

at a hundred times, learning and re-learning oneself.

Whether it’s active or history, Love never stops teaching.

Before you have a chance to answer, Sam is spinning around to cup

your jaw in one hand and squeeze your cheeks with his fingers, then
leaning in for a juicy, stolen kiss. You gasp and push him away before
swatting his shoulder, your nose crinkling as you try but fail to keep
your amusement hidden. “Behavior! Petite vache. You’re supposed to
ask.”

“Yeah? I’m rude as fuck now.”

“As opposed to the former Mr. Manners?”

“Miss Surefire, may I please, please have a little taste of those sweet
irresistible lips?” He grabs two handfuls of your curves and hitches the
two of you together, dropping his forehead to yours and then nibbling
on his bottom lip. “My favorite.” He sways your hips back and forth to
the phantom, swooning guitar solo shredding in his head. “Fuckin’
apeshit hot in the mornin’. Like warm banana pudding and nudie
mags.”

“Sam—” It’s impossible to kiss you when you’re giggling like this, but
that doesn’t stop Sam from trying anyway. Over and over again, as you
try to speak and hold him back at the same time. “Pepé Le Pew. You’re
so demanding and grabby sometimes.”

“Yeah, that’s why I’m keepin’ my voice down.” Physically breaking

through your playful little moment of stubbornness, his hands span
your waist before he props you up on the sink, then knees your legs
apart to rest his hips there. “C’mon. Really gonna make me beg for a
little sugar at five in the mornin’? Baby’s tired, y’know. A pittance if you
ask me. But you didn’t ask, so.” Pinching the chain of his necklace
between his fingers, he swings the heart-shaped locket back and forth
in front of your face in a slow, hypnotic sweep that matches the
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cadence of his voice. “You are dyin’ to kiss him.” But then he’s
distracted again, tugging the collar of the button up shirt that you’ve
borrowed away from your chest, slipping a peek at The Holy Mountain.
“Oh? Qu’est-ce que c’est, hm?”

“Bonbons?”

“Think you’re on to somethin’?” Slipping a hand into the loose placket

of your shirt, Sam’s thumb circles your nipple before his impulse control
slackens and he’s palming for a little squeeze and a littler hiss. “Do
they shake?”

“Yes.” A small devilish tilt of your head is paired with an even smaller,
more devious smile. “And melt in your mouth.”

Sam has a variety of laughter; little soda pop chuckles that bubble up
his throat and fizz past his teeth, a raspy wheeze that brings tears to
his eyes and crinkles his nose, a sarcastic snicker that thaws his face
into dry benevolence, a screaming cackle that pierces his dimples into
his cheeks and displays his whole perfect mouth. And his softest one,
the one that tickles on his tongue and brings a tender smile to his eyes,
a complacency to his lips. A deep, satiated hum that wordlessly
communicates fluffy contentment. The oozing, syrupy inside of a
raspberry chocolate truffle. The one he’s doing right now as he tips his
head to the side and aligns your mouths, pink melted sugar dripping
from his tongue.

Just for you.

“Fuck. Oui. Meringues….. sweet Cherry tarts. Je les aime. Kiss,

please?” His voice drops to a soft roll; more of a feeling than an actual
vibration in the air. “Cash it in, little girl. Je te défie. Je te défie double.”
He waits for that one particular nod, the one where your eyes are glued
to his mouth and you exhale just a little before your consent is
admitted. A tiny desperate thing that magnetizes him forward to fix your
lips together and ease your suffering. Sam softly hums at the feeling,
his stomach tripping over its laces as it faceplants on the sidewalk.
Then he draws back an inch to mutter his thanks, then another inch to
playfully narrow his eyes in accusation. “Hang tig… t... Lint didn’t buy
these earrings for ya, did he?”

Sam is aware that you know better than to correct the childish
nickname he’s given your ex, considering he’s managed enough self-
restraint to only give him a childish nickname and lay off any heavier

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sorts of trash talking. Throughout the past fourteen days, Sam’s done a
pretty good job of handling his own internal dialogue; talking down his
attitude, his anger, his jealousy, his biting impulses. For your sake and
for his, and back around for both of you.

Besides, your ex would probably be pretty stunned to hear that you’ve

slept with your other ex before your bed had even properly cooled off.

And slept and slept and slept.

A glimpse of the notorious woman with the ability to simultaneously

hide a high-profile romance and climb the ladder of stardom without so
much as a single hair out of place.

Some researchers believe that jealousy is a healthy, biological human

tendency that ties in with love, in order to keep family units together to
aid in the community collectiveness needed to raise children. It
preserves what’s built, it protects foundations of loving connection, it
raises the stakes and forms a clear path of what’s important and worth
fighting for. Sure, it functions on a sliding scale from person to person.
Some may feel it more strongly than others, but it’s alive and its
purposeful and it’s not something to be ashamed of. It emphasizes
importance. It’s the mismanagement that some people choose to use
to handle that feeling of jealousy — with hurtful words or harmful hands
or sneaky behavior or manipulative action — that give jealousy a bad
reputation. The sensation of jealousy is not a loss of control, the
negative handling of it is. People who claim to not feel jealous, ever,
are liars.

Actions are blind. Emotions just are.

Honestly, Sam feels kind of bad for the guy. Because you dumped him
for not wanting to do the exact thing that you’re doing with Sam. And
because if Sam and Lint’s positions were switched and Sam knew what
the two of you have been up to these past two weeks, he would fly off
the handle so fucking hard that it would send him into fucking orbit.

But the positions aren’t switched and Sam is the one rounding third
base now, the scoreboard flickering with readiness at an approaching
homerun. A Do Not Disturb sign swishes to a halt on a hotel room’s
doorknob, a pair of panties tossed in with the scattered pile of clothing
on the quiet carpet.

And considering how easily you fell back into Sam; it would appear that
you’ve left Lint for much more than what you lead on. Though Sam
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tries hard not to dwell on those types of thoughts, instead noticing that
they’re there and then setting them free. Besides, he can’t compete
with the past. It’s done.

This is different. We’re different.

So, Lint it is.

“Of course not. I bought those earrings for myself. I’m not carting
around jewelry from my ex.”

Sam points to his heart-shaped locket, resting against his stomach like
a warm peppermint candy in a glossy wrapper. Shiny and beautiful to
look at, but the treat is on the inside. And he’s the only person who
gets to taste it. Hopefully. “Why, somethin’ wrong with that?”

His question is intended to stir more questions of course. And his

passive agreement with your use of the word “ex” is meant to be a
signal for you, a little push to prompt some timely decision-making on
your end. Something he knows you’re smart enough to pick up on. A
silent way to search for the answers to Do you still have my ring? Do
you ever wear it? And also, Am I still your ex?

“Nope. That necklace is the best piece of jewelry you own, just before
your new earring.” You tuck the lock of hair tickling his chin behind his
ear for a better look at the fresh piercing. “Nice work, actually. It’s
perfectly centered. Do you want my help?”

Sam nods and watches in the mirror as you gather the daisy from the
soap dish and guide his head in a tilt to gently maneuver the post
through his earlobe. A little zap of electricity climbs from his belly and
fires out like a branch of lightning, tucked into your soft hands and your
gentle breath and your warm center and your smooth legs. His
fingertips trace silken threads up your legs, his heart thoroughly
invested in the sentiment of this close and correct moment.

The pad of an index finger cutting a clean line through a chocolate-

smudged pie plate.

The earring snaps closed and you lean back for a better look at your
new man, his jawline and neck and collarbone strengthened by the
addition of the dainty jewelry. A loving combination of feminine and
masculine, a complete refusal of typical societal norms, a cluster of the
cutest Sunspots drizzled across his face.

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His gaze darts from your face back to the mirror to see the light reflect
from the tiny shiny petals, his mouth downturning in humble approval.
“Yeah? Cute as a bug in a rug.”

Holding your palm under his jaw, Sam smiles and drops his chin there
for you to squeeze and pucker his lips out, stealing a couple kisses
from him just how he likes. “You look excellent, Sunbaby. Very pretty.
Good choice as always.”

Reaching behind you, you pinch the other half of the daisy earrings
from the soap dish and fasten it into your right ear. On the same side
that Sam has his in order to mirror his appearance; a flower to catch all
of your secrets, to add weight to the things you both simultaneously
value and to balance out the image with perfect symmetry when you
kiss. And that’s exactly what he does when he understands the layers
to your action, dipping forward to cup your cheeks and suck your
tongue into his mouth, one hand dropping to guide your leg around his
waist.

Throughout the past two weeks since the day Sam jump-scared you in
New York, you have learned many things about yourself and the world
around you. That love is blurry and confusing as all hell. That opposed
to what Sam told you, the Mile-High Club isn’t actually a secret award-
system set up through airlines to offer discounts on flights. That New
York has the best radio stations of any city you’ve visited so far, that
the hours between midnight and nine A.M. are your favorite, that you
sleep like a pile of feathers in Sam’s arms and in his clothes. And it just
so happens that ever since Sam’s welcomed reappearance back into
your life, it seems as though most of the choices that he makes are
excellent ones.

It’s not surprising that your intimacy and closeness as a pair have been
expedited these past couple weeks, with the way he’s filled the roles of
a travel companion, a lover, a best friend, a dancing partner. A
therapist, a comedic relief, a mirror. A confidant who understands the
feeling of living in the limelight. Who knows how to avoid
photographers and sneak in and out of places undetected, who is
experienced with airports and hotels and navigating unfamiliar cities,
who values your privacy as much as he values his own, who
understands how schedules — although set in stone and heavily
outlined — can flip on a dime due to juggling the many people needed
to keep everything in balance.

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Someone who loves to keep a big secret just as much as you do.

He tips cab drivers, room service, house cleaners, bartenders, door

men, concierge, bell hops, food servers, parking attendants, restroom
attendants.

Sam knows people in the industry and knows how to work a room, so
he easily integrates with those who surround you during shows,
interviews, social gatherings. He knows how to bide his time while
you’re working, readily staying back at the hotel while you practice.
Happily attending your performances, watching from the curtain or from
the backstage green room with Roach rambling into his ear
enthusiastically about whatever she deems crucial in that moment.

In fact, Sam’s dry teasing and quick, random, crass wit are the only
things you’ve seen make her pause. It seems he can charm anyone
into his Sunny-speaking culture with ease, and usually a dash of
irritation, until said person melts in his palms like butter.

No one has the ability to generate a joke out of thin air and make you
laugh quite like he can, at the most unassuming moments, which in
turn only doubles the absurdity. And those moments when you’re both
dissolved into painful episodes of laughter have now been lovingly
dubbed The Smiles by your lover, the prevailing master of abstraction.

“Jesus, fireball is rowdy today.” Sam squints at the Sun pouring

through the suite windows before flipping his heart-shaped sunglasses
down onto his nose, his creamsicle gum popping between his molars.
“Kind of aggressive. Hey, how come we’re gettin’ OJ and not Bloody
Mary’s? It’s not a work day, bitch.”

There’s only one thing in the solar system that feels like the sun and
that’s the Sun. Because the thing about the Sun is that it creates its
own magnificent energy, leading by example with warmth and light.
Providing true form simply by existing.

One evening, Sam had bravely admitted after three Pearls that he
rarely travels without his surfboard. In fact, he rarely travels to places
where a surfboard would be of no use to him. His rationale behind
meeting you in New York was laced with a few secrets that he didn’t
seem comfortable revealing quite yet. But he did mention that it aligned
with his schedule, that he felt ready and somehow sensed that you
were ready. That New York seemed like neutral ground where no
memories had yet been made. So, if you burned him and sent him on

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his way with his tail between his legs, he could brush it off and pretend
that he was already there for work in the first place. Ultimately, Sam
knew that this entire gesture was up to the fickle finger of fate, so a
Plan B explanation felt safe to him.

But he just couldn’t live with the idea of not trying.

Why not live triumphantly, y’know? Also, didn’t hurt that I had an
opportunity to stock up on peanut butter.

Without his board in tow, Sam stays in surfing-tournament shape by

doing calisthenics each morning; chin ups in doorways, sit-ups, push-
ups, yoga, swimming. Twenty, forty, sixty minutes of meditation per day
for emotional balance, stress relief, focus and memory strengthening,
which he simply calls watchin’ cartoons.

He had explained to you that after his memory had glitched, he couldn’t
stand the idea of being a stranger to his own brain. Journaling and
meditation have helped strengthen the relationship to his own mind and
body and in turn, have made him a somewhat smoother and more
agreeable person to be around. Most of the time.

And each night before he sleeps, Sam smokes a sweet pink cigarette
by the open window to admire the skyline of whichever city you’re
currently in, twisting the tips of his heart-shaped filters before resting
the butt on the sill. Curtains swimming in a frame around him; the
moon, city lights and the reflection of flickering candles painting the
glass in colorful, glowing and blurry spatters. Your lover, inside, outside
and the great beyond all in one perfect square.

He aims to write three full pages in his journal each evening and again
each morning, with little sprinkles throughout the day. Although
sometimes you’re able to easily interrupt him by climbing into his lap
and tossing his book aside. But sometimes, he needs to focus and
process and you know it, based on the number of cigarette butts in the
ash trays and how large or small his meals were that day.

Now and then, you find him scratching blackout poetry while you
prepare to leave for a performance or pace around the room on the
telephone, the cord dragging along the floor and tangling up in your
feet. He will often crumple up his creations and toss them in the trash
can, but every now and again he’ll tear the pieces from the magazine
or newspaper and ask you to read it out loud to him before tucking it
away in his journal for safekeeping.

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sitting on her bed. Looking at her,

a special warmth in

each other

I’m glad I’m here because

it’s where you are.

One time as you were meant to be concentrating on the schedule that

Roach was rattling off in your ear over the telephone, you caught a
glimpse of something that Sam was writing. Or rather, not writing. A
clear-cut reminder of why you chose to keep your nose out of his
journal in the first place and one that urged you to never look again.
The filter of his pink cigarette met his lips over and over again, his pen
hovering at the page right below two simple lines written in tender
cursive.

Indy

Do you know what ’saudade‘ means?

In typical fashion, the sight felt like something that you couldn’t let go.
After all, you’re deathly curious about Indy and you always have been,
hungrily lapping up any bits of her that he chooses to share here and
there. You waited to bring the subject of his writing up at a time when
Sam seemed soft and responsive, smack in between breakfast and
lunch and a handful of hours before leaving for your flight to
Philadelphia. A final stroll through Central Park, little Cherry blossom
buds signaling the arrival of spring. The slow tilt back towards the Sun,
your corner of earth awakening with a warm hug.

“Is she upset with you?” The point of your question isn’t simply about
Indy’s posthumous opinion, but rather, Sam’s peace with acceptance of
the situation. Or simply, where his feet stand in terms of pain.

He knows that. And he’s grateful for that.

With his eyes trained on you, he shakes his head, a quiet slip of candy
smoke twisting into the air from his fingertips. “No. She’s not.”

“It’s impossible to make sense of a senseless act. Guilt and grief are
just ways to try to get the past back, by wishing things were different.
Elle t’aime et elle a fait la paix. Elle est une leçon de vie douloureuse
qui continue de te l’enseigner.”
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“Merci d’être.”

He knows just how to keep you calm, how to speak to fans, how to give
you the space to speak to yours. He’s flexible. He’s happy. He’s
exciting. He’s patient, in his own crude way. He gets it. He gets you.
Effortlessly.

In New York, you’d thought it would be more complicated to have him

around but by the time you’d reached Philadelphia, you’d realized it’s
easier. Sam makes your life easier.

He makes you strong.

He’s Sunny.

And throughout these past two weeks where you and Sam have spent
every cloud-nine moment together, you have become incredibly
familiarized with his natural rhythm, his surprisingly fluent mood swings
that range from silly to lustful to annoyed to introspective, and his
variety of physical and mental quirks.

Similar to the paper versions he used to leave for you around your
duplex in Malibu, Sam has a habit of leaving notes on bathroom mirrors
with lipstick. Except unlike the messages before, these are
impermanent etchings that reflect your similarly impermanent sleeping
conditions. Scribbled either while you’re showering, or before you’ve
awoken and he’s slinked off for a swim in the pool or a solo hunt
through the city for a bakery. Doodles of a heart or a flower or a piece
of fruit, little romantic coins that have slipped through the holes in his
pockets. A big part of himself that he hides from the world and bravely
parades to you, the part of himself that you knew was always buried
within. Even during his most brutal temper tantrums. His little
marshmallow firecracker heart, protected inside of leather bones
shaped like weeping willows.

Your Sunbeam through the leaves.

honey— je te rencontrerai au lit ✿ ❀

You were speaking with honesty when you insisted on bed being your
favorite place on earth. But it isn’t so much the sheets and pillows
themselves that you cling to, but rather the beating heart and cotton
candy daydream who swims there beside you. Who is choosing to
swim there beside you, through time, plight and indecision.

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The most outstanding difference about Sam now versus Sam before is
the relationship he’s developed with himself; the clarity that shines with
how much time he’s sat with himself and gotten to know himself. How
he’s softer on the inside, a kind of indescribable softness, and that
softness spreads out to heat up everything in his vicinity. But only the
ones who are quiet enough get to really hear it, because his message
of humanity is often delivered underneath his words. It generously
radiates to the people who surround him, pooling at their toes and
filling their entire bodies with Sunlight until the warmth can be felt in
their stomachs, their hearts, their throats. Their minds.

In essence, he’s the perfect combination of Sunny and Sam. A slice of

bouncy angel food cake topped with sliced, heart-shaped strawberries
and a pinch or two of sea salt.

He is Love.

When you are feeling tense and unable to settle into sleep, Sam has
perfected the art of what he’s coined as The Honey Slowdown. Sitting
you down and running his fingertips up and down your spine,
squeezing your shoulders and blowing air on the back of your neck,
tickling your arms and knotting your hair around his fingers until you’ve
softened in his palms. Urging you to try to understand what exactly is
turning the simmering water into a boil, and guiding you to step out of
the pot. Because according to him, you’re rarely upset over the event
which you claim.

Big, deep breaths. You don’t have to stop thinkin’ about it, yeah? Let
your brain wander. What’s your breathing feel like in your tummy right
now? Notice it, don’t judge it. Give your brain lots of blue-sky space
and let all that shit play out, then feel your breath again. Over and over.
You’re not your thoughts; they come and go. You’re their perfect
observer. Breathe, Honey.

On his kneecaps and palms, Sam has white bumps from surfboard
friction that are a faded honey compared to the rest of his perpetually
golden, tanned skin. Salt water has softened his hands over time, but
there are still coarse patches from years of trapeze. Rough and molded
by the circus, refined and polished by the ocean like sea glass, the
hands of his god. The color of soda foam, the taste of homemade
vanilla ice cream floating at the surface.

His hair is often tangled and wild from the amount of time he spends
exposed to the briny air and sea, the hot Sun, a variety of heavily
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chlorinated swimming pools, outdoor showers with hard water. But

after a late-night shower in the hotel, he’ll always let you comb your
fingers through his curls as they dry, his head in your lap and his eyes
easily pulled shut to absorb the electricity moving up his spine. Just like
holding a seashell to your ear to listen to the sound of crashing waves,
you swear you can smell perpetual banana coconut suntan oil on his
neck. Especially when you’re falling asleep with your nose tucked into
his collarbone, his thumb tracing little circles on your hip. A velvet
dream boy both of the skin and the mind, quietly dribbling off the flavor
of candied oranges with his sleepy slushy husky talk.

Did ya know that chef’s hats have a hundred folds in ’em to represent
the hundred different ways to cook an egg? A hundred. Mmm….. can’t
wait to wake up and wreck the bed again. Mm’gonna dream about it.
How’d I get so lucky, hm? Can’t believe it. Doesn’t feel real. Gonna
sleep like a little ball of yarn.

Or:

Vivi? D’you think puttin’ ketchup on top of fries instead of on the side
technically makes it a salad? Ketchup acts as dressing. And if you use
a fork? It’s salad….. right?

By that logic, then rice and beans with sour cream could be a salad.

Yeah….. spaghetti?

I suppose so. Cereal then?

Hmm….. solid point. Don’t make me pull out my notes on ambrosia.

Or:

Wakin’ up is fuckin’ gnarly. What do we wake up from? And what do we

wake up into?

Or:

I heard someone call a fly a ’sky raisin’ once.

Or:

Cher? Have you ever seen a baby skunk before?

You’ve missed his bedtime stories. His velvet musings. His powdery
slurry. The impression of Sam is so strong that you’re certain it’ll linger

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behind on the pillows in all of your new hotel rooms, on the sheets that
he’ll never touch or breathe near.

Sam is a complete disruption to your life. He has been since the very
moment the two of you spoke on the beach in Malibu. And you love it,
the flutter. A placid heart isn’t necessarily a passionate one.

Yeah? What are you like?

He still steals your deodorant and leaves his clothes in small piles in
the corners. He still picks at his hangnails and sneezes into his hands.
He still listens to music loudly and plays drum solos in the air with any
object he can reach. He still drinks you under the table twice over and
smokes two packs of cigarettes a day. He still flosses constantly with
his nose practically kissing the bathroom mirror. He still gets bitchy
when he’s hungry. He still takes ice-cold showers. And you’ve missed it
all. Because you love him.

In Philadelphia, you’d thought it would be easier to have him around

but by the time you’d reached Washington D.C., you’d realized it’s
more complicated. Sam makes your life more complicated.

He makes you weak.

He’s Sunny.

Just as you’d suspected by Sam finding you in New York, he’s

successfully nudged at that sleeping part of you that you thought would
never awaken again. Even if that gamble with vulnerability has been
the very thing making your stomach toss with dread these past couple
of days.

Because in thirty-two hours, you’ll have to face the precise moment

you’ve feared by allowing him and this entire notion of romance in; the
moment he leaves. And all of the mysteries that will wash in when he
walks out the door; when will you see one another again? Will you be
distracted from work? Will he call? Will he answer the phone? Will you
have long distance arguments that leave you sick to your stomach?
Will you cry yourself to sleep with a newfound ache of transformed
loneliness? A loneliness that is no longer your own, but part of him.
Your collective loneliness, held hostage by big distance and noisy
careers that barely take a second to breathe.

Will he break your heart again?

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In this precise moment, you’re not lonely anymore. But when he leaves
tomorrow, that loneliness that you had been facing will feel ten times as
suffocating. Because then you’ll be lonely and alone, missing and
missing and missing everything about him.

The idea of getting used to something that feels perfect, to the point of
emotional reliance, seems dangerous. Especially when you’ve been
burned badly by said perfection in the past and there’s no guarantee
that it won’t happen again.

In terms of maintaining a long-distance relationship, your clashing

schedules seem to be the tallest hurdle to cross. The biggest goal of
Sam’s career is currently pursuing a placement in the World Surfing
Championship, which is set to take place in October in Aguadilla,
Puerto Rico. In order to qualify for a chance to compete in the
Championship, he needs to accrue enough points in smaller World
Surfing League Tournaments, or Qualifying Series, that are held
worldwide. When all is said and done, the world title is then given to the
surfer who has accumulated the most points from the Championship as
well as the eleven prior tournaments. The World Surfing Championship
takes place once every two years and is ten days long, so if he is
unable to qualify this year, he’ll need to wait until 1970 to try again.

Sam has completed three tournaments so far this year, which means
that he has eight more events to complete within the next seven
months; France, Spain, Brazil, Chile, Peru, Hawaii, Indonesia and
Australia. Although the tournaments are shorter than the
Championship, between two to six days a piece, Sam has stated that
he likes to spend time in each location both before and after a
tournament to acclimate to the waves and then unwind with local
delicacies. Especially because he goes to such great lengths to
traverse the planet to be there in the first place. All of this, while also
stopping off at home in London once every couple months to check in
on his mother and sister. And all while meeting you wherever you may
be, as you pack up and haul to a new city every three to five days.

In reality, you would be spending exponentially more time apart than

together. In the handful of light discussions you’ve had, Sam has
estimated that he would be able to meet up with you three or maybe
four more times over the course of the next seven months.

At least one thing remains consistently true: Sam is always caring for
something.

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You’ve thought about suggesting to pause things for now and

reconvene when you’re both finished touring. But after the vulnerability
he needed to breach your presence again, you’re worried about facing
him with that proposition. After you’ve both waited for years to be here
again, to be here for the first time. Without actually doing so, Sam is
giving you an ultimatum: now or never. Here or there. Love me or love
me not.

He hasn’t directly pressured you with conversation because he hasn’t

needed to, the silent pressure has been there since you first sat side-
by-side in a pink haze at The Monkey Bar. A big fat elephant that
travels with you from hotel room to hotel room, a red ribbon wrapped
around its toe to remind you to be raw.

Just see what it feels like to be raw. I’ll hear you.

You know the notion of procrastinating will anger him, that he’ll have a
retort about your lives always being this busy or at least staying this
busy for years and years while you both climb to the height of your
careers. That if you can’t do it now, then you won’t ever be able to do it.
That if Sam, of all people, is unable to manage the existing conditions
to be with you, then no one can.

He wouldn’t say that last part. But you’re certainly thinking it.

And likely, so is he. Except with reversed roles.

It’s as if stamping the uniqueness of this relationship with a label or a

mile marker would jinx it, shifting the energy just enough that the
universe would take it as a signal to step in and start messing around
with all of your happily placed elements. As it’s done to you many times
in the past. A ghostly bloodhound that sniffs out joy. A hex.

Clyde?

And since you know Sam’s habits so well, you can assume that right
now he’s anxious, angry, or pre-angry based on the number and
condition of the cigarette butts in the ashtray perched on the back of
the toilet.

You’ve begun emptying the ashtrays before bed each night, so that you
can gauge his mood in the mornings when you awaken. If there’s less
than three cigarette butts, it means he’s gone swimming and showered.
If there’s between three and five, it means he’s gone swimming,
journaled, and showered. More than five means his entire typical
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morning routine, plus an irritating phone call with either his sister or his
manager, Mose.

But the rare, squashed appearance of a dozen half-smoked,

abandoned cigarettes in every ashtray throughout the suite means that
he’s upset. Upset with you. A tangible image of heartache; one that
starts off as a hopeful flame, smolders, then leads to sweet surrender
in the midst of overthinking. A familiar sight that had last made
appearances the day after you first saw your headshot in his wallet and
the day of your season Finale in 1965.

Your legs tighten around his waist to hitch your hips together, your
fingers raking through his hair and squeezing gently to elicit a little
moan against your lips. You fold him up in another kiss, one that melts
his weight into you and tips the both of you back far enough that your
spine rests against the cold mirror. Hums and happy satisfaction fill the
small room and soak into the tile as your tongues meet and then slow
to a lusty crawl, wanting and needing and wanting to savor every
goosebump of this quiet moment.

A type of quiet that for you, now only exists in strange hotel rooms.
With a person who can successfully hush your brain simply by stroking
his fingertips across the back of your neck, a caress gentle enough that
it causes you to remember your own skin. A person that appeared
seemingly out of nowhere like a mirage in the high desert, to prove to
you that the Sun always comes back. In fact, it never really leaves. It
just gets dark and stormy from time to time.

Sam palms your breast and draws back a bit, just enough to plant a
soft wet kiss on your forehead and eye your pretty morning features
while your head rests back against the mirror. Your neck soft and
tempting. Your hands tugging at the waistband of his joggers and
tickling his stomach. Your doe eyes big, drinking him in.

“So….. aren’t you going to tell me how you figured out the code for the
safe?”

“It’s in the guest book. What’s the snag, Cherry? You think I’m just
gonna break into the safe and steal your jewelry?”

“That’s literally what you did.”

A Sunbaby and Cherry type of quiet, of course.

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Sam contemplates this for a moment before downturning his mouth

into a pout, one that conveys his consensus. “Busted. Curious….. how
much is it worth? Ballpark resale value.”

“Don’t you start, Sunshine. It’s too early for me.”

“Slow, sticky Honey. Your body is fuckin’ lush in the morning. So

fuckable. Somethin’ else, Jesus.” His fingertips tip-toe up your shins
and knees before his palms glide up your thighs and squeeze hard, a
tight grip that leaves a dull burn in its wake. “Mmm….. you’re a cat in
the sack. Hey, let’s whip up your famous cherry banana milkshake with
cream and a Cherry on top.” Slipping your sleeping mask off, he tosses
it aside and leans close, the tip of his nose nuzzling yours. “Y’know
how much I dig when you’re on top, whiteknucklin’ the headboard.
Squeezin’ the hell outta me.”

A single butterfly breaks free from your stomach and floats through
your heart, light and easy. Pink and silent. “That so?”

“Mhm. Top, bottom. Side. Tummy. Top again….. kiss, please.”

Sam? What’s your favorite way to do it?

With you.

Your lips slot together as you hum on one another’s tongues, the pad
of Sam’s thumb tracing a single soft line up and down the crease of
your inner thigh. Pulling back for a breath, your head lolls to the side for
a better view of his face. His early morning bird’s nest curls, his bright
eyes. The beauty mark that sits like a blot of melted chocolate by his
heart-shaped lips and the one tucked beside his nose. Your little safety
bubble. “Do you wish I was always this lush?”

“Fuck no. I’d miss the fire too much. Lush is only lush because it’s
occasional. Cool dip in the desert, lemon sherbet at the beach. It can’t
be lush if it’s constant.” Sam props his hands on the sink on either side
of your hips and looks you in the eye, his voice lowered to a rumble of
thunder across a dark lake. Almost whispering. “Wish you knew what it
felt like to fuck you, yeah? Especially in the mornin’. There’s nothin’ like
it. You’re so tight and forgiving. Warm.” He sighs against your lips,
running his thumb over your center in a couple languid strokes before
circling your clit once and then whining softly. “My favorite thing to eat
for breakfast. Paradise in a person. No one like you.” He taps on your
sensitive spot a couple times before nestling the pad of his finger

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against your entrance to feel the humidity slowly wicking there.

“M’aimes-tu, chérie?”

Your answer splinters out between yours lips. “Yes.”

His adds a bit of pressure with his finger. “Combien?”

“Chèrement.”

“’Kay, my turn then.” If there’s one thing that Sam seems to have
awoken inside of you these past two weeks, it’s the courage to dirty
talk on his level. Almost. If he’s going to somehow convince you to be
in a long-distance relationship for the next seven months, you’re going
to have to be comfortable with it, after all, because it’ll be all you have.
Vulgar smut and tender praise through the tinny tunnel of a wildly
expensive long-distance phone line, a soft moan clawing through the
fizz of time zones and continents and oceans separating you.

And simply, obscenity is his favorite. Especially when it surprises him.

And when it comes out of your mouth in particular.

Absolute filth leaking from absolute purity. A Cherry that bleeds sin.

A soft blush heats your cheeks as you sink your teeth into your bottom
lip, his endless chain of luscious praise still burning somewhere deep
inside of your stomach. The brush of his thumb over your center never
loses its stride, even when he leans forward to ghost his lips from your
collarbone to the lobe of your ear, a pant breathing into your skin.
Unless of course he does lose his stride, on purpose, pausing on your
sensitivity to add just enough pressure that entices you to rock your
hips forward.

It appears that he can still intimidate you into modesty every now and
again, in that friendly-competitive sort of way that he does, regardless
of how much intimacy you may have shared these last couple weeks.
And historically.

More intimacy than anyone else you’ve ever been with.

“Sunny?”

“Cher.”

“I like it when you moan in my mouth.” Your thumb runs over his
bottom lip, pausing just long enough to let him nibble on the tip. “You
always do it when I tickle your stomach. Or scratch the back of your
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neck. Or when we’re kissing, that exact moment the tips of our tongues
touch for the first time after a long while. Like I’m quenching your
thirst.”

“Yeah? Fuck.” In perfect translation of one of the love languages you

both share, your hands are everywhere; tickling up and down one
another’s arms, weaving your fingers together, smoothing your palms
up his chest and combing through his hair. His fingertips softly raking
down your neck. And it’s appeasing, similar to the relief of sitting in
front of a fire after peeling off wet clothes. There’s no way either of you
could ever tire from it. “Good girl. Dig it. Kept that one stored up for a
proper moment, didn’t ya? Keep goin’.”

“Something else?” Drawing back, your gaze drifts back and forth
between his, his shining hope and hooded eyes. A single nod of his
head to urge you onward. Patience and anticipation, the taste of his
heartbeat spreading through his mouth like crushed, bleeding rose
petals. Catching your bottom lip between your teeth, you set it free with
a little shine and a soothing whisper that you know Sam will soak up
with enthusiasm. “Okay. I like it when you put your thumb in my mouth,
it gives me a rush to my stomach. And the feeling of you stretching me,
that very first relief when you sink inside of me. You know it. It feels
more intense than anything else. A moment to lose yourself in, one that
makes you pause. A painful squeeze to my hip or my ass and then a
hard spank, then you rub it or blow cool air on it to soothe me. Little
bites and making me wait. And wait and wait. I like it when I’m sore the
next day….. when there’s a mark.”

His nostrils tick when he breathes in a lungful of air to steady the

beating of his heart, a whine crawling up his throat. He gestures you
close with a curl of his finger, opening his hand in the air with his palm
facing you. The perfect resting spot for your neck.

You respond without a second thought, leaning close and tilting your
head up in invitation. Sucking air through his teeth in a hiss, Sam
wraps his fingers around your throat and squeezes tightly, one time,
before tugging you just a little closer. “Do one thing for me, minou?”

“Mhm.”

“You’d do anything for me?”

“Just for you.”

His stomach knots. “Anything?”

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“Yes…..?”

“’Kay.” Sam steps back and drums on your kneecaps rhythmically

before holding his palms up. “Do this just once.” The sides of his hands
strike through the air in a V-shape on either side of his crotch, a loud
guttural meathead-esque grunt rumbling up from his throat. Something
that an American football player would do after a winning touchdown.
And it’s astounding how he can keep a straight face through the entire
jockish display, really.

But there was no chance in hell that you’d be able to. He knows it and
you know it. And after a pause to understand the whiplash he’s just put
you through, you’re barely able to push your weak response out
through the bellyaching laughter. “Sam! There’s absolutely no way—”

“Just once.” His logic is that maybe if he repeats the action, you’ll be
more likely to do it. And so, he crotch-chops again but with an extra
flame of drama and so you laugh harder, now with a pinch of tears in
the corner of your eyes to accompany a couple little haphazard snorts.
Spread open on the sink, leaning back against the mirror, winded from
joy and casual in posture. Flushed and glowy from lingering lust. And
fuck, you look so fucking beautiful when your face is painted with
iridescent freedom.

Just for him.

But it’s when you actually take it upon yourself to attempt to mimic his
macho action, except breathy and delicate and delightful, that you both
laugh so hard that sound is no longer emitted, aside from a wheeze
every few seconds from your lover’s chest.

Squeezing your ankles and guiding your legs back around his hips,
Sam hunches over and drops his forehead to your shoulder, mumbling
Smiles into your skin with a flash of hot air that glows strawberry pink.
His fingertips knotting into your hair in a bout of consuming
appreciation for your existence.

When he gathers his wits just barely enough, Sam straightens his
posture and points his index finger at your chest. “Hey guys, I found
her!” Now he uses his thumb, looking over his shoulder and around the
room at an imaginary audience, trying but failing to reel his giggles in.
“The biggest clod that’s ever lived.” He looks back at you with his
hands propped on his hips, smiling wide and shaking his head to
playfully chastise you. “Smooth play, Shakespeare.”

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And as soon as the uncharacteristic snort tears through Sam’s nose,

you both freeze for a full three seconds with your eyes bulging out of
your heads as you point to each other in unison.

“Holy— we’re fusin’!”

You swipe a couple tears away from your cheek as your laughter
quiets down. “Holy shit. Should we unplug it and plug it back in?”

“Oh, you switched on?” Sam sinks his index finger through the circle
shaped with his other hand. “Do you….. mean—”

“Oh my god. You’re extra loopy today, Sam.”

“Say a prayer for my dear friend Vivienne.” His hands form two shaka
signs in the air, wiggling back and forth for emphasis with his tongue
hanging out. “’Cause she’s sick!”

“Wow. Complete and total brain leak.”

“Live action Lady and The Tramp right here, front row seats.”

The Sun is generous in its beauty and warmth. All you have to do is
look up.

Because the thing about the Sun is that it simply feels amazing.

Sam’s additional retort is a little spaghetti slurping sound sucked

through his teeth, his mouth curling into a smile when you reach your
hand out towards him. He slips his fingers through yours and sponges
a kiss to your knuckles, flipping your palm up to the sky for another
kiss, softer this time, to the inside of your wrist.

You’ve learned not to be disappointed when Sam’s little teasing

moments of foreplay fizzle into obnoxious humor, mostly because it
would seem that ninety percent of your entire relationship is foreplay.
And he’s the one who usually has consensual control over when that
crosses into actual acts of sex. And to Sam, sometimes laughter is
foreplay. Exactly how you like it, the mysterious hunt and chase. The
concluding pounce a secret.

“Or maybe you’re just highly distractible?”

“Yeah? Maybe. It makes me keenly aware of my surroundings, though.

Guess who’s the exact opposite of that? Attentive-as-fuck you.” His

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palm bellies up in the air and draws a line across your chest, displaying
you on an invisible platter. “’Tis herself.”

“What has gotten into you this morning? I didn’t come in here to be
ridiculed at dawn.” Another little roll of laughter sizzles through you,
and it’s just small and timely enough to express your ongoing good
sportsmanship. “No one should have this much energy before six A.M.
You’re like a lion hunting at daybreak, ready to attack. Top of the food
chain….. or king of the animal world, or whatever they are.”

“What’s that make you, a lioness?”

“Well, that depends. Are you bringing me back something to eat?”

“Well. I Am A Man, so. Probably should. What’d you come in here for
again? Refresh my memory.”

If anything, being in a long-distance relationship with Sam will be the

exact trial that proves whether or not this is an equal, durable
partnership. You know that every cell inside of Sam is vibrating with
unease due to your lack of decision-making. You know that he’s
wondering why you would bother to drag him along to three different
cities if you weren’t the least bit interested in being his girlfriend. You
know that he’s fighting his very loud and powerful impulsive side in
order not to push you to speak before you’re ready, like he’s done so
many times in the past.

You also happen to know that he’s Sunshine and everything soft and
easy, except when it comes to not getting his way. And because you
haven’t seen Sunbeams this bright since before the night Tex showed
up at The Pink to warn Sam he’d ruined both of your lives, you’re not
ready for the crackle of his thunder. Because it’s loud and it’s long. It’s
destructive. At least it was, in the past. Since you’ve yet to see him
angry these past couple weeks, time will tell about the future.

You just really, really don’t want to miss somebody right now. You don’t
want to miss Sam anymore. You’ve missed him for a long, long time.

You’re scared. And now you’re stalling.

“Well, I wanted to see if I could convince you to come back to the lily
pad with me. Since it’s your last day and all…..” The pad of your index
finger travels up the center of his stomach, through the dip in his
collarbones and up the ridges of his throat. “Life felt really different just
a couple weeks ago and I’m not looking forward to it feeling like that
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again. I’ll miss the weight of you.” You tug him close and then closer.
“Your hands and your scratchy voice in the morning. And how it all gets
bigger and bigger all day long until it shrinks and eventually melts to
sleep. Then the cycle starts over again. Like the Sun.”

For many reasons, Sam’s heart is aching. He aches to leave you. He

aches in uncertainty. He aches for your body. He just wants to be with
you. It’s all he wants. “Hey. You make me real happy. Y’know that? Are
you happy?” You nod and he stays close, his eyes flicking back and
forth between yours and your mouth. “’Cause of me?” Nodding again,
you cup the back of his neck and try to pull him in for a kiss, but he
resists. He doesn’t back off, but he doesn’t give in either. “Were you
this happy before I popped up?” Your eyes lock together, frozen. Sam
doesn’t bother waiting for your response before he presses on, quieter
this time. Because he isn’t actually looking for a response, he’s looking
for affect. “How long will you miss the taste after I leave?”

You said you missed the taste of my mouth while I was gone. How long
will you miss the taste after I leave?

“I’ll miss it until the very second I can have it again. That’s how long I
missed it the first time.”

“Is it the same?”

“Yes, just the same. But a little bit sweeter. It’s the difference between
orange juice with and without pulp.” For the first time since Sam has re-
appeared, you’re getting a taste of what it would feel like to not have
exactly what you want from him. And you know that he’s doing this
intentionally. Your heartbeat begins to race after a single heavy punch,
the ash tray filled with half-smoked cigarettes spins in your peripheral
vision. “Are you okay, Sunshine?”

“Dunno. How long do I have you for?” Sam means more than simply
this morning, but it’s one of those moments where he doesn’t know
how much pressure to apply or when or how, and constantly pushing
those thoughts away for your comfort is kind of starting to drive him
nuts.

Luckily for him, you’ve picked up on it. And even luckier for the both of
you, you’re learning how to open your mouth when it’s important to.
“It’s a matinee today, so I’d like to be at the theatre by noon. I know
that you’re waiting for a certain conversation and I agree that we need
to talk before you go. I’ll be able to focus and communicate better after

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the show. We can go somewhere afterwards, or just come back here

and we’ll have lots of time and space to—”

“Right. You still don’t have an answer, do you?” But what he’s really
obsessing over is: Are you waiting to have this conversation so that
you don’t have to deliver him bad news and then bask in the stench of
it for the last day of his visit?

“Sam…..” Inhaling a soothing breath, you chuckle a bit on the exhale

and can’t help but smile at his nerve. He’s brass beyond compare and
it’s a complete conundrum how he somehow makes it charming. Sexy,
in fact. “You’re initiating the conversation after I’ve just asked you to
wait.”

But you’re just procrastinating again and he knows it. He knows that
you haven’t made up your mind yet and that you’re waiting for some
brilliant revelation to take place between now and two o’clock tomorrow
afternoon when he’s ten steps from boarding an international flight to
France. Sam compromises with himself and honors your need for
keeping him hung on a loose thread until tonight, but also allows
himself the space to speak his mind. His final elevator pitch for making
him your boyfriend, if you will.

“’Kay. Hey, listen….. last thing. If you push something that you want
away, it’s still gonna follow you. Then you’re just keepin’ yourself busy
not doing the thing you actually wanna do. You’re armoring your heart
with your mind. Y’know? You’re cuttin’ yourself off and you’re starving
yourself, but it’s through your heart that the universe feeds you. And
you’re tryin’ to fill that hunger with your career and stiff independence.
Fame is alienating on its own and you’re exacerbating it by clawing
away at yourself and trying so fuckin’ hard to be perfect that you won’t
allow yourself to make any mistakes. You wanna be happy, so you’re
pushin’ away what you think might make you sad, but what’s pushin‘
me away gonna do? Make you the opposite of sad? I don’t fuckin’ think
so. Showing your teeth doesn’t mean you’re happy. Painting on a
plastic smile for others benefits no one. Suffering is the law, Cherry pie.
Difficulty is part of the human condition. Empathizing wakes you up, to
yourself and everyone around you. Your thoughts, your mind, your
body; it’s all stuff. It’s just stuff. So let’s smash our fuckin‘ stuff
together.” He flicks your forehead with his finger. “Shit is majorly easier
after you see yourself as part of everything rather than an individual
with your own rare, unique thoughts and emotions.”

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“Wow. You really have been taking lots of acid.”

“Shhhh—!” Sam presses his fingertips to your lips and then points to
the ceiling, before winding his hands in circles around each other in the
air as if urging you to get on board with him. His voice a charged
whisper as he pushes out some playful paranoia, “they might be
listening…..?!” Raising his eyebrows up and down a couple times, he
leans forward to smile against your lips. “Life is a vacation from truth,
Vivienne. They don’t want you to know that, so pipe the fuck down.”

“Oh good. So, it only gets worse from here. It’ll be our little secret.”

“Alright, we’ll wait. I am actually listenin‘ to you. But I’m buzzin’, yeah?
Just….. know that. We have a fuckin’ blast together.” Sam reaches
across your lap, plucking a half-smoked cigarette from the ash tray and
holding it between his teeth to flash you a peace sign. “And on the
bright side, you’ll see me burn through three packs of cigarettes today.”

Before he can light it, you’re pinching the cigarette from his teeth and
placing it aside. He responds instantly, by bringing his thumb to his
mouth and nibbling on the skin by his nail. But you weave your fingers
through his and lower them away, placating his anxiety to clear a path
for presence. And he lets you. Easily. With gratitude.

“I do. We do. There’s no denying that. But just out of curiosity, what’s
the dark side?”

“Not lettin’ you get off ’til I get my conversation.”

Your jaw drops slowly and hangs in the air. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“Oh no? Fuck you. Watch me, slick.” Sam retrieves the cigarette you
stole from his mouth and lights the tip with a match, his cheeks
hollowing before he spins a spool of cotton candy towards the ceiling.
“Sounds kinda motivating if you ask me. And amusing. You alright?” He
watches you attempt to gather your bravery and nod. “Yeah? Not
according to your face.”

“Don’t you want to remind me what I’ll be missing while you’re gone?”

“Don’t you already know?”

“Yes. But making new memories is nice, too. Est-ce que je peux faire
quelque chose pour te remonter le moral?” Your hands smooth down
his stomach before loosening the knot on his drawstring, your fingers
dipping past his waistband. “A sip?”
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“Oh, you wanna play with me a little bit?” You give him the signal with a
nod, but he needs to clarify one more thing first. “Rough…..? In the
morning?” As soon as you nod your approval again, Sam is gathering
your wrists tightly in his hand, clasping them between your chests and
tossing his cigarette into the toilet with a wet hiss. A mental boxing bell
rings once in his head, signaling the beginning of a new round. His
heart eats his ribcage, spilling all of his insides out. “Shit. Salope. Just
a sip? How ’bout you gag for me instead?”

“Then will you fill me up? Please?”

Sam breathes a laugh through his nose. “I already said you weren’t
makin’ any rainbows till you woman up and talk to me, sweet thing.”

The roles you unconsciously snap into and the way you flirt with one
another is unique to you and to him and the two of you together.
Something about the way the pitch of your voice picks up and the
volume drops, the tilt of your head, the splashes of French. The chase
that keeps his heart racing and his guts on the verge of exploding.

It’s the act of unlocking the door to submission and making space for
Sam to assert control. A type of control that Sam feels is just slightly
out of reach when it comes to you, because you’re scared of getting
hurt and you’re not afraid to walk away from situations that go south.
And you shouldn’t be because you know your worth, but it only makes
him that much more eager to chase you. So when you pause the chase
and yield to him and dare him in this way, it reminds him that he is
yours. Because you wouldn’t do this for just anyone. Because it’s just
for him.

And in your experience, you know that the only thing that motivates
Sam more than lustful submission is a little competitive anger. Even if
he’s well aware of your coy challenge and the reason why you’re doing
it. He just can’t help it. It saturates and lingers like nothing else.

Rock Paper Scissors. Shoot.

You suck your bottom lip into your mouth and make sure your muscles
are relaxed and compliant before you throw your first dart, “and what
makes you so sure you can make me come?”

Just as you’d suspected and hoped, Sam’s fingers are wrapping

around your throat with a rough squeeze as he guides you off the sink
and to your knees with your pulse throbbing against his palm. The tile

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burns your kneecaps from the force of his sudden harshness, your
breath caught in your lungs as you pretend to remain composed.

“Watch your fuckin’ mouth, little girl. You look beautiful on your knees
for me, don’t you? Lemme see those pretty eyes tear up, hm?” He
grips your hair in a fist to keep you trapped in the confined place
between his hips and the sink, his eyes following the gentle movement
of your hands when you begin to slowly unbutton your shirt from top to
bottom.

The fabric slips from your shoulders first before dropping to the ground
to reveal your bare tits and soft shoulders, your eyelashes flicking
when you gaze up at him with those big baby deer eyes. The ones you
embellish in order to send a wave of blood to his center. The ones that
shine with watery sensuality in reserved moments like this.

Licking your lips, you sponge a line of kisses down a path from Sam’s
bellybutton before nibbling on the skin just above his drawstring. And
as soon as the heel of your hand drags up his thigh and as soon as he
releases the hold on your hair to sweep his thumb along your bottom
lip, you’re rising to standing. Face to face with him, wearing nothing
aside from his briefs and a soft glow.

With your palms resting on his chest to feel the thump of his heartbeat
and hear the hitch of his breath, you press against him and whisper
into his ear, “either you make me come or I will. So come take your
pussy, Daddy.” Your threat is punctuated by pinching his nose and
grinning in his face, before spinning on the ball of your foot to quietly
retreat from the bathroom. Reveling in the image burned into your
brain, of Sam’s cock thickening in his gray joggers and his lips parted
in awe.

Just a moment later, his briefs that you’d been wearing are flung from
across the room to land on floor just outside of the bathroom.

He’s created a fucking monster.

His body hasn’t budged, and his sight is still trained on the briefs sitting
in the quiet light spilling from the bathroom onto the hallway carpet.
Before he speaks any words out loud, he takes a quick moment to
silently mouth holy fuck and shit to himself. “C’mere, Vivienne.”

“Make me.”

“Viens ici maintenant. Tu veux pouvoir marcher ce soir, Cerise?”

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“Qu’est-ce que tu marmonnes?”

“One.”

“I’m not a child. Counting to three doesn’t work on lovers.”

His voice is louder, sterner this time and you imagine him licking his
lips to quell his smile before he snaps, “two.”

He’s playing your favorite game. The one that makes your heart pound
and your palms sweat. The one that neither you or him felt the need to
explicitly discuss in order to establish, because the dynamic was
understood and decided for you the very first time your flirtatious
chemistries of pink and red mingled in the same room together. Two
people with different internal and external battles of control, meeting in
the atmosphere to wrestle the other to the ground for a kiss.

You do realize that you’re going to have to touch me at some point.

I’m aware.

Presently, you’re left wondering: what’s better? Making Sam angry

enough that he has to come punish you in the bedroom or succumbing
to his demand in an attempt to soften him in the bathroom? Either
option seems to end with off-the-charts lusty obscenity on either end of
the spectrum; loud or quiet.

But what it boils down to really, is whether or not you want to get
spanked.

So, you stay put. Because you can taste the sting on your skin and it
tastes like a thick coat of crystallized honey melting and dripping down
your throat. And because he happens to be wearing a couple rings this
morning.

You hadn’t even heard him approach but suddenly he’s in the doorway,
eyes dark and narrow, a small smile tugging at one corner of his
mouth. “Three.”

And you can’t help it; your grin merely grows and grows as he takes
two steps closer and the moment he springs forward to grab you,
you’re bursting into sparkling laughter that arcs into a little squeal as he
scoops you off your feet and tosses you onto the bed with a residual
bounce.

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The clock on the nightstand flips from 5:41 to 5:42 and so does Sam’s
mental countdown, his joggers dropping to the floor and kicking from
his feet as he crawls onto the bed after you. The sheets are rumpled
and still a bit warm, one of the pillows turned onto its side from when
Sam tucked it in as a placeholder for his body. Before you can squirm
too far away, he’s latching onto your ankles and dragging you through
the sheets on your belly, his palm rising in the air then landing with a
hard smack on the curviest part of your ass.

Fire spreads through your core, down your legs and to your toes and
before you even take a full enough breath to cry out and before you
can register the residual sting, another spank is landing just as hard in
the exact same spot. The metal from his rings stings particularly
harshly and when you close your eyes, you can imagine several
puckers of skin blistering from the acidic contact. Ones that are likely to
stick around for days after he departs.

“You’re a massive fuckin’ tease, Cherry.” Both inside and outside of the
bedroom. “Care to repeat that little bomb you dropped and see what
happens?”

He tugs you by the ankles once more, knocking the breath from your
lungs a third time when he collects your legs into his hands and then
pins them to the bed. You squirm exactly once, just enough to realize
that you couldn’t move very much if you wanted to. “Which? The part
about whether or not you could make me come—”

Lying down on your back with his cock pressing between your legs, his
hand slips between your tummy and the mattress to trace his finger
through your folds. He tilts your head to the side and aligns your
mouths to murmur, “the part ’bout whose pussy this is.”

Technically Sam has a minimum of four hours playtime with you this
morning, five if you let him push it far enough. Of course this includes a
nap, a shower and breakfast, but all of those things are usually
interrupted by more make-out sessions. Since it’s his last day with you,
he plans on fucking you a few times if you’ll let him. Maybe in the
shower or on that clean, plush couch by the window, in the filtered light
from the white curtains when the sun starts to come up. Because,
yeah, maybe he does want to remind you of what you’ll be missing
while he’s gone. And maybe he completely agrees that making new
memories is nice, too.

A piece of you that he can bring with him anywhere.

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“Mm….. I don’t remember. The memories are slipping away already—”

Your toying is clipped short with a pinch to your hip that burns and
increases in intensity until you squirm again and whimper out, “yours.
Just yours. All yours, Sunshine.”

“Fuckin’ god, you’re so tough.” Licking the pad of his thumb, Sam sits
back and swipes a wet streak across your burning skin before blowing
cool air on the shiny, darkened spot. Your little hum encourages him
on, the verbal gifts that you shower him with ten times a day, your legs
rubbing together for a bit of relief. “Mmm….. look at you. Do you know
what I’m gonna do to you? Combien de temps peux-tu te retenir,
Honey?”

Little bites and making me wait. And wait and wait. I like it when I’m
sore the next day….. when there’s a mark.

Before you can answer, the second of respite is chipped away by the
click of Sam’s tongue against his teeth, one that signals an impending
command. Followed by a harsh squeeze to the backs of your thighs
that slowly moves its way up; your ass, your lower back. His thumbs
press into your spine and smooth up to your shoulders, leaving a
pleasing burn and a trail of goosebumps that fizzle out somewhere
near your toes. “Hands and knees, sweetheart.”

You gather yourself to all fours and crawl towards him, your stomach
swirling and swirling in anticipation as Sam settles back onto his
haunches with his eyes trained on yours. A couple loose curls swept
across his face and his heart-shaped lips shiny, a tick of surprise rolling
through his features when you straddle his lap with your arms circling
his neck. Your question is delivered with a soft moan for his sake,
because you know that enthusiasm turns Sam even more than the act
itself. “I can’t wait to have you in my mouth. Est-ce que cela te va?
Please, Daddy. I want you to feel good.”

“Oui, tu peux m’avoir, my sweet girl. Perfect.” Your sentiments are

deliriously overkill, shielding Sam in a salacious bubble of charm that is
oftentimes too foggy to steer through. “Fuckin’ love it when you talk to
me, when you ask. Always know just what to say.” His fingers twist
around your nipple before pinching tightly, his sight on your face in
order to watch you start to crumble apart. “So foxy like this. So lucky to
feel your mouth on me. You make me completely apeshit.” He brushes
the end of his nose against yours before sealing your lips in a sweet
kiss. “Love, love how you feel.”

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“I love your taste….. And I like when I leave you tongue-tied.” Wrapping
him in a fist, your thumb spins in rings to polish his slit as you leave a
trail of kisses down his throat, his head knocking back to breathe a
curse towards the ceiling. Sam’s panting grows heavier with every kiss
that falls further and further south; his collarbones, his chest, his
stomach, your fist gently pumping on his length to send his hips into a
pulsing wave. Until the holy moment when you’re lying flat on your belly
and glancing up at him, your lips brushing his sensitive skin. “Will you
be nice?”

His gaze lands on yours. “What are you mumblin’ about?”

Instead of swatting at him for throwing your line back in your face, it’s
much more effective when you flatten your tongue and lick a bold path
from his base to his tip, over and over again to saturate his silky skin.
Sam’s eyes roll back before his head tips back next, his fingers
weaving into your hair to help guide your pace along with his typical
slew of raspy praise, broken into bits by soft moans and gasps.

He loves you like this. He loves you always, but there is something so
carnal, so content, so kittenish about his girl searching for him in the
dark first thing in the morning, touching him everywhere and guiding his
hands where you ache for him. There is something so soft, so sweet,
so submissive about his girl whispering in the afterglow that you want
pancakes but not the regular kind, the baby kind, with lemon and
powdered sugar just before you sink your hand between his legs for
another squeeze.

A drip of Honey filling up his tongue.

“That’s it— Know just how to drive me mental, don’t you? Lemme feel
the back of your throat—” And when you obey on command, sinking
him into your mouth slowly and steadily until he’s filling you, his words
catch as he struggles to collect himself. Your cheeks tighten around his
cock and you swallow before sending a vibration through his core with
an eager hum, one that unabashedly makes him shudder. “Oh god—
yes. That’s it, Cherry baby. Heavenly. Mhm….. keep goin’.”

You alternate between long, tight sucks that soak his shaft and little
kitten licks to his crown, your thumb firmly pressing on the tender spot
just below his balls. Sam no longer needs to coach you on technique
and if he’s honest with himself, he never really needed to. You seem to
know how to polish him off better than any lover he’s ever had, but that

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may have more to do with the fact that it’s simply you loving on him.
That doesn’t mean that you don’t both appreciate the coaching, though.

“Can you take me deeper? Comment es-tu sale?” He doesn’t

physically push, but rather allows you control as he settles back onto
his palms and ruts his hips upwards. A waterfall of moans and smut
and compliments flick from the tip of his tongue when you take him
deep enough that you choke and tear up from the force of his drive.
Pulling back, you sniffle and give yourself a moment to recover with a
swirling lick around his head. “Are you cryin’? Am I fuckin’ your mouth
too hard? You can take me. Take me.” His fingers tangle into your hair
again and steer you back, a groan rumbling up his throat when you
champion him again without a hiccup, your nose slowly pressing into
his stomach. “Oh my— god, yes— fuck, so sweet. J’aime la façon dont
tu m’aimes.”

But it’s when you pause and settle back to suck your thumb into your
mouth that Sam freezes and pulls his eyebrows into a frown, his sight
darting back and forth from your face to your tits. “I have a curiosity for
you, Sunny. Sois honnête.”

His breathing seems to have doubled in pace, his skin shines with
sweat. He cups the back of your neck and pours his attention into you,
his blunt nails scratching your scalp. “Yeah? Rattle it off.”

Both of your heartbeats are pounding and communicating to one

another through your bones and skin, all of the hair on Sam’s body
standing on end when you scoot up to press your lips against his ear.
Your fingertips tip-toe up his chin, tapping on his bottom lip. He sucks
your fingers into his mouth, moaning and biting down on your knuckles.

A statement purrs out that he knows you’ve been dying to expose for
two weeks now, one that has his cock jumping against his stomach and
a small wayward whine slipping between his teeth.

His cheeks pool with red fire in the aftermath of your detonation.

Gripping your wrist, he pulls your hand away. And in rare but not
unusual Sam form, he decides to give you a clear, no-hurdle answer.
But not before licking his lips and then laughing, rolling his eyes and
swiping a palm down his face. “Yeah….. no shit.”

A grin pulls across your cheeks, your eyes sparkle. “I knew it.”

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“Yeah, yeah. Queen Honey detective. Is all right with the world now?
Copacetic planet?”

“Not yet….. but maybe one day?”

For many reasons, his heart soars. But mostly because you’ve
suggested a future with him of some sort, which immediately soothes
his puckering anxiety about your stalled conversation. And any future
with you, no matter how vague or insignificant, is one that Sam will
willingly cling tightly to. “Electric. Honestly the most smokin’ shit you’ve
ever said to me. You’re lucky I didn’t flatline just now.” He cups your
cheeks and mutters against your lips, “of course. Whenever you’re
ready. Kiss, please. Gimme a taste of your choice work. Shit….. my
head’s spinnin’.”

Sam moans into your kiss and savors the flavor on your tongue, a thick
breath of air pulling through his nose when he squeezes your tits with
both palms. Inching back, he whispers the single question of can I get
a lick? and gives you one full second to nod before he’s tossing you
back onto the bed on your belly and wedging a stray pillow underneath
your hips. “Spread those pretty cheeks for me.” Eager to please, you’re
reaching behind for two handfuls of your skin, offering him a peek of
your arousal. Exactly how he’s asked. Just for him. “Bonne fille. You’re
already oozing. That’s what I needed to see. How are you this fuckin‘
choice, huh? Shit, I’m already blitzed.”

Your toes curl the instant he’s got his mouth on your legs, kissing and
licking a trail up the backs of your knees and thighs, before finally
spreading you open and hissing at the sight of you glistening
underneath him. You glance over your shoulder just in time to catch his
eyes as he dips down and presses his tongue to your swollen bud, flat
and wide. With more and more pressure until your legs start trembling
and you’re whining through your gasps and pants, “Sunny, please.
You’re teasing me.”

“Mmm…..” He pulls back an inch. “That’s the point.” Sam licks his lips
before soaking you with his tongue slowly, wide and flat, up and down,
over and over again. Then he nibbles at your sensitivity, watching your
legs jump each time with every little bite, until he chooses to end your
misery by harshly sucking your clit past his teeth and softly tracing your
entrance with the pad of his finger. Reveling in the sound of your
moans increasing in pitch and volume, reveling in how responsive you
are to his touch.

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So naturally, the telephone practically jumping off of the nightstand with

a screaming ring is the last thing either one of you wanted to hear in
this moment.

Sam glances at the clock to see that it’s six in the morning on the dot,
revealing that you’ve placed a request with concierge for a wake-up
call. He loves and hates the idea; understanding that it was your
attempt to spend more time with him today in case he happened to
sleep in and also, it’s interrupting your last few hours of alone time.
Ultimately, considering the timing, he hates the idea.

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ, gimme a break. Cut the hassle, girl. Fuck—
Cherry, just yank it off the hook—”

“I’m sorry—” You scramble for the phone with the intention of picking
up the receiver and promptly slamming it back down, but through your
sleepy fog of toffee jelly, you fumble the phone and drop it onto the
sheets in time to hear a metallic, annoying chirp from the other end.

“Good morning, Miss Cherry! This is Piper from the front desk with your
six o’clock wake-up call, and a reminder that breakfast is being served
and ends at nine—”

You’d thought that you were already in the midst of emotional whiplash,
but a fierce spank to your same sore cheek sends your brain swirling
into a tight circle and then slurping itself down the drain, your muscles
clamping down hard. Like a light flicking on then quickly flicking off, the
blue neon light still burns somewhere behind your eyelids.

Sam grips your throat in his palm and whispers loudly, “hang up, V.”

“—give me a call here at the front desk if you’d like room service or if
you have any laundry that needs taken care—”

Collecting yourself, you grab the receiver and hold it to your ear and
hope for a quick dismissal through the literal and proverbial grip on
your throat, “okay, okay, great, thank you—”

Lying down on top of you and sinking your weight into the mattress,
Sam squeezes his hand under your stomach and runs his fingertips
through your folds, gently alternating between collecting moisture from
your entrance and circling your swell. The tip of his cock hovers just
beside his fingers, adding pressure to your center that instinctively ruts
your hips back with a nearly silent whine.

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His lips press to your other ear, mumbling in a low drone that concierge
is unable to hear. “Are you soakin’ me, sweet Cherry?” He hisses
through his teeth when he sinks two fingers through your crushing, wet
heat, your muscles gripping him when you gasp quietly and drop the
phone back onto the bed. “You’re so kinky, tryin’ to get off in secret.
Dirty little whore, so fuckin’ tight and beautiful. Prends-moi. How do I
make you feel, hm? Wet? Full?”

Your voice is a weepy whisper. “Oh my god, Sam—”

Sam slows his fingers to a pause inside of you, stroking your front and
pulling in and out little by little to keep the heat of the moment. He
grabs the receiver from the bed and perches it to his ear with his
shoulder, his stomach sweaty against your back. He’s the slightest bit
out of breath, but that may only be obvious to you.

“Yeah, hi. Do you make little baby pancakes?” He knows that you
prefer savory breakfasts on performance days, but his intuition tells him
that you’re craving something sweet this morning. His finger spins
around your bud before plunging back in. “Yeah, right. Silver dollar
pancakes. ’Kay….. with powdered sugar and a wedge of lemon. Can
you make sure the maple syrup is nice and warm for my sweetheart,
please?” Sitting up, he takes the heat of his hands away and spreads
your cheeks, watching as his cock pulses up and down your slit,
pooling your excitement all along his shaft while you whimper and beg
below him. He breathes a curse past his teeth, “and a big pitcher of OJ.
Sunny eggs, sausages and dark toast. Fuckload of fresh fruit and a pot
of hot water with lemon. And give us an hour, yeah? Thanks so much.
Peace.”

Instead of hanging up, Sam rips the cord from the base of the
telephone and tosses the handset over his head onto the ground. “I
thought I was your wake-up call?” Another spank has you sobbing into
the pillow. “You know better.” And then another spank in the same
spot, harder this time, blooming dark roses upon your skin. “No more
interruptions ’til I’m done with you. You’ll let go when I say so.”

Hiking your hips up into the air, Sam pushes you down to your elbows,
drawing your knees together to sit back and admire the view. A perfect
peach, a scoop of strawberry ice cream melting into a sugar cone, an
endless array of sweet treats for his eyes and his mouth. Holding your
cheeks apart, he dives forward and sinks his tongue inside of you as
far as he can reach, butterflies erupting when you moan and squirm

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against him for more. And then menacingly, he replaces his tongue
with his finger and then slowly, carefully, licks a circle with the tip of his
tongue around your back entrance.

The single, dripping approval of yes paired with a moan of his name is
all Sam needs to start lavishing you with his tongue, moaning against
your skin and using his free hand to grip your hip in a tight squeeze.
One that balances out the rocky ocean in his belly, or at least attempts
to. He dips his tongue far into the tight space, echoing your cry and
drenching your opening until it drips into the crease of your thigh.

There’s a pause when Sam inches back and just a second later, you
hear him spit and then feel a hot, wet wad on your rim. You hike
yourself up a bit and glance at him over your shoulder, his curls damp
with sweat and his mouth neon pink, his gaze devilish.

“Have you ever tried it? One finger?”

“I definitely have not.”

His smile pulls at one corner of his mouth, and after half a pause he
bounces his head left then right. “Wanna?”

“Do I…..?”

“Um….. do you wanna come really hard?”

“Harder than— Really…..?”

Leaning over towards the nightstand, Sam downs a giant gulp of water,
then wipes his mouth with the inside of his wrist. “Only one way to find
out, daredevil. Let’s light up some new buttons. You’re the boss. Just
say whatcha want.”

In the very least, it’ll give you something to remember while you make
your decision on long-distance dating today. Just like you asked for.

Sam’s certainty is still swimming deep in your stomach, pulsing to your

toes when you breathe out, “yes, please.”

Both of your heartbeats are slamming up against your chests and

urging your blood so quickly that you both fall lightheaded with
anticipation. He groans and sucks his middle finger into his mouth,
gripping his ring in his teeth and spitting it out into the sheets. When
he’s soaked it enough, he swims his finger in a circle around your rim

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before slowly sinking the tip in to the very first knuckle with an
empathetic hiss. “Good girl. Talk to me. She okay?”

“Yeah—” It pinches and it’s strange how enticed you are to explore it
even though it pinches, because there’s a heaviness in your guts that
is promising more, a whole lot more, if you allow yourself to peel back
this extra layer of control alleviation. “Yes, stop— wait.”

Sam freezes. “Yes, stop or wait? Be clear with me, Cherry. It’s
important.”

“Wait…..” You breathe out and lower yourself further down onto your
elbows. “Just wait one second. It feels kinda weird.”

“Hey. Hi.” Leaning forward, Sam kisses you and hums with a little
smile, knowing that in the very least he can distract you while he also
urging you forward. He slips his finger in another half inch and shushes
against your mouth when you hiss. “That’s good. So, so good for me. I
know my baby can take it. You’re gonna be so fuckin’ blitzed out in a
sec. Just try and relax, ’kay?”” And with that, his finger sinks in
completely and he moans loudly at your bravery, knowing that he’s
about to make your day and maybe your whole fucking year. “Yes—
that’s it. So good. Perfect angel. How ’bout this?” And then his ring and
pinky fingers are slipping back into your heat, filling you up with the
promise of fireworks on the horizon. “How’s that—”

“Oh my god, yes. Yes—” After a couple relaxing breaths, your core
starts to ooze all over his fingers. Your legs liquefy. You grip his wrist
and push him further inside, as far as his fingers can go and he can
feel and imagine every nuance of tension rattling through your insides
echoing in his own. So he uses his other hand to spin figure-eights on
your clit while he presses further down inside of you towards your
bellybutton, putting even more pressure on your front wall. Slowly
dragging his fingers in and out, breathing heavier and heavier in your
ear. The moisture pooling from your center urging a blurt of precome
from his slit and into the sheets. And that’s when you start sobbing into
the pillows. “Sam— don’t stop. Don’t stop. Please, please don’t stop—”

“Wanna get fucked?”

“Yes, yes. Please—”

“You’re gonna talk to me, right? Tonight….. fully honest and brave,
yeah? Promise me.” When you don’t respond, he pulls out —
everything, his fingers his mouth his warmth, before hitching back to
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slap your center. Whining, you writhe around and flip onto your back
underneath him trying to hold your lust off, so that your orgasm isn’t
completely ruined by letting go too soon and diluting half of its power.
“Answer me. This dick’s not free.” But when your hand starts traveling
to your center in an effort to finish yourself off, Sam’s jaw drops and his
eyes bug out of his skull before he grabs your wrists and pins them to
the bed above your head, his voice just short of an angry growl, “what
a little slut. You’re unbelievable. I said no fuckin’ way, sweet cheeks.
Speak up or suffer for the rest of the day.”

Your legs kick up around his waist, drawing him close and rubbing his
length against your core as you try to tempt him back to you. “You
know I’m yours, Sunbaby. You know it. I’ll spill my heart wide open for
you, scout’s honor. Just for you—” Dropping the grip on your wrists,
Sam holds your hips still, his fingers burning your skin when he slips
his tip inside of you and stays frozen while electrical pulses surge
through your stomach and down your thighs. “Please fuck me. Please,
please…..” He pushes in another half inch and spreads one hand out
across your belly, his thumb barely brushing your bud which sends you
off into a blubbering tangle, pulsing and throbbing and numb and
frenzied. Wild. “Har… y... do you like it when I’m a mess for you?
Because I am. I will be. You have to know. I’m crazy for you. Please— I
am—”

It’s beautiful, the sight below him; your skin glowing with sweat and
your lips and eyes dark, your chest rising and falling and your legs
squeezing him tightly. This is easily the most undone Sam’s ever seen
you before and if he were the slightest bit more morbid, he would allow
it to continue. If he were the slightest bit in control when it comes to
you, he would walk away right now and let you wallow in a pain that
seems akin to what he’s emotionally going through today.

An absolute fucking mess for you. Do you like it when he’s a mess for
you?

Because he is. You have to know.

“Shh, shh….. that’s it. So pretty like this. Such a patient lover. Outta
sight, babe. Take a little breather for me, ’kay? You alright?” The
sexiest part of Sam’s dominance is that it always comes with soft
pillowy bookends on either side; curiosities, consent, praise, puffs of
cool air. Lucidity. A distraction for attentive-as-fuck you. Before he
moves on with anything filthy, he waits for that one little nod, the one

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that you have to mull over for precisely two seconds before concurring.
And then he’s ready to jump right back in.

Pulling out, Sam keeps you on the edge by swiping his cock up and
down your heat, pausing each time his head brushes your sensitivity to
add a bit more pressure there. Pausing at your entrance as if he’s
going to sink inside of you and waiting for you to whine a plea before
continuing on with his tease. “Right there, yeah? Want me to fuck you?
You’re drenchin’ me. Thought you said I couldn’t make you come. Mind
takin’ that back real quick?”

“Yes. Yes, please. You know I was just playing with you, right?”

“Mhm, devil woman.” He sucks his middle finger into his mouth.
“Spread your legs for me, show me your sweetness.”

Planting your feet on the bed with your legs on either side of his hips,
Sam keeps his length nestled against you as he twists his finger into
your back entrance again, the ease of your muscles and height of your
arousal readily granting him access this time. His sympathetic moan
parallels right along with yours, a lustful crease folding between his
eyebrows. “Want you to take my cock in your ass one day, fuck your
pussy with my fingers ’til you gush. Beggin’ me to go harder. Beggin’
me to make rainbows inside you.” Wrapping himself in a fist, he angles
his head at your entrance. “Now take it back, Cherry pie.”

“I take it back.” Your hips swim in circles to feel the sweet tension of his
finger inside you, your core tight and hot and wet and fiercely
squeezing on itself for mercy, for just a breath of air in its direction. Just
for an inch of him. Jelly swimming inside of your stomach in suspense,
fireworks ready to burst. Both of you knowing that you won’t last more
than a full minute when he finally decides to end your misery. “Give it to
me like you’ll miss me, Daddy. Like only you can.”

Considering the mood of today, there’s no other way he’d be able to

give it to you. But it sounds hot as fuck coming from your mouth,
because he knows what you actually mean is, I’ll miss you, you fuck
me better than anyone else, you’re the one for me, please miss me
back?

“Shit, how else? Sweet girl. Je te veux. I want you to feel so fuckin’
good. Wanna feel you coming on my cock, hugging me tight. See what
you do to me?” Your begging is ceaseless below him, breathless, but
Sam somehow remains expertly composed. Continuously stroking

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himself up and down. Up and down. Wetter and wetter. “Hmm? Want
this? Feel me…..”

At this point, with your eyes struggling to stay open, all you can
manage is a string of whimpers and a distant prayer for his surrender.

Anchoring his tip inside you, Sam dips down to seal your lips in a kiss,
his tongue taking sweet sips of yours when he plunges through your
folds in a steady, mind-numbingly slow pace. That gasp that you
always emit in moments like these slips out just how he likes, bringing
on an almost pained expression as your head drops back into the
sheets.

Sam cries out at the sensation of you fluttering and squeezing and
molding around him, taking obvious note of how tight you feel with his
finger also inside of you. Taking obvious note of how he can feel it
pressing against his length. And when he fills you to the brim and your
chest is heaving and your legs are trembling around his waist, he drops
his forehead to your collarbone and peels out a high-pitched moan
through his nose. “You’ve gotta be fuckin’ kiddin— you are fucking
unreal, baby.” His lips fumble against yours as he battles between
breathing or kissing you properly, his hips slowly drawing back and
driving forward to nudge at every tender spot inside of you. “God…..
love watchin’ you fall apart ’cause of me. Love watchin’ you get high off
me, hm? Tearing……p... you’re so beautiful when you’re wrecked. So
wet.” He picks his pace up, pausing on each pitch to press his pelvis
against your clit.… “Mm... tell me a little secret?”

Your back arches, your head tipping back to focus on every sensation
running up and down your spine. But it’s impossible, there’s too many,
you’re too saturated with burning nerve endings that it feels like you’re
about to reach your high every single second, but you hold back
because you know to wait for Sam’s signal. Because you never want
the feeling to stop. The feeling of being on edge, the feeling of having
power over your own indulgences while also being completely at Sam’s
mercy. The same feeling as staring at a single drip of ice cream as it
winds down to the point of the waffle cone, cream and sugar covering
your fingers, that little single drop clinging to the end for an eternity
before it’s set free and caught on the tip of your tongue.

Your voice drips out like hot honey, delirious and in love. Intoxicated.
Red. “Sam….. je t’ai… e... your cock is so… big... you feel so, so good

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inside of me. You’re s… deep... I love you,…Sunbaby... you’…e

perfect... please never sto… fucking me...”

“Wh—? Fuck.”

Whining, you rock your hips and Sam somehow pushes your verbal
gushing away to find his footing and match your pace. All of your
moans are raining through the air and soaking into his skin, drenching
his hair, grabbing his entire heart in a fist and squeezing the blood out.
Your je t’aime still melting deep inside of his stomach. He needs and
wants you closer somehow and without a warning, he’s holding your
centers together and flipping you on top, his gaze scanning the view of
your body from the new angle.

“You like that? Take it. Ride me how you like.” With his finger still
working you and following your rhythm, he plants his feet on the bed
and pulses into you with little ticks that poke a particularly sensitive
spot. You gasp against his lips and dig your nails into his chest, a grin
pulling across his face when you both intuitively slow for a beat. “Mm,
what’s that? Find somethin’ unique? Get what you want, girl. Say it.”

“Don’t stop—”

“Mm…..?” Pinching your hips, Sam keeps still and starts rocking you
along to ride his fingers and his cock, your jaw dropping open when he
locates the same spot inside of you again, expertly. He keeps you
pinned, spinning his hips in little circles to target your knot as well.
“How’s that?”

You drop your forehead to his, his curls damp with sweat and tickling
your cheeks. “It’s good— Sunny….. keep doing that.” Your gasps and
cries and moans burrow straight into his eardrums and quickens the
pace of his heart and stride. The both of you are moving in tandem
now, with his cock buried to your limit and your hips flushed. An itch
that only he can scratch. “Yes— please. Don’t stop. You’re gonna
make me come. Don’t stop. Don’t st… p... oh, god, please—”

Sam fucking loves when the color of your voice contrasts from a shiny
apple red to bleached-out pink; tight and agitated, then trusting and
washed away. Frantic and feverish. Lost in him.

He fucks you hard, your foreheads pinned together as he makes you

wait for his decision to end your suffering. Your lips and noses bump
together as he speaks in infinite filthy loops, raspy and lewd, one that
keeps you present and clinging to the edge of the cliff by your
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fingernails. It could very well be only a few seconds of purgatory, but it

feels more like a lifetime in heaven.

“You right there? Want more of that? Holdin’ on? Wanna come? Yeah?
You gonna soak me? You gonna come all over me? Feel it? Feel me.
Fuck. So good for me. Your pretty pussy is so tight around my cock.
Shit— you’re gonna drain me. That what you want? God, fuck. Fuck—
fuck.” The two of you echo each other’s curses and little bubbles of yes
yes yes yes back and forth for a few seconds, with Sam polishing your
sensitivity in tight vicious circles, waiting for you to blubber out some
sort of nonsensical yet coherent response. And when you do, he finally
finally finally oozes your permission with his favorite release phrase,
“let go.”

There’s a moment right before a firework detonates, when the wick is

burned to its end and those hot sparks agitate every little explosive
chemical inside. The ones that produce all of the neon lights, rainbow
colors and deafening sounds. The ones that contrast the black of night
so intensely that it burns a memory into your eyelids. Sam likes to keep
you at that painful moment before the detonation for as long as
possible, with your guts on fire and gunpowder angrily bouncing off of
every warm divot inside of you, screaming for escape.

But when those explosives reach their threshold, and you know it and
he knows it even before you did, your mind bleaches white upon
hearing his declaration to allow space for the eruption. A launch into
the atmosphere at first, followed by thunder and gasps, crackling and a
shower of fiery glow. Sam’s voice bubbling up from under water,
praises and praises that leak through your fog. And this time, you’re
sure to moan Sam’s name again and again as you reach your forceful
peak, so that he knows that when you’re like this, it’s just for him.
Because of him.

Sam’s jaw is dropped open, eyes squeezed shut, nostrils ticking, his
eyebrows tugged together in sheer agony as he tries to hold off for you
through an expressly powerful climax. Concentrating on all of the
possible things he can that would delay his own release as you weep
and pulse and crush and throb around him; snowballs to the face,
steamed red cabbage, itchy wool on the back of his neck.

Anything that will keep his mind off of how firmly you’re gripping him,
your softness siphoning his cock, the wet tight suction as he stays
painfully frozen while your hips roll and roll, taking charge of your own

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pleasure and pushing him so close to the brink that when he feels a
strong pulse in the base of his spine, he’s forced to pull out before he
blows it. Panting and sweating and cursing because he wants to draw
this out, but it’s really fucking hard when you won’t stop coming and
urging him to paint your walls with technicolor rainbows.

And before you have enough time to recover, you’re tossed onto your
back again and Sam is hovering over you with his tip tapping your
bottom lip. “Finish me off, petite allumeuse. Such a bombshell like this.
Light me up?”

Still strung out on your orgasm, you wrap him in a fist and take him to
the back of your throat, your eyes locked on his to watch his
expression melt. It only takes a couple strokes and your cheeks
suctioning tight and his tip knocking against your tonsils for Sam to sob
out and release on your tongue, with his fingers knotting tightly into
your hair and your name dripping between his teeth. And after a couple
little licks to give him a moment to come down, you suck him right back
into your mouth, all hypersensitive and vulnerable for a bit of playful
torture.

It feels equally painful as it does pleasurable and Sam is caught

between oozing turbulent moans and mystified laughter at the same
time, his breath hitching in his throat and muddling the two sounds
together into a gritty sugar bowl; minty and citrusy and salty and sweet.
It’s a sound of joyful surprise laced with heavy satisfaction, sparkling
sparkling sparkling. And it’s easily the single sexiest sound you’ve ever
heard in this lifetime. And maybe the next lifetime as well.

Sam tries to push you away but you don’t stop, senseless praise in the
form of groaning and hissing rolling off his tongue as he chuckles a
little, “Vivi— baby, it’s really fuckin’ sensitive, ah— Quit—” You still
won’t stop. In fact his reprimand only makes you suck tighter, cupping
his balls in a gentle fist and tugging until he gives in and moans loudly.
His head tipped back and his neck veins popping, his hands shaking at
his sides. He whimpers and laughs and sobs, all until it becomes too
raw and too much and he finally grabs your hair to pull you off, unable
to hide his gravelly breaths. “Fuck! Enough.” It’s unusual, the heavy
tremble in his voice. “You’re so bad. Fuckin’ hell, girl. Holy shit.”

After Sam takes a beat to breathe and rally, his sticky hot, boneless
weight collapses into you and his forehead drops to yours, his little
chuckles still peeling through his groans. And as soon as he’s grinning

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and giggling in your face with his nose scrunched up in bewildered

amusement, you can’t help but start laughing, too. The both of you
drowning and lost in the glittering aftermath of your sweaty, disastrous
highs, completely enraptured in him and you and what the two of you
are capable of together. And how insanely good you make one another
feel.

It’s either thirty seconds or an eternity, but neither of you are able to
formulate thoughts yet. Slow fingertips gliding across skin, the perfect
melding of your lips and tongues over and over again for a lingering
taste. Moans that have melted into laughter that have melted into
hums. Sam’s predictable velvet dream boy moment, perhaps one of
the only conscious times of day where he’s at a loss for words.

After several minutes he inches back, exhaling against your lips.

“Score.”

Just like that, your game has ended and your players have removed
their opposing uniforms, stripping down to your bare skin and bare
hearts, ready to hit the showers after a couple friendly pats on the ass.

“Yeah.”

“Jesus Christ, V. You’re like a fuckin’ spunk cat burglar. Or Disneyland,

Flying Saucers and Submarine Voyage. Adventure Through Inner
Space. I’m spaced out. Think I had a retrosip when you rainbowed.”

“What the heck is a retrosip?”

“Like an acid flashback.”

Your explosion of laughter knocks Sam’s right out of his chest, the both
of you rolling onto your backs shoulder-to-shoulder in a dustbowl of
wheezes and snorts and a stunted utterance of Smiles. Wiping a tear
from your eye, you sniffle and glance over at him. His bright wide smile
and shiny happy eyes, his hair a curly mess and a daisy stud twinkling
in his ear. “I swear you get half of your talking points by drawing
random nouns out of a hat.”

“At least they’re all similar subject matter.”

“If we’re lucky. Do you ever worry how hard it’ll be to translate you if
you start slipping into dementia in thirty years?”

“I do not.”

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“Mmm….. word salad.”

“What’d I tell you? That was the hardest you’ve ever busted, yeah? Felt
like my wood was in a vice.”

“Yes, easily. No contest.” Your hands meet in the air for a loud high five
before he laces your fingers together and drops your fist to his sweaty
tummy.

“Butt stuff, I’m sayin’. You dug it? Want more?” Your wide eyes and
enthusiastic nod sends his stomach on a little ocean wave, lapping at
the shore. “Shit….. right on. That jobbie at the end was torture though.
Like a screaming tickle.”

“I think you kinda liked it, actually.”

His eyes narrow at you. “Quit discoverin’ all my fetishes before I have a
chance to.”

“Isn’t this how they’re supposed to be discovered?”

“Mmm…..”

“Festishes?”

Sam counts off on his fingers. “Edging, spanking, choking, blindfolds,

handcuffs, Daddy shit, ass play, dirty talk, praise, shootin’ rainbows
inside, secrecy, sneakin’ around, PDA. And now apparently a little
post-come torture, which actually makes sense considerin’ I’m a
massive masochist.”

“Alright, we get it. What don’t you like?”

“With you?” You nod and he puckers his lips as he does his best to pull
an answer together. “Um….. I don’t think I could share you, watch you
fuck someone else. I don’t even like thinkin’ about it.” He laughs and
then swipes his palms down his face, before dropping one hand to his
belly. “I’m way too fuckin’ jealous. I’ve never been this jealous over
another person before. It’s annoying.”

For some reason you were expecting a humorous answer, a classic

Sunny-response that would have you slapping his shoulder because
sometimes there’s just no other way to respond to his obscenity. But
this has taken a bit more serious turn, by the way his expression
darkens and his eyebrows pull into a frown as he tries to push the

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images away. But in perfect Surefire-way, you’re saying the exact thing
he needs to hear. “Except no one can love me like you can.”

“Massive hill to die on, Honeysuckle.”

You nod and mouth the word huge while holding your hands far apart,
then shape your fingers into a large circle over your eye.

“Damn, sister. Watch it. I’ll poke your eye out.” Reaching for you, Sam
tugs you back to straddle his lap, admiring your curves and edges with
the tips of his fingers. “She okay? Feelin’ good, Nina Simone style?”
You nod and breathe out a little laugh before reaching for his cigarettes
from the night stand. Sparking a match and lighting two with neon
raspberry tips, you perch one between his waiting, puckered lips. After
a long, full drag and sweet exhale, Sam licks his lips to leave them
shiny. “Thank you. You’re on a whole other plane, it’s way psychedelic.
Majorly trippy. Think we should propose that the U.S. amends The
Constitution so that it says, ’Come take your pussy, Daddy’? But with
permission, of course. That line was somethin’ else. Scripture. I was
tongue-tied….. all I could think to do was count to three. Did ya catch
that?”

“Definitely caught that. It was very satisfying.”

“Do I have to step it up now?” You start giggling and nodding and he
absorbs your naturally flushed beauty, how drop dead gorgeous you
look after a couple orgasms. Especially one as intense as that.
Especially with this view, your warm thighs holding him captive and
your tits in his face, your palms smoothing up and down his stomach
and toying with his heart-shaped locket. Miette de biscuit hanging out
by your bellybutton, begging for a lick. “No shit. I’d nail you anytime
you’d ask. I could never turn you down. You’re almost too good at this.
J’adore te baiser. Je t’aime putain.”

“Je t’aime. You’re my favorite.” You lean down for a kiss and he smiles
against your lips, quickly stealing another peck and breaking away for
you to ask, “Sam?”

“Vivs.”

“I wanted coffee cake for breakfast.”

“Coffee—” One eyebrow darts up on his forehead, his stubble

somehow making his eyes appear brighter, the flirtatious ring

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darkening. “My fault. Freak me out, Honey. Who is she? You never
order coffee cake.”

“It’s breakfast cake.”

“No shit.” He holds the butt of his cigarette with his teeth as he rakes
his curls out of his face, his cheeks sucking in with another full drag.
“Want me to call ’em back? They can tack that on real easy, no sweat.
Wait— don’t even answer that, I’m all over it.” Reaching for the receiver
and spinning the dial on the phone, Sam continues to address you, but
is a bit distracted by the line ringing in his ear. But not too distracted to
trace circles around your bellybutton. “Otherwise you’ll pull some chick
shit and pout for the rest of the day if you don’t eat it. Because it’s
kinda my fault, but not really, and you don’t wanna be mad at me over
somethin’ stupid but you’re still disappointed, so. I’m gettin’— Hi. Miss
Cherry requires coffee cake this morning. Told me she’d hurl the lamp
if she didn’t get those crumbly sugar clumps in her bloodstream. Huh?
Wait, hang on a sec. She’s not gonna like this.” He covers the mouth
piece with his palm and ticks his chin up at you. “They said they don’t
have any. And the whole city’s out. Maybe even the state. Shortage.”

“I guess I’ll have to eat you instead.”

“Do I….. cancel the coffee cake—”

“Take your best guess.”

Removing his hand from the mouth piece, Sam guides it back to his
heart-shaped lips. “Yeah, we’ll have two slices.”

“Sunny, would you mind? It’s probably Roach. Just tell her I know and I
remember and I’m almost ready. And that everything’s perfectly fine.”

The telephone is ringing beside the radio that warms the room with
Dusty Springfield’s “Son of a Preacher Man,” near where Sam is lazily
sprawled out on the bed in his joggers and wifebeater, his pen
smoothing sweeps of cursive across the pink pages of his journal. The
clock on the nightstand flips from 11:09 to 11:10 and so does Sam’s
mental countdown, his chin reaching over his shoulder to peer at you.

Dressed in a sleek black slip dress, you’re sitting on the floor just like a
ballerina would. Touching up your makeup in the full-length mirror, hair
done and prepared for your responsibilities today. Sunlight warming the

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carpet and your skin as you smudge red pigment onto your lips with the
pad of your bare ring finger.

“Course, babe.” Sam seeps in every opportunity to speak with your

manager, mainly to lay the sweetness on thick and become her new
best friend, for strictly virtuous and friendly purposes. So, he doesn’t
hesitate to stretch across the bed and swipe the receiver the second
the request flies from your mouth and you may or may not regret it
when he leads the conversation with, “yeah, hi Bug. She’s almost
ready. Hey, Vivienne looks mint as fuck with the new mop-top. That’ll
fly for any new promo shots, yeah? She’s a real mover, ya know. It’s
obvious how much she admires John Lennon. Do you want me to
make sure she’s got enough rosy pit guard? Because we’ve all been
victim to how bad—”

“Sam!”

He jams his index finger into his other ear to block out your voice.
“Yeah, no, she’s mad at me now.” Sam grapples with the cord and the
receiver when he sees you marching across the room towards him, his
face splitting into a shiny grin when you dive onto the bed and attempt
to wrestle it from his hands. “Yeah? I know, right? There wasn’t much I
could do about it. Once she got it in her head to donate it all to charity, I
couldn’t tear those scissors from her hands if I tri—”

Using his sensitivity as a weapon, you climb into his lap and pinch the
first nipple your fingers land on, causing Sam to yelp and drop the
phone into the sheets. You swipe it up and gently knock his head with
the earpiece, shooting him a dirty look when he laughs at your now
unfortunate position. He always has a way of making things just the
slightest bit more difficult, but you’ve missed all of the spontaneous
buzz he brought into your life simply by being his ad-libbed, Sunny self.
“Hi, Roach. I’m so sorry, don’t listen to him. I still have hair. And I’m just
about ready.”

“Is Mr. White in a silly mood this morning?”

The walking tangle of a person she’s referring to now has a firm grip on
the back of your neck, his lips sponging wet kisses up the span of your
throat. “Yes, that he is. And he’s sorry, too.”

“Lyin’.”

“Delightful little devil, isn’t he?”

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As if on cue, Sam ruts up into your center just once, because once is
all he needs to express his longing and his aching tension. And when
you try to climb from his lap in an attempt to focus on your
conversation, it only eggs him on to grab your hips and pin you in
place.

Instead of engaging in an unwinnable battle, you drop your forehead to

his and bask in the warmth of his little humming praise of good girl
against your lips. His nose nudges your chin up, his teeth sink into your
neck, his thumb holds your head in place.

“You have no idea.”

“The driver will be there in twenty. A journalist from The Washington

Post will be at the theatre to ask questions, then watch and review your
performance. Afterwards, there will be a short closing interview and
some quick photographs. Then you’re all set for the evening, I’m
estimating you’ll wrap-up around seven. How’s it going, sweetie? Are
you doing okay?”

He hasn’t heard the question that you’re answering, but your response
is all Sam needs to send his eyes rolling straight to the back of his
head. “Yes, I’m fine. Thank you.”

Roach lowers the volume of her voice. “Feel free to let me know if this
is out of line, but I’d like to say something as a friend rather than a
professional. Because I do care about you, Vivienne. You seem
remarkably happy. Comfortable. I imagine after tomorrow that you’ll be
hurting and that’s perfectly understandable. I want you know that I,
along with many others, are here to help and make sure technicalities
are running as smoothly as possible from here on out. Mose Benson
connects with the best publicists in the industry, therefore expertly
knows how to manage an image. The difficulty will be in your heart, but
we can handle the other details. Just worry about your magnificent self.
Any questions?”

“Um….. about that, not at the moment.” Glancing at Sam’s hard stare,
you’re forced to peel your gaze away just a moment later in order to
concentrate. “Thank you so much, Roach. And yes, two other
questions. Am I free tomorrow?” You and Sam lock eyes again as he
eagerly awaits the answer that will affect the outcome of his day and
mood on the flight to France and perhaps a long while after, mentally
clocking the hours in which he has to sway you towards that tricky
realm of trust that you so expertly dance beside. He watches you nod,
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watches you listen, watches your lips shape the word okay again and
again, watches the way your eyes jump back and forth between his
and then sighs a mega-breath of relief when you reply to the phantom
voice in your ear. “Sam’s flight isn’t until the afternoon; would it be too
late to arrange a car for the both of us to the airport? I’d like to send
him off if I can.” His heart is thumping twice as much blood now. “Okay,
thank you for looking into it, Roach. Ta-ta.”

Gathering the receiver from your hands, Sam returns it to the base with
a little jingle of metal and plastic and then raises an eyebrow at you.
“What’s hangin’?”

“I don’t have any obligations until tomorrow evening, so I’d like to ride
with you to the airport if that’s alright. I want to make sure you have a
proper goodbye.”

“Honestly?” But what he’s really obsessing over is: Would you bother to
join him for a proper goodbye if you were planning to break things off?

“The whole truth and nothing but the truth.”

“So help me god.” Sam splays his palm out across your belly, his lips
attaching to your collarbone and tickling your skin when he mumbles,
“need a kindred spirit for the ride?”

“No, no. You should rest and maybe start packing, call Mose, get your
ducks in a row. You have a big day tomorrow and a brand-new
headspace to be in. See you in a few hours?” His hand spreads up
your chest and neck, latching comfortably below your jaw for a taut
squeeze and he must admit his pride when your voice both quivers and
chokes out, “I’ll be late…..”

The pad of his middle finger drags up your thigh and under the hem of
your skirt. “Who gives a shit? They’ll wait.” Sam breaks into a smile
when you press your forehead to his, cupping his cheeks in your hands
and swiping your noses back and forth a couple times before stealing a
kiss. “Mm….. hi.” Drawing back, he eyes you from bottom to top,
admiring the heavy arch of eyeliner in the crease of your eye and the
little flower you drew at the top of your cheekbone. His palm smooths
up your stomach and between your breasts. “This dress is real slinky.
Your hair’s majorly shiny, too. And makeup’s flippin’. Nice one. Look
extra pretty today, babe. It’s hard not to make a mess of you. What’re
ya thinkin’ about right now? My joy knob inside you?”

“Sam!”
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“Get this off—” His hands are dipping into your neckline and tugging at
the cups of your bra. “You don’t need a bra to support your cans. I
support ’em exactly how they are.” In another effort to distract him, your
arms wrap around his shoulders for a tight hug, his body successfully
melting into yours as his head falls onto your shoulder. Curls in his
eyes, dimple heating his cheek, Adam’s apple bobbing when he rasps,
“mmm….. whatcha sayin’ so much for? Wanna make out with me a
little bit? Why do you have to feel so fuckin’ good, hm?”

Your hand smooths up his scratchy throat then down his warm belly,
“must be the drugs.” His half-whine half-hum blurs your question, which
is yet another attempt at distraction. “What are you writing, Sunbeam?”

“Top secret shit.” Cradling the back of your head, his nails scratch
against your scalp before he gathers your hair in a gentle fist away
from your face. “Kiss, please.” He hums at your doting reward, sinking
his teeth into your bottom lip for a taste and allowing you to draw back
for some air. “Je t’aime, mon lapinou. I was listin’ a hundred different
ways an egg can be cooked. But I can only think of forty-eight.”

“Forty-eight? That’s really impressive.”

“What’re the other fifty-two?”

“Did you write down scrambled?”

“You’re a troll. This is serious, Cherry. Knock it off or I’ll fertilize yours,
and then guess what? You’re stuck with me.” He pinches the back your
neck when you attempt to pull away, “tsk, hey. What the fuck? Where
ya goin’ so fast?”

“Je t’aime.” You kiss him again, momentarily halting your retreat. “I
have to finish getting ready. And I’m not wanting to disturb your stroke
of genius.”

“I know of a more genius stroke we could mess around with.”

“Alright, I’m going to be completely raw if you don’t stop trying to get
into my pants for at least the next fifteen minutes.” You reach across
him for the glass of orange juice on the nightstand, his palm smacking
your ass loud and burning hard as soon as enough surface area is
provided.

You yelp and turn to Sam with a withering glare, but he merely
responds with soft teeth. “Wasn’t me.”

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“Did I imagine it then?”

“Or! It was a ghost. Or somethin’ to do with the Bermuda triangle.” A

smile pulls across his lips. “You had that one comin’.”

“Oh. So, you’re trying to tell me I asked for it then?”

Sam’s eyes widen in fear, immediately sensing his mistake in both

language and action. “No! No, no. No, no, no. Shit—”

“I’m joking with you. Your face right now is priceless. You can spank
me any time you want. Well, pretty much any time.”

Glacially slow to return your kiss, Sam’s eyebrows tug into a frown and
then dart up his forehead when you draw back. “’Kay, shaggin’ a
feminist who dabbles in sarcasm and also likes to be spanked is hard
sometimes. Worth it, though.”

“Actually, you’re really, really good at it.”

“Mmm. That’s the hottest thing you’ve ever said to me, no contest.
Besides,” his fingers shape a triangle in the air, “Y’know the damage a
triangle can cause. Easy to get lost in.”

“I hear they can make you late for flights.”

“I hear they swallow bitches whole.”

“I hear they suck men dry.”

“I hear they’re tight as fuck.”

“This one is.”

“Damn! You are the shit right now.”

Sam whines when your heat and weight disappear with an abrupt slink
away from the bed, returning yourself back to the mirror to fix the
lipstick that he accidentally smudged. Sliding his journal closer, he
watches your black skirt brush your legs for a moment, his soft
humming melody of “Long Cool Woman” chasing after your quiet
footsteps. Your feet and arms flip up in a playful little rendition of The
Frug dance, which he immediately gasses up by singing the line just
one look I was a bad mess. And when you whip your hair in a circle,
Sam cups his hands around his mouth and provides you with a hearty
whoop.

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With a graceful pause, you point a finger at him. “Oh, mayonnaise.”

“What are we doing now, rhymin’? X-rays. Malaise. Sundays. The good
old days—”

“It’s one way to fix an egg. Also, quiche. And hollandaise, which also
rhymes.”

“Whoa, totally different head. Rad. I dig it. Thanks, babe.” The phone
rings again and this time Sam answers without waiting for your
authority, assuming that it’s Roach calling again for another bout of
pressure or with a bit of information that she forgot to spill the first time
around. “Hey Bug, did you drink Bad Timing Juice this mornin’ or
somethin’?”

“Simon?”

Sam flies up to sitting and runs his fingers through his hair. “Winnie?”

Your eyebrows pull into a frown. “Winnie?” You pace towards him and
try to swipe at the receiver, but he ducks away from your advance.
Gasping, you point an accusatory finger at him. “That’s my phone!
Hands off, Melvin.” This time Sam gives it up easily with his palms
guiltily held in the air and you grab it, sticking your tongue out at him
before you press the phone to your ear. “Hello? Nettie?”

“Hey, baby. Am I interrupting something? And can you please take two
seconds to explain why that sounded exactly like Sam White?”

But before you can answer, Sam grabs the phone from your hand and
belly flops onto the bed, his feet kicked up in the air behind him and his
chin in his palm like a teenage girl at a slumber party, prank calling her
crushes. “What’s buzzin’, cousin? I have a fuckin’ bone to pick with
you, y’know.”

And you can hear Nettie through the earpiece pressed to Sam’s ear
when she scolds him, “I know you didn’t just rip the phone from my
friend’s hand, little surfer boy.”

“She did it first. And we’re only little in the pants, no sweat. Viv loves it.
Right, Honey? What’d you call me last night….. the ’one-inch pinch’?”

“Sam!”

“Give the phone back or I’m hanging up. Long distance is super
expensive, you know.”
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“’Kay. Hey, miss you a shitload.”

“I miss you, too. We all do.” The volume of her voice drops a notch to
ensure her next sentiment is private from nosy ears. “Next time I see
Bibi, you’re gonna be right there with her, okay? I don’t know if she told
you, but she’s got a string of shows in the Bay Area and then a short
residency in LA in late August, so see if you can somehow work your
schedule around that. It might be the only time she’s in one place for
that long. I’ll sneak subliminal messages into every sentence I say to
her until then. And over the next seven months. It’s in the bag. How’s it
going, by the way? On a scale from cold lentil soup to warm cherry
cheesecake.”

“Fuckin’ Cadillac of desserts.”

“Not surprising, Casanova. I don’t have to see her to know that she’s
over the moon. You make her feel alive. Don’t give up, okay? And for
the love of god, swallow your herculean venomous pride for five
minutes. I’ll see you soon. Give me back now, please and thank you.”

“’Kay. Love you, too.” Sam hangs the phone up and rolls onto his side
to look at you, his eyebrows darting up on his forehead when he
realizes what he’s done. “Oh shit. You probably wanted to talk to her.”

“Airhead. It’s okay, she’ll be thrilled she doesn’t have to pay the long-
distance bill. What were you two even talking about?” Pressing the
receiver to your ear, you dial down to the front desk and tuck the
mouthpiece under your chin to muffle the volume of your voice as the
line rings, “and did you call her ’Winnie’ just now?”

Sam shrugs. “Wynette Winters. Your roommate? Sister from another

mister? Professional face painter? Win Squared. I think you’ve met?”

One eyebrow perks up along your forehead, instantly recognizing

Sam’s classic answer circumnavigation tactic. “Since when do you call
her Winnie and not eight thousand variations of any word that starts
with the letter N?”

“Ever since the HPP, Honeycat.”

“The HPP?”

“Time will tell.”

“Okay….. well, it’s a far cry from Nancy— hi, can you please place a
long-distance call for me?”
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“Yes, ma’am. There will be a $1.05 deposit for the first three minutes.”

$1.05. Three minutes. This simple statement forces you to yet again
consider what the next several months could possibly sound like in a
long-distance relationship. Short, clipped, wildly expensive, barely-
audible conversations through thousands of miles and ever-changing
hotels and separate frantic schedules. Missed calls, short calls,
dropped calls. Days and days without speaking. Weeks and weeks
without being on the same continent. Months and months without a
kiss, please whispered against your lips.

And you know, without even having the conversation, that Sam will
insist that it’s not a problem. That he doesn’t mind waking up in the
middle of the night to compensate for your time differences. That he’ll
gladly funnel hundreds of dollars into lengthy phone calls if it means
keeping you in his ear. And thousands to keep you in the same bed
whenever possible. But that doesn’t help to make the situation feel any
less stressful. In a twisted way, it fuels it. Because it feels serious and it
feels like pressure and it feels like something that you’re still unsure if
you have the mental capacity to manage right now. But a part of you is
buzzing and compelling yourself to be brave and try, even if you
haven’t admitted it out loud yet. To yourself or to your lover.

It’s merely shifting your focus from a world you’ve carefully created for
yourself by yourself to abruptly sharing that world with another person
to create a new one altogether. No big deal.

“Would you like me to proceed?”

Sadness mutes your features. “Oh, pardon. Um, yes—”

Noticing your little moment of floundering and the unnatural timing of

your pause, Sam sits up and frowns. He reaches for you, his other
hand pushing his hair from his face and the volume of his voice pitched
down, his Adam’s apple rolling up his throat. “Hey. You alright? How
bad did I fuck up?”

“No, no, you’re fine—” In an act of reassurance, you thread your fingers
through his and direct your attention back to concierge, “Excuse me.
Actually, no, thank you. Nevermind. I apologize for the confusion. I’ll
have to call you back.”

Waiting patiently for you to hang up and finally find his eyes, Sam pulls
in a drag of air and slips his next question out on a sigh. Hoping that it’ll

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tame the wild thumping of his wild heart. “This is gonna be bogue, isn’t
it? Am I—”

“Oh, god.” Your big baby deer eyes start to shine and reflect the light in
the room, before a fat tear spills down your cheek and takes a bite of
mascara with it. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

Sam’s stomach clenches uncomfortably. “Hey, hey. S’okay. You’re just

trippin’ up a bit. C’mere. Honey Slowdown.” Grabbing your arms, he
tugs you onto the bed and tucks you between his legs, wrapping you
up in a tight hug with his stomach pressed up against your back. And
as soon as you start to soften, his thumbs squeeze into the knots in
your shoulders while he blows cool air on your neck and acknowledges
your soft thank you, “mhm….. big breaths.”

Seeing you cry is always profound for him. Not only because you don’t
typically cry, but because you try your hardest to keep your shit
together over big, difficult things. Especially when it comes to your
career and the heavy situations that you find yourself wrapped up in,
the things you view as life choices. Or alternately, the things that you
have zero choice over; like your bum ankle, your conservative parents,
your violent assault.

Sam has seen you lose your shit over a run in your tights though, but
that’s more likely the simmering water from all those bigger
aforementioned things boiling up and over through the guise of torn
fabric at the knee.

“I feel like I’ve spent so much time missing you.”

He pauses his massage and peeks over your shoulder for a better look
at your face. “’Kay….. keep goin’.”

You turn your head to find his gaze. “This is going to be difficult. It
already feels unbalanced.”

“Why?”

“Well, when we’d want to see one another, you’d always be coming to
me and—”

“Hey, hey. Stop….. stop. Do ya think I haven’t already thought about

this? That I didn’t beat the details of how this would work into a bloody
pulp before I bothered to surprise you in New York? That’s just how our
schedules are for the next few months. Listen, I know you’re on stage

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every couple days and flying once or twice a week. I know I stay in one
place and work in big chunks and then have little chunks of time off.
And I’m still here, aren’t I? I just wanna chunk with you when I can. I
don’t mind travelin’. I love traveling. And I love you. It’s no sweat.
C’mon babe, don’t do this right now. You’re gettin‘ twisted. You said
you wanted this convo to wait until after your performance, so just
fuckin’ wait. Let it go for now. You gotta be out the door in ten and I
don’t wanna untangle any bigger knots than I have to. Besid… s...
you’d find ways to even the score.”

“How so?”

“Extra sloppies.” He waits for your little giggles to be set free before he
joins you in this quick flicker of sunshine. “Salinger said all good boys
deserve knob slobs.”

“Oh, that’s right. I think I remember reading that in Catcher in The Rye.”

“You’re fulla shit.” Sam flops down onto the bed and snuggles his head
into your lap, humming at the feeling of your fingers sinking into his hair
and scratching his scalp. “You gotta admit it’s crazy hot, right?”

“What is?”

Reaching for his smokes, he holds the pack to his mouth and grabs
one with his teeth. “You know what. Sneakin’ around, meetin’ up,
hiding, hotel boom-boom, phone sex, goin’ crazy thinking ’bout you.”
He lights the tip next, the both of you pausing to watch the end smolder
like a melting strawberry. “Missing each other. Spacin’ out on your tits
through a cloudy airplane window. Suspended, compacted and intense
romps together. Seeing my name in a newspaper article and knowin’
all my secrets. Seeing your face in a magazine and knowin’ I’m yours
even though no one else does. Knowing you’re so much more than the
best dancer in the world. And that you like fingers in your butt.” He
doesn’t even bother blocking your weak swat. “Daddy’s baby girl.”

“Yes, you know me. I love every bit of that, too. So much. It’s my
absolute favorite. It’s very us, but bigger. Riskier. Sneakier.” And much,
much more distant.

“Shit, that’s killer. Doesn’t get more Us than that. You’re speakin’ my
language, but what’s new? We’ll get to live with that constant feeling of
nostalgia, which is the best feeling ever, y’know? Then time will slow
down when we’re back together, and everything will feel severe. It’s
like coming home.” And he doesn’t mind it at all when you steal the
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cigarette from his mouth and indulge in a drag yourself, the dark pink
cloud dancing behind your teeth before spilling back out into the air,
lighter and softer. “God, you’re so pretty today, Honeycomb. It’s majorly
distracting. Like someone rubbed mica into your skin. You sure you
don’t need a kindred spirit for the ride? I don’t really wanna be alone
today. I can be ready to jam in five.”

It’s like coming home.

“I think I’d actually love one, yes.”

It feels as though you’ve been stuck in a loop at this theatre for days
upon days, between speaking with the press and warming up and
costuming and performing, followed by cleaning yourself up for more
press and photographs. Realistically it’s been just shy of eight hours
since you left the warmth of the hotel bed this morning, but with the
atypical addition of Sam dangling like a delicious carrot in the
background for all of it, it may as well have been a week.

Especially when you’re being photographed and he shouts things from

across the room like find your light, Surefire. Find your light. Especially
when you’re sitting at the vanity applying stage makeup and he hovers
behind you, tickling his fingers up your throat and under your chin,
tilting your head back to plant a kiss to your forehead. Then your nose,
then your mouth. Underlining his last kiss with a mumble of foxy today.
Especially when you’re being interviewed and he looks up from his
book to mouth things from across the room like show me your tits with
a tongue full of pink smoke. Especially when you wait for the journalist
from The Washington Post to turn their back on you so that you can
slip the neck of your dress down to grant him a quick peek.

There’s truly nothing better than your lover’s face dropping in surprise
before widening in elation, little crinkles puckering the corners of his
eyes and a silent laugh rippling up his throat. An air high-five beaming
to you from across the room, his finger wagging in a reprimand before
he pulls a drag from his cigarette.

That’s a set of fuckin’ lungs, Jesus.

The taste of your cherry lollipop dances on the back of your tongue as
you swing the greenroom door open now, ready to face another
smaller crew of people armed with another smaller list of social
demands before you’re set free for the evening. After tonight’s
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performance and after Sam leaves tomorrow afternoon, you have just
one more show in Washington D.C. before making your way to
Nashville next. And the prospect of spending a night alone in that same
hotel suite with Sam’s ghost makes your heart clench sadly, offering
just a taste of what may come for the better half of a year.

He exists in every corner of your sheets. Your skin. Your heartache.

Monochromatic from head-to-toe; powder blue ribbed miniskirt with a

matching lowcut buttoned top, your hair swept off of your neck, heavy
eyeliner. You haven’t seen Sam since the brief encounter when you
skated off stage well over two hours ago, but it’s likely he’s off
charming Roach or carrying around a Pearl, neck-deep in conversation
with a stranger about how corrupt American policing is.

So, it scares the hell out of you when the greenroom door violently
stops short with a harsh slap, the door slowly rebounding closed as a
loud cry yelps from the other side.

“Fuck! My perfectly handsome face!”

You gasp and push the door open to find Sam hunched over with his
fist covering his nose, his hair in his face. Clapping your palm over your
mouth, you rub his back and bend down, trying to get a better look at
his injury. “Oh my god! Sam— I’m so sorry. Are you okay? Can I see?”

But he perks up and dances away from you with a little shuffle, swaying
his hips with his fists at his sides, then spreading his palms in the air
and loosening his shoulders a bit. Dressed in a patterned quilt button-
down shirt and cuffed green wool trousers, feet nestled into worn black
leather oxfords. Curls animated against his cheeks. “Nowhere to Run”
by Martha Reeves & The Vandellas clambers loudly from the turntable
speakers through the room, over a couple dozen people milling and
loosening up in each corner of the small space around him. The
surrounding energy is light and jovial, but that may have everything to
do with the Sunshine currently dancing with himself.

And he has to shout over the music to be heard, “no duh, take a joke!”

“What? Sam!” Pressing your hand to your chest, you wait for your
pounding heart to settle. “Oh wow. That was way too believable…..
don’t tell me you stood there waiting for me to hit you with a door for
half a second of a joke?”

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“Things get a little stale back here sometimes. I gotta take some
responsibility. Get over here already.” Dancing up behind him, you
wrap one arm around his shoulders and he smiles and reacts
immediately, spinning in your grasp and tugging you close to swing
your hips back and forth, your hands clasped together by your
shoulders. “Outta sight, Cherry. Fell six times just watchin’ you. Press
outfit’s killer. How’d those marks on your ass feel, hm? Bet they stung.
Freshies. Hey, is this enough pineapple juice for your Honeybee
Jamboree? I told ’em you like it chilled, but they only had room temp,
cool?”

Greenrooms are typically stale just as Sam remarked, a breeding

ground for clock watching and forced small talk. But these last two
weeks have felt much, much different backstage. With loud music and
extra booze and dancing and smoking and laughing throughout the
entire room. So, accepting Sam’s impending and eventual departure
seems impossible in this moment, in this irreplicable atmosphere of his
making.

Nowhere to hide.

Six single shots of Murky Lagoon rum with six backs of pineapple juice
are neatly placed on a tray with the rest of your limited selection of
requested snacks per your rider; fresh fruit and raw sliced vegetables,
hot water with lemon and honey, a bowl of cherry lollipops. Rum with
pineapple juice is historically yours and Sam’s favorite tradition after a
show, ever since working together at the Victory Theatre in Malibu. A
tradition that, after some warm-up time, you and Soren picked up as
well. Except your lover has coined the term Honeybee Jamboree for
when you’re in the mood to have more than one round. Like tonight.

And nowadays it seems as though you take them like a champ, without
pausing for a breath or even a wrinkle of your nose. As you
demonstrate right now, with the first empty chaser clacking back onto
the tray.

“Oh, damn. You’re gonna be in twinkle town in twenty minutes. Wait

hang on, I’ll meet you there. One sec.” Sam blows on his fingertips and
licks his pinkies before using them to slick his eyebrows down, then
dips forward to pick up the shot glass with his mouth. Except he chokes
when he tips it back and then completely loses his stride when your
snort rolls through the air. The glass drops but he catches it mid-air,
coughing a few times into his fist to catch his breath, his eyes bulging

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out of his head. His hands cup around his mouth as he wails in
agreement of his own failure into the space of the room, for whoever
will listen. “Boooo! Swing and a miss.”

The familiar ache that only his humor can bring is tying your stomach
into knots. “What did I even just witness?”

“Not sure myself. Aggressive Party Tips from Your Friend Sunny.”

As expected, someone from the crew approaches to pull your attention

away and after a brief greeting, Sam quiets down and allows you a
moment of space to plow through another networking-based
conversation. He glances around the busy and lively greenroom,
calculating how to patiently bide his time while you tie up all of the
typical loose ends after a performance.

Soft pink clouds cloak him as he slowly circles around the space
exactly once, half-assing affable conversations with whoever is smiling
and physically closest, snacking on whatever food is lying around on
the crafty table. The two of you catch eyes several times from your
separate corners, but ten twenty thirty minutes pass and as soon as it’s
the slightest bit polite to, Sam swipes your precious fucking cardigan
and purse from the coatrack and returns to you.

Gently gripping your elbow, he ducks down to mutter in your ear, “hey,
can I steal you for a sec?”

Eyeing your belongings in his hand, you politely pardon yourself from
your conversation to glance up at him and return your question in his
ear. The one with the daisy sparkling in it, “are you okay, Sunny?”

“Yeah, ringin’.”

The clock on the wall ticks from 7:32 to 7:33 and so does Sam’s mental
countdown, his eyes darting around the room to make sure no one else
is circling around for a bite of you. When he’s certain the coast is clear,
Sam leads you around the corner and into a small dressing room, his
fingers wrapping around your throat as soon as the door slams shut.
Without hesitation you meet each other for a bruising kiss, stumbling a
couple steps backwards to reach the nearest wall, Sam’s hand slipping
up your blouse to palm your breast. And immediately after you suck his
tongue into your mouth to feel him hum in relief, three loud knocks
echo through the room.

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Sam groans and pries himself away to announce his annoyance.

“Yeah, yeah, keep your shirt on!” Licking his lips, he admires the flush
of your skin before cupping your cheeks, his thumb sinking past your
teeth and into your mouth. His insides toss when you flatten your
tongue and suck hard while peering into his eyes, the volume of his
voice slipping into a murmur that matches the allure of your action. A
raspy, lustful secret. “Mmm….. you’re drivin’ me crazy. So hard to keep
my hands off you. Whose girl are you?”

Popping his finger from your mouth, you speak against his lips. Your
volume a perfect parallel to his. “All yours, Sunny.”

The butterflies in Sam’s stomach are flying in a hundred different

directions. “Yeah? She wanna take a little stroll with him?”

The way Sam’s bottom lip sucks into his mouth and his eyes shine
brightly makes you feel sad, maybe understanding that it isn’t so much
the content of the impending conversation that you’re dreading, but
perhaps it’s simply an aversion to saying goodbye in any capacity.
Because when he leaves tomorrow, whether or not Sam is labeled as
your boyfriend, you’re going to miss him so much that it feels like your
lungs might explode just thinking about it.

You nod, knowing exactly what’s coming next and feeling the sickness
of it swimming in your stomach. And Sam can see it all over your face.
“Yes. Let me just check—”

“Bug will wrap up the extras and grab the rest of your shit for you. I got
your precious cargo. We’re ready to rock and roll. C’mon, babe.
Banana Split.” He knows all your ducks are in a row because he’d
already double checked with Roach while you were taking your last
round of photographs. And since Sam knows that your mental to-do list
is nine miles long after a show, he’s gotten into the habit of clearing out
all of the debris for you before you hit the road. Because roads are a lot
easier to navigate when the rocks have been swept from the path first.
Besides, he’s never been one to just sit on his hands.

And he fucking hates waiting.

“But what about—”

“Car’s pickin’ us up at eleven tomorrow morning. Your wake-up call,”

he points to his own chest, “is set. Vanity’s packed, skates are in the
bag, show’s done, interview’s done. Everyone’s been thanked. We’ll

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grab a taxi from the curb if we need.” Sam points to your shoes next.
“Your feet okay in those shoes? They look pinchy.”

Kicking up your foot, you glance at the heel of your two-toned red and
coral slingbacks over your shoulder. “They’re fine.”

Sam mockingly grumbles the words they’re fine against your lips before
slotting them together in a kiss, then mumbling into your mouth, “did
you eat anything?”

“Little bit.”

“Enough?”

“I’ll be okay for two hours, tops.”

“Lyin’?” Honesty shines through the adamant shake of your head and
it’s one of those times when Sam doesn’t know if you’re just being
polite or not. Except right now he’s too anxious to gruel over it for very
long. “’Kay. So, what d’ya say?”

It’s rare for you to blindly trust someone in this way, to allow your things
to be managed and handled behind your back without your input. And
to have faith that not only are those things managed correctly, but to
your standards. Or above. It’s a heavenly experience to allow your
constant self-supervision to just melt away. Which is exactly what your
lover flourishes in, both backstage and behind closed bedroom doors,
as well. Like no one else can.

You don’t have to question him. In fact if you did, it would probably piss
him off.

Kissing him again, you drag the pad of your finger under his chin.
“What am I gonna do without you, hmm? Thank you for taking such
good care of me, Sunbaby. Like only you can.”

“Welcome. Fuck.” He hisses loudly. “That one went straight to my

nutbag.”

Sam catches your swat before it can land, lacing your fingers together
and guiding you through the backroom theatre wings with your
cardigan tucked under his arm. One keen glance back at you tells you
everything you need to know, and without another word, the two of you
are weaving through press and sneaking past technical directors and
sound crew and publicists and photographers and stylists and runners

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and Roach, hands clasped together as you escape through the

discreet backstage exit with sweet secrecy at your backs.

“What does your tummy feel like when you think about the tournament
in France?”

Your tender night-walk through the Washington D.C. streets provides

plenty of access to inspirational window shopping; darkened floral
shops and swoon-worthy restaurants, shoe stores, barber shops,
newspaper stands. The one-off dive bar that makes you pause before
changing your mind, unhurried to introduce pool and cheap liquor into
your discourse.

“I dunno. Keepin’ it real. Waves are outta sight right now. I’m gonna be
pullin’ ’em out like tuna. Eight-foot sets in Biarritz this time of year,
Cherry. Wish you could be there. I’d feed you macaroons.”

“I wish I could be there, too.” A slow-motion wave arcs high, high up in

your imagination, foamy crests and sparkly Sun reflecting off of each
ripple. It blinds you for a moment, the images nothing but light and
shadows. Then your lover effortlessly backsides on his board through
the hollowed-out barrel of ocean as he dares his god to teach him a
new lesson. Wet, apt, hot. “That sounds….. heavenly.”

“Fuckin’ right?”

“You are an outstanding example of a human being. You completely

blow my mind sometimes. I hope you’re so proud of who you are.”

“Shit.” Grabbing your arm, Sam stops the both of you on the empty
sidewalk below a dull yellow streetlight, the Washington Monument
jutting up like an ice sculpture in the far distant center of the cherry
blossom-lined street. “Thanks, babe. Mmm…..” He cups your jaw in
one hand and dips down for a soft kiss. “Fuck— that was super deluxe.
Indulgent. I’m callin’ the fuzz on you. Open up or I’ll blow this door off
the hinges.”

“I’ll abolish you.”

Laughter bleeds through his next statement. “Gonna be a panty raid.”

And when you laugh against his lips, he feels powerless in his impulse
to steal another kiss without asking. His fingers digging into the back of
your neck, his mouth memorizing the taste of your smile. As he eases

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back, he hums at the excellence of sensation, the relief of it all. “Startin’

to become a habit?”

“Mmm….. maybe. But I like when you ask.” And not just because he’s
asking for permission since he doesn’t really need it, but because it’s
his language. It’s him. It’s yours.

“’Kay. Hey, thanks for cuttin’ me some slack. I know it’s hard, with me
just turning up and intensely bein’ in your face for this long and then
bookin’ it.” Sam pauses to lick his lips before rolling them together.
Eyes light and bright, searing through yours as he considers all of the
different approaches to stringing together the hundreds of sentiments
he wishes he could say to you all at once. Mainly gratitude for the
grace in which you’ve allowed him back into your life thus far. It seems
stupid now, but all of those daydreams about sweeping you off of your
feet and jumping your bones and swallowing each one of your grateful
moans the instant you saw one another again unraveled exactly how
he wished, into his trembling open palms. Despite the river of sludge
that his brain tried to flood to convince him otherwise. “I hope I make
you feel as safe as you make me feel, V.”

“Safe? You’re my sanctuary.”

Your laugh is small. Microscopic really, just a little huff of air through
your front teeth. One that conveys delighted surprise rather than
humor. Surprised by his simple approach and how it somehow carries
more sincere gravity than his long heartfelt tangents and his dirty smut
and his je t’aimes. More than his surprise ambush in New York City
after two and a half years of silence to embark on what has felt like a
belated two-week-long honeymoon.

Maybe not quite that sincere, but close.

“Hey, Sunny. Wouldn’t it be funny if you didn’t love me like you think
you do, but instead your brain has glitched over the idea of me so
many times that now you’re just like a broken record forever?” His
unamused expression makes you start giggling against your will. “You
know, like….. stuck.”

“Whatcha babblin’ about?” To Sam, you’re starting to sound a little

nervous, so he does what he always does in times like these and
soothes you with humor. “This conversation was goin’ so well.” Then
he starts growing a smile too, before he starts half-singing and half-

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mimicking a broken record, “she got the way to move me, Cherry— she
got the way to move me, Cherry— she got—”

“Exactly, you get it.”

Slipping your fingers together, Sam tugs you along with him at a
sedated pace, hoping the speed of his brain will match his feet. “Right,
so….. you got somethin’ against an LDR or what?”

“What’s an LDR?”

“A long-distance relationship. What’s the hitch? We’ll just use Instant

There when we need each other and then boom, comfort in a jiffy.”

“What’s Instant There?”

“I made that up. Telephones exist, though. We can surf our schedules
before my flight and pencil in some playdates. I’ll come see you as
much as possible. I can bum around LA with you for a few weeks. You
got a bunch of shows comin’ up there, yeah?”

“Late summer, yes. I don’t remember telling you that, though. How do
you know that? Roach?”

“Covert sources.”

After Nettie dropped that information bomb on him this morning, Sam
checked the itinerary jotted down in the back of his journal during your
rehearsal this afternoon, discovering that he has a tournament in
Hawaii that perfectly butts up with your long stints in San Francisco and
Los Angeles.

So, he stepped out of the room to use the phone in the theatre lobby,
placing a long-distance call to Mose to consider details around him
spending a hearty chunk of time with you between competitions. It
turns out that he doesn’t have to be in Spain until mid-September,
which would give him three full weeks of nothing but free time for you.
And just before his final tournament before the World Championship in
Puerto Rico. The tournament with the heaviest amount of pressure,
because it’ll be the final piece to determine whether or not he qualifies
for the Championship. And he could sure use a heavy dose of late
summer California waves and your soothing, sweet, choice luck before
heading off.

Sam can’t remember the last time he’s had a cigarette and so that
means it’s been too long. Tugging one from his shirt pocket, he pauses
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to light it, taking his time to watch the match turn black. “I’ll be in Hawaii
in August. It’s no prob to hop over to Cali for a bit. I know it’s far off, but
we’ll have a few other jaunts along the way. Where will you be in a
month?”

“At the end of April? Miami, I think.”

“Rock on. I could drop by for a couple days before I head to Australia in
May.” You’re quiet. Thinking. And his heart is breaking in the silence.
“Um….. or maybe just hang-and-bang th… n...?”

“Can we just hang and bang, though?”

It won’t stop. This crack in his heart, it’s clawing itself into a wider and
wider gap. Maybe this is unreasonable, maybe he is unreasonable.
“Uh, science says yes—”

“Alright, alright. You know that’s not what I’m asking, Sam. Let’s be
serious for a second.”

“Yeah, okay. I have a clarifying question though. Are you askin’ me this
’cause you think it’ll be harder for me than it’ll be for you?”

“I’m asking to make sure we’re both aware of what we’re getting into.
Both starting a new relationship and patching up an old one, with
thousands of miles and a handful of times zones between us. That’s a
lot of space for miscommunication. And….. yes, I think it might be
stressful for you. I’m worried it’s gonna wear you out and possibly
jeopardize your career. That’s a lot of running around, long flights,
strained emotions, exhausting work—”

“I decide what’s best for me. You don’t have to shoulder my emotions. I
got ’em. And it’ll only be like this at the get-go. You’re actin’ like life isn’t
supposed to be complicated or somethin’—”

“A seven-month get-go. That’s longer than we were together in Malibu.

And I just have to know; why did you choose now, of all times? We’re
both running around like complete maniacs.”

He’s still not ready to tell you the entire story of his timing, mostly
because Sam likes to harness the energy of cheap thrills and shock
value for his own personal entertainment. But at least this time when
he’s ready to tell you the truth, there’s no chance it’ll break your heart.

And he’s starting to think that he received a signal to start his Cherry-
pursuit based on the timing of a certain break-up, which was
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conveniently omitted from every conversation. But he’ll make sure he

gets a chance to pick a bone soon.

“Why not? It’s just a little trust that’s missin’ and I don’t blame you for
feelin’ that way at all. I flipped on you over and over again back then.
We just have to keep proving to each other that we’re resistant. That
I’m not goin’ anywhere, even when shit gets rough. That’s it. Rewire
the brain to push past our fallout. It was a gnarly one, but don’t give up
on us.”

“I’m not giving up on us, but I do need to be honest for a second.”

“’Kay…..”

“Okay….. it’s about Flint.”

And for the love of god, swallow your herculean venomous pride for
five minutes.

“God.” Stopping in his tracks again, Sam pinches the bridge of his nose
until the thunderstorm settles in his stomach. Then after a couple
seconds, he sucks the last quarter of his cigarette down to the filter and
flicks the butt into the sewer. Nodding, he spins his finger in the air in a
circle, wordlessly conveying for you to carry on. And quickly. “’Kay, hit
me.”

Stopping and spinning to face him, the streetlight above pours over
your figures, creating a honeyed illumination upon what deserves
attention right now. “Flint felt safe. I dated him for a lot of reasons;
because he’s not in the industry. Because I’d been on my own for a
year and a half and felt pressured to try a new relationship because I
thought I’d be lonely forever if I just kept waiting for you. If I kept
waiting for something that was uncertain. If anything, he acted as a
basis of comparison to you — someone who completed the whole
picture — that I wouldn’t have otherwise. A side role that highlighted
your lead role. A stand in. He showed me that no one could really
touch you. I dated him because he couldn’t break my heart. I’m scared
to date you again because you can. You can destroy me and I know it
because it’s happened before and if something crumbled between us
while I was in the middle of touring, or ever again, I don’t know if I could
withstand the emotional devastation of another fallout alone and away
from home. That was really hard. Our breakup was really hard, for
many reasons.”

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“Okay, so. What does that make me? Not safe? You called me your
sanctuary two seconds ago—”

“No, no. The exact opposite. You make me feel very safe. Taken care
of. Dependent even. Flint just felt safe to me….. I simply trusted him. I
didn’t feel as though I leaned on him. There’s a difference. And I think it
makes you superior. It makes you powerful. It makes you risky.
Entering a relationship with you is delicate because when it comes to
you, I’m delicate. I love how you make me feel and I know how much it
hurts when that feeling is absent. You have more control over me than
I’d like to admit. You take up a ton of space and it’s amazing when
you’re here, but it feels desperately empty when you’re not. That’s what
the next seventh months will feel like; empty. I’m dreading the
heartache. Please, please tell me this makes sense.”

“Yeah, it makes perfect sense and I can say that with confidence
because I feel the same exact way. But I see it in a different light. My
perspective is if you’re gonna soften me, if I’m gonna be thinkin’ about
you constantly and seein’ you in other people and little things and shit,
then I should be with you. And look, you can be scared and still do
things. We’re not equipped with all these fuckin’ feelings just to only
feel one of them. You’re sad I’m leavin’ and you don’t have an answer
yet. You’re crazy about me and you’re scared to grieve again. You’re
frustrated that you feel so deeply and don’t know where to fit it all. It’s
okay to feel sad. It’s okay to feel scared. It’s fuckin‘ okay to feel weak
and confused. It’s okay to feel things. No buts. It just is. That’s why
they exist. Feel the emotions you have, Honey. But live a little. You can
feel all that shit and still love me at the same time. Know that.”

Your pause is long. It’s so long that Sam starts to worry before you
finally rattle out, “you’re right. I do know that. And I need that reminder
sometimes. Often. I try too hard to hold it all together that I end up
squeezing and suffocating myself. I appreciate you for saying all of
that. So….. can we call Flint an experiment?”

“We can call him Lint. And I dunno since I wasn’t there, but somethin’
tells me you didn’t let him in either. You let him in even less. I mean,
thank god for my sake. But Jesus Christ, V.”

The psychoanalysis wasn’t needed. Especially because you’ve already

worked through it one hundred times on your own and concluded that
for you, a high level of control equals security. It’s not healthy, but you
recognize that as well. Through your own processing, you’ve also

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concluded that Flint doesn’t hold a candle to Sunshine. Flint doesn’t

even spark. But Sam has to know that by now. Doesn’t he?

“And you’re not giving any energy to Lint?”

“Not on your watch, Honey honey.”

Sam waits. He waits for you to wrinkle your nose, to breathe out a little
snort, to laugh. To give your palm as a resting space for his chin, to tilt
your head up and silently beg for a kiss against his mouth. He waits,
but none of it comes. And in that second of waiting, that dreaded
moment happens that Sam was really hoping wouldn’t happen
because he was hoping that he’s a different person now. But it doesn’t
work that way. We are who we are and we slowly carve prettier shapes
with time. The idea of complete change is much too simple for life’s
curveballs.

And when curveballs become too tricky, we start to seek our shells for
protection.

“So, what’s goin’ on? Making big life decisions left and right or
something? It’s a good thing. Confusion is actually clarity, y’know?
Nothin’ that holds worth is easy to decide on. So….. there’s your
answer right there. I hold worth. You’re afraid to lose me. Then fuckin’
have me, Cherry.”

“Sam….. let’s get a taxi and go back to the hotel so we can be

comfortable and finish this conversation in private—”

So, Sam dodges the curveballs and resorts to protecting himself.

“Goddamnit— no. Fuck! The hotel—”

Sam starts panicking. He doesn’t want this; he doesn’t want to be

wrong. Because playing a game chances a loss and he doesn’t play to
lose. Losing is vulnerable. It’s public and it’s loud. He wants to run.
Mostly because he doesn’t want to say the wrong shit and also mostly
because he can’t stand this feeling inside of his guts. He’s not ready for
this immature version of him to appear. He’s not ready to not get his
way. He’s not ready for this to end. It can’t. Not after these past two
perfect weeks and how much they’ve meant to him and to you and the
both of you, not after all the fantasies of how this could continue to
develop in the future. Not after everything he’s done to try to meet you
where you are. Not after he’s had a taste of exactly what he wants. Not
just a taste of you, but a taste of what the two of you have together.
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He’s not ready to walk around with a broken heart again.

It’s right. You fit. Why can’t you see it?

“Does that mean you’re breakin’ things off? You wanna go back ’cause
you don’t want me to lose my shit in public and embarrass you? Why?
Give me one good reason.” It only takes one stare in your direction
from a passerby for Sam to take your hand and lead you into an
alleyway beside a bar with a green awning and a brick façade, the
volume of his voice dropping to a Sam-whisper. “C’mon, you’re stringin’
me along, V. Why am I here right now, huh? Because you’re fuckin’
lonely, scared and sex-starved? Because you want me to take care of
you and then punish me for takin’ care of you? You’re okay with me
just walkin’ away? You’re gonna be able to just shove these two weeks
into some cold corner of your mind as if they never happened? How
are you even capable of that? It’s ruthless.”

Playing a game chances a loss, but it’s also incredibly brave.

An exasperated gasp leaks from your mouth and claws through the air.
Your jaw hangs open in space for a few painful seconds, an ice cream
scoop hollowing your chest out and leaving it cold and empty. A mental
search for the flutter of your heart as you try to string a sentence
together.

You hate the particular burning type of friction that conflict with loved
ones brings on. You hate that your mind immediately defaults to
vacating in defeat in the midst of arguments or difficulty like this. You
hate how Sam’s stubborn nature breeds your stubborn nature and how
you can watch it unfold like a weathered piece of paper you carry
around in your back pocket, soft and cottony and full of creases no
matter how many times you try to smooth it down when your mind is
more rational. You hate it mostly because you don’t want it to happen,
but you can’t seem to stop it and neither can he.

This is the baffling side of Sam that you knew was still there, but was
lying dormant in his patient effort to woo you.

“How could you— How can you turn around and say things like that to
me, essentially calling me weak, cruel and manipulative, after also
pushing me to see how tough I am? After calling me your ’favorite thing
to eat for breakfast, paradise in a person’? You completely flip and
throw scathing insults at me when you’re afraid you won’t get your way.
When you don’t even know what I’m going to say and just assume the

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worst of me. And you wonder why I feel uncertain sometimes. Don’t
you see that?” Your chin quivers and your big baby deer eyes glass
over. “We both suffered a lot when you left Malibu. Please don’t speak
to me that way or chastise me for trying to think rationally about this. I
deserve better.”

Sam’s expression crumples at the sight of you tearing up because of

him for the second time today and the validity of your words, his face
falling into his palms as he digs the heels of his hands into his eye
sockets until he sees purple stars. He always says the wrong shit. “Oh
my god.” His voice is much smaller now. “Fuck. Pardonne-moi. You do.
You deserve everything. I’m ticked off, yeah? My defenses shot up. It’s
not your fault. J’ai encore perdu le contrôle. I regret sayin’ all that. I
dunno how else to prove it to you, but I’m tryin’ to be better. I really,
really am.” And even smaller now, “I deserve better too, Vivienne.”

“Sam…..”

“You are tough. It’s good and bad. It drives me to you and it drives me
up the fuckin‘ wall. You’re so much, but I can’t get enough. It’s— you.
I’m crazy ’bout you. The good and the bad. I just want you to show me
that I’m worth it.”

For some reason, his raw statement stops the argument dead in its
tracks. Just like that, neither of you have anything to add. Words have
turned into alphabet soup and there’s no use stirring the pot anymore.

But it’s not defeat. It’s acceptance. Acceptance for one another’s areas
of expertise and areas of improvement and areas of weakness.
Acceptance for the awareness of it all and the cooperation needed to
move forward, healthfully and genuinely as two separate parts that
have to learn how to work together towards a certain goal. Duplicates
and opposites that fall perfectly into place, like teeth in a zipper.

An umbrella of space descends down on your burst love bubble,

protecting all of the broken pieces and sheltering you from the rain as
you both take a moment to collect the jagged shards.

In a moment of quiet space like this, there’s an opportunity to consider

first and then respond, rather than allowing an emotional reaction to a
hurtful statement. It’s time to deliver a skillful response rather than a
knee jerk response that would hinder resolution. Contrary to popular
belief, stillness isn’t passive — it’s an active ingredient in difficult
conversation.

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And Sam pushes through that space without running away, even
though it feels icky and tight and horrible. And you push through that
space without closing yourself off, even though it feels raw and
unpleasant and dreadful.

Then reaching for you, Sam grips your wrist and tugs you close,
wrapping you up in the warmest, tightest hug he can muster. His cheek
presses against your head as you hold each other and sway slowly
back and forth, a silent promise to notice one another’s shortcomings
and use the power of one’s own inner dialogue to work through
personal difficulties instead of unleashing hell on each other. Because
that’s all conflict is. Inner turmoil, turned inside out and lobbed at
another person.

Just fuckin’ tell me I’m not good enough for you, V. Say it. Just say it.

“You have endless worth. This isn’t your fault either.” You peer up at
him, eyeing his mouth first before focusing on his eyelashes. “You’re
not wrong at all. I get it. You have every right to be frustrated right now,
considering how much effort you’re putting in. And I have every right to
feel uncertain. This isn’t about you and your character. I don’t want
long distance to stress either one of us out, it’s a particularly difficult
type of relationship. Of course you deserve everything good. Look at
how everything disintegrated around you and you persisted. You
exceeded. It’s noble. You’re incredible and you’re so good to me,
Sunbaby. So good. Perfect, really. It’s not even a question. Thank you
for existing.”

I’ll never tell you that.

Heart and mind a soft pink bubble, Sam studies every inch of your face
as he waits for a proper response to come. He needed to hear that. He
knows that you said that because he needed to hear it. Most
importantly, he knows that you believe it.

“You know you’re real fuckin’ solid at that, yeah? Belly feels like the
inside of a jelly doughnut.” Gripping your chin, he forces your eyes on
his and leans close with a little more intensity than you were expecting.
“Hey. You’re not alone in this spiral, V. You gotta fuckin’ talk to me.
Alright? You don’t have to try to work all the complicated details out in
your head by yourself and then come to me with a perfect black-and-
white answer. We can talk through difficult shit, y’know like, how people
in relationships need to do if they want it to work? Since there’s two of
us? But I dunno, I’m just guessin’.”
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You really, really missed his moxie. Only he can pull it off. It’s perfectly
Sunny.

“Okay. And that’s exactly what I’m trying to say. Let’s go back to the
suite and explore all of those fun gray-area details before you have a
brain aneurysm on this street corner.”

“Oh okay, is that all?” In an effort to fight the humor carving into his
cheeks, Sam’s face curls up in sarcastic annoyance. “God, only took
her two weeks.” He cradles the back of your head and tilts it forward,
leaving a soggy kiss to your forehead and then to your lips. “Sorry,
didn’t mean to completely put you in your place like that.” He artfully
dodges your swat and backs up towards the entrance of the bar. “Gotta
grab ciggies. Don’t run off with any bad boys in leather ridin’ on
murdercycles while I’m gone. One day you’ll be runnin’ away from
home to join the circus and the next thing you know, you’re nappin’ on
a tropical island in paradise, strung out on the devil’s lettuce and
mango sticky rice. Two shakes, yeah?”

“That’s what’s happening, isn’t it?”

“Isn’t it?”

After waiting a second to study each other’s facial expressions, Sam

spins on the ball of his foot and presses his hand to his chest,
mumbling to himself like an angry old man. “Jesus, take the fuckin’
wheel. Future Sam better not be surprised when the gray hair starts
comin’ in. Talk about playin’ hard to get. Got my goddamn work cut out
for me. Piece of work. Fuckin’ Rube Goldberg machine, makin’ simple
shit complicated for no reason—”

Sam nods and forces an empty smile at an older man staring at him
from his perch at the bar, before slipping a couple dimes out of his
pocket and shaking them in his palm, eyeing the iridescent packaging
in the machine tidied into rainbow-ordered rows. The lights on the
machine remind him of a jukebox, big hot bulbs chasing each other in a
frame to illuminate his choices.

His muscle memory creates a dog-like Pavlovian response to the pink

box decorated in shiny pink hearts, his usual choice, before his
attention is grabbed by the one directly beside it. Cherry Crush, the
candy-red smoke he shamelessly swam in for a couple months after
leaving you. The habit he’ll likely fall into the moment he leaves

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Washington, D.C. The habit he’s still yet to admit to you and maybe
never will. Some habits Sam likes to keep all for himself.

“Life is short, life is long. Speed up, slow down. Talk is cheap, my man.
Women will be the first to let you know.”

Sam deposits exactly one coin into the machine before he glances over
his shoulder at the stranger who’s addressing him, the man nursing a
beer with an empty barstool on either side of him. “Oh yeah?” Sam
points a finger at him to signify his interest. “What’s your clever take on
love, old man?”

“Inside of an apple seed is the idea of a tree. Don’t pull your seedlings
out of the ground every day to examine the roots. Just let them grow.
Fruit takes a long time to drop. It’s spring, things are just beginning to
blossom.” He takes a sip from his beer and lowers it to the bar, his
fingers still wrapped around the sweaty glass. “The Russian author
Visotsky once said: ’You can be a thousand times right, but what is the
use in this, if your lady is crying?’” There’s a long pause, with Sam’s
finger hovering over the buttons on the cigarette machine, before the
man at the bar adds, “also, don’t stick your dick in crazy.”

“Um….. right on.” In a snap judgement, Sam presses the combination

of buttons that drop packs of Cotton Candy and Cherry cigarettes into
the dispenser before immediately rolling one up into his sleeve and
hiding the other in his pocket. “’You Can’t Hurry Love’.”

“Good song.”

“Mm. Thanks, actually. I needed to hear that. Except I don’t think I have
to gruel over that last part—”

“Just ask my ex-wife.”

“’Kay. Later.”

Sam’s got a fresh sugary cigarette lit before he even steps foot from
the building, spotting you immediately at the curb as you pull the cuff of
your sleeve back to glance at your wristwatch. Off to his left, there are
two guys pulling drags off of their cigarettes. Tangerine orange and
coconut cream smoke twisting together, their sleazy gazes glued to
your legs while they mutter to one another. Of course you pay no mind,
and Sam has admitted to himself on more than one occasion that he
sometimes worries about your obliviousness. Especially after what that
fucking meathead with the red Dodge Charger did to you.
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Sliding up beside them, Sam checks you out for a moment along with
them, listening to what they have to say bet she puts out after two
drinks, knows her way around a joystick, how else do you think she got
famous? before exhaling a wall of pink smoke that dissolves theirs.
“What’s poppin’? Fillin’ up your eyeballs, buds?”

The taller of the two addresses Sam with zero hesitation. An accidental
mano a mano, one that sends Sam’s blood to a boil. “Check out that
tail, brother. You know who that is, don’t you? Vivienne Surefire. What
a piece of ass. Heard she’s real fine in the sack.”

Similar to the conversations he would have with friends whenever

you’d happen to pop up on television or in a magazine and they would
start foaming at the mouth like dogs, Sam’s shield of Cherry-protection
shoots up hard and fast. “Oh yeah? Did you hear that?” Behind his
eyelids, red blood is dropping like a curtain. “Your insecurities are
showin’. How ’bout you knock it off? Be decent, for fuck’s sake. That
rag is fulla shit and you don’t know shit about shit. Women aren’t your
toys or your subordinates. Glorify them. It doesn’t matter what your
intention is, it’s the impact that matters. Dig?”

“Uh—” The two men look at one another and then back to Sam as one
of them formulates a weak retort. “Yeah.”

“Yeah?” A shiny, plastic smile paints across Sam’s face as he grips

one of their shoulders and squeezes, tightly. “Y’know damn well a
woman like that wouldn’t touch you with a ten-foot-pole, mate. She’d
turn you into a two-pump-chump.” With a gulp, the man nods in
agreement and Sam pats his cheek. Hard. “Far out.”

Taking a drag of his cigarette, his cheeks hollow and his eyes narrow
before he walks through the cloud of soft pink, leaving them with his
trademark scent of burnt sugar.

From behind him, Sam can hear them mumbling to each other like a
couple of dumb pricks. “Shit….. hey, wasn’t that White—”

Tossing an arm around your neck, Sam tugs you close and revels in
the wash of his stomach when you smooth your hand under his jacket
and glance at the men that he’s just very skillfully put in their place.
“What were you guys talking about?”

In order to spit out a little white lie without too much guilt, Sam skirts
your eye contact. “How pretty you are.” He sponges a kiss to your
temple and mutter-sings I need love, love to ease my mind into your
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skin. “C’mon, let’s get you a taxi. I know your dogs are barkin’, Miss
Vivienne I’m-fuckin’-fine Surefire.”

At this point, the amount of time that you’ve spent in the bathroom is
bordering on suspicious. You don’t have to see Sam to know that he’s
mentally tallying up the number of cigarette butts in the ashtray beside
him to keep track of how long you’ve been missing. That he’s likely
bitten his hangnails raw, that he may have pressed his ear to the door
and raised his fist to knock once or twice, but instead convinced
himself to back off and give you space.

Because he fucking hates waiting. But he’ll do it for you.

Sam was unusually quiet in the taxi back to the hotel, spilling only one
joke about a passing bar called The Triple Nickel, which he merely
pointed to the sign and mumbled Triple Nipple. Doesn’t have shit on
me. He still helped you out of the car and held every door for you and
carried your cardigan and your purse to the suite, his eyes widening as
he breathed in an annoyed huff of air when you asked for a moment to
yourself in the restroom.

Staring at the soap dish, you recall the instance early this morning
when you found Sam piercing his ear in this exact spot. How soft and
warm his body was, the muscles in his back, the long roundabout
seduction on the sink. And everything that came after it, down the
detail of him feeding you a crumbling bite of coffee cake and then
jokingly reprimanding you when it sprinkled onto the sheets.

Hang on, I gotta burst the water balloon before I scarf anything.

Wash your hands.

Fuck off? I know?

Finding your reflection, you stare at the single daisy stud in your ear
and try your best to push your fears away. Trying your best not to focus
on the sting of your time together quickly slipping away. Trying not to
imagine yourself standing in this exact spot in twenty-four hours, alone,
wondering what Sam could be thinking about all the way across the
Atlantic Ocean.

Along with the pain of distance, there’s also the reminder that you love
freedom. Sam loves freedom. You love your individual life paths and

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you love each other. You both want what you want; to love every bit of
yourselves and love every bit of one another with an equal burn on
both ends. And even though it’s easy to forget at times, it’s integral to
remember that any relationship, whether it be with a lover or not, is
going to have its bumps to shovel through. And distance just happens
to be the bump of yours.

But you’re trying your best to accept this unique relationship for what it
is; plenty of love mixed with plenty of trust and tons of breathing space
for your careers, which you’re both wildly passionate about. Just like
the daisy earrings, you’re a pair even when you’re apart. A statement
both on your own and as a partnership, balanced and complete in one
another’s presence. No two relationships look the same and very few
relationships will ever look like yours, so it’s pointless to try to compare
it to anything else.

Ultimately, your ideal partnership would involve someone who has the
self-confidence to handle a woman burgeoning boldly on her own,
happily allowing you to put yourself first while your partner is content to
do the same for themselves. Someone who can make you feel loved
and supported from any distance, and vice versa for them. Someone
who knows how to function and carry themselves in the spotlight.
Someone who has the ability to carry their part of the weight in a
relationship that requires extra caution, maybe even gracefully letting it
roll off their back. Someone who makes you laugh, dance and come
equally as often and intensely.

And that’s Sam.

Sam is a gemstone; a precious rock. He wants to give you everything

you need and more importantly, he actively and consistently makes an
effort to. He’s what you want and he’s what you have, the two of you
have become what you’ve created together. Both you and Sam are
forever destined to unconventional lives and therefore, unconventional
relationships. Lives that you can continue to shape and clip together
with scraps and offerings and opportunities and stardust from the
atmosphere and the ether of your imaginations, strange and
extraordinary, and there’s nothing more beautiful than that. No one else
could even come close to giving you that.

Diamonds are created by intense heat and pressure. Gold is formed by

the collision of neutron stars.

Separately, you’re diamonds. And together, you’re gold.

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With a stride of certain and beautiful bravery, you creak open the
bathroom door and quietly pad through the suite with your heart
pounding blood harder and stronger on each step. Past the breakfast
table and soft couch and coffee table, past the meticulously made bed,
lamps and dresser and armchairs. Avoiding your own reflection in the
mirror as you turn the corner to find Sam perched in his nighttime
window spot. An ashtray with two cigarette butts sits by his side, the
one between his fingers half-smoked. Whispers of pink steadily swim
upstream.

The clock on the nightstand flips from 9:16 to 9:17 and so does Sam’s
mental countdown, although he doesn’t really need the symbol of
numbers to track your level of evasion. He knows it quite well,
considering at times he knows you better than you know yourself and
he can see his own habits reflected in yours more often than not.

When Sam hears you approach, he pauses before braving a look at

you. Because he’s only ready to receive the answer that he wants, not
the myriad of curveballs that you could possibly pitch at him. Anything
painful that may come out of your mouth will send him on a wildcard
loose-cannon ricochet through this room. And it would possibly be the
final memory you have of him.

The last thing that Sam expects when he finds you is a face drowning
in silent tears, the little drops streaming down your cheeks and neck. A
clear bloodshed of vulnerability; raw and rare, leaving him voiceless
and achy. You look so pretty, juicy and fresh even. But Sam has to
take a deep, shaky breath to clear the ick out of his chest. Otherwise
he won’t be able to properly hear it when you break open for him. And
it feels as though all he does is wait for you to break open for him.

“I don’t want to say goodbye.”

The third time you’ve cried because of him today. -Me, anything
involving me

Just like that, Sam has finally figured it out. It hurts to watch you cry
because it makes him want to cry, too. And if he were to cry right now,
he wouldn’t know whether he’d hate it or love it. But maybe right now
he needs to grow a little bit.

So, he starts crying.

Hot emotion prickles and heats his skin, the kind of tears that weaken
his chest and make it hard to pull in a full breath. The kind of tears that
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tickle and squelch, the ones that most people close to him have never
and will never see. The kind of tears that seem to only be reserved for
deep heartache. The soggy, drippy, melancholy ones. The ones that
are impossible to speak through. The ones that were last witnessed by
another person at Banana Split in 1965.

But the best part is that you know exactly how that feels.

The color blue leeches through Sam’s cracking voice, wet and
scratchy. “…..I’ll be thinkin’ about you all the time, V.”

With rare determinism and resolve, you close the space in three big
steps and Sam rises to standing, collecting you to swallow you up in a
proper hug. Your arms wrap around his neck and he crushes your
waist tightly, his fingers spreading wide across your back. Torn open
with pride at the gift you’ve finally decided to give him; the gift of
intensity. The embrace seems to stretch on for long enough that he can
hear the minutes flitting by on the clock. But maybe that’s just the
frenzy of his mental countdown, exhausted from ticking since four
o’clock this morning.

Your grip hasn’t relented one bit. And as soon as your lungs fill with air
to speak, Sam is coiling his fingers into your hair for stability. Because
he knows you and he’s learned you and he knows and has learned that
you always say the right thing at exactly the right time.

“We need to see each other again. As soon as possible. Miami, next
month.”

“Yeah?” Sam’s mouth splits open with a small breathy laugh, his eyes
squeezing shut before he drops his forehead to your shoulder. His
weight sags into you, depleted and relieved. A velvet dream boy.
“Fuck.” Nestling his nose into your neck, he sponges a soft, slow kiss
to your throat before mumbling, “…..does that make me your trusty
milkman or just a slam piece?”

“Grab some rum?”

“Alright. Jesus—”

“It’s for me.”

“Jesus.” Putting out his cigarette, Sam makes his way to the minibar for
a half-full bottle of Murky Lagoon and flicks on the radio on his return.
“Dream a Little Dream of Me” lazily drips through the air as he pulls the

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cork out with his teeth and spits it out wherever it may land, sucking
down a hefty sip before passing it off to you and then joining you on
your impromptu camp-out on the carpet. He watches as you also down
a long swig, tears still streaming down your cheeks. They’re still
streaming down his too, but that doesn’t stop him from digging at you.
Because he knows you and he knows that right now it’s exactly what
you need. “Aw, c’mon. You can boohoo when I leave. Seriously, get a
grip and keep that shit to yourself. Tired of you.”

Sam is gifted the honor of a big, silent laugh except for the crackle of a
wheeze and a single loud snort.

And he thanks the ocean for your very existence.

It’s really fucking hard to find someone who just gets you and Sam
would’ve never forgiven himself if he’d stopped fighting for this. It’s in
this moment that he promises himself that he’ll never stop. This is the
moment to encapsulate your relationship; a bit of necessary pain that’s
smudged with a drop of honey to sweeten the sting. Where he doesn’t
have to explain or defend the crass sense of humor that he chooses to
live with in order to cope with bouts of sadness. Where he doesn’t have
to sugarcoat his sarcastic blow for the interpreter, because his palpable
love for you is threaded throughout your history, written and spoken in
several languages and surfaces and in return, your love for him
translates every syllable.

Because you and Sam bear each other’s truth; your history. The
experiences and the story that only you two truly know and the exact
things that led you on your similar but different life paths; the pain and
the passion. The marks that linger and how and why. The images of
every little trauma. No one else can understand or access that.

Flicking on the camera of his mind’s eye, Sam pops on an emotional

soapy filter with a tonic of infatuation and consciously records this
moment to his eternal memory. This is a moment of clean appreciation
that he’ll recall in his wedding vows. Sunflowers, Cherries, Honey and
his little mascara-coated trash panda who just fucking gets him.

Vivienne fucking Surefire. You’ve always seen him. What a blessing.

“You’re so sweet to me, Sunbaby.”

“To the fuckin’ max, Honeypie. What I’m here for. Now lay it on me.”

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“You came out of absolutely nowhere, Sam. If someone had told me a

month ago that this was going to happen, I would’ve called them
insane. Thank you for being a patient angel while I process everything.
Can I have a cigarette, please?”

He tosses his pack to you and lights the tip as soon as the filter is
resting between your lips. “I’ll miss you, Cherry. I was gonna try to be
tough and coddle the shit out of your feelings and tell you everything’s
gonna be fine, but this feels a lot more liberating. Can’t be tough and
fuck your girl and just walk away. Can I get a little honesty in return?”

“You have so much light. I’m going to miss your Sunshine. A lot.” It’s
quiet for a long enough that it goes from comfortable to clumsy to
comfortable again. Three breaths. “So much that it hurts to think about
and feels impossible to say out loud. Je t’aime. You’re my favorite
person in the whole world to have around. I can’t thank you enough for
your persistence.”

“There she is. Little by little. I’m gonna win you over. All the way. Again.
But louder.”

“Oh, so, he’s confident rather than tough then?”

“Tough and confident are different. Tough is fabricated and confident is

faithful. Toughness is a flimsy, menial shield around a broken heart. It
protects you from stray bullets and shrapnel, but it won’t stop an
onslaught. Confidence is iron guts. I’ve never not been confident, even
if it was a lie I was tellin’ myself in order to shoulder on. Outsides
versus insides. Am I makin’ sense?”

Is he ever wrong? “You call me tough all the time, though.”

“Yep.”

Oh. “As a compliment?”

“As an observation.”

“Are you ever tough?”

“All the fuckin’ time. It’s hard to keep them separate sometimes and
know which one comes first and breeds the other.” Sam nibbles on his
bottom lip and then lets go, leaving it shiny and wet. His eyes match.
“What d’ya need from me, Cherry? You don’t have to answer right now,
but what is it ’bout me that’s hard for you and what can I chip away at?
Or what can we compromise on?”
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“I don’t need to think about it: withholding information that personally

affects me, running away and bursts of anger. Everything else about
you was and is so perfect that it almost overshadows those three big
things, but they’re too big to ignore. They make or break entire
situations.”

“I know. I see that shit. I’m workin’ on it. Thank you for comin’ clean. My
chest hurts, but thank you.” The dregs, they’re finally mixing in and
thickening you up, just how he likes. Real and spirited.

The two of you are both swimming in baby pink cigarette smoke now,
the bottle of Murky Lagoon making its way back and forth. Your legs
threaded together and your fingers touching every so often, the space
between you slight. “And what about me?”

“Uh— is this a trap?”

“No. You’re not the only person who makes mistakes, Sam. You know
that, right?”

“Yeah, you’re right. I’ve seen you trip a couple times.” You swat at him
and he dodges it, “and that one time you dropped the burnin’ joint
behind the couch and climbed over the back in your underwear like a
baby deer, ass over tit—”

You clap your hand over his mouth and he laughs into your palm, nose
scrunched and eyes creasing in the corners. “If I let you speak, will it
be out of your mouth or your ass next?”

He raises an eyebrow and points to your hand as a signal for you to

move it and when you do, his answer is roundabout as usual. But
better than the options you laid out for him. Better than you expected.
But not at all surprising, considering it’s coming from his mouth. “It’ll be
from my heart this time.” Sam holds the back of your head in his palm,
craning you close for a kiss to the tip of your nose and after whispering
kiss, please and pausing, another kiss to your lips. And he keeps you
there, close enough that you can see the sea in his eyes and feel the
puffs of cotton from his mouth. “But I gotta question first.”

“Hopefully I have an answer.”

“What would you do if you weren’t scared?”

As soon as his question seeps in and snaps into place, any uncertainty
or hesitation seems to ooze out to make space for bravery. For trust.

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Like the moment that the opening movie credits end and a sheet of
silence encompasses a theatre in anticipation.

“I’d have you.”

“Then I need you to not be scared, Vivienne.”

Scared to talk, scared to be honest, scared to be intimate, scared to

make a mistake, scared to have your heart broken, scared of being left
behind, scared of asking for help, scared of doing the wrong thing,
scared of looking weak, scared of expressing love. Scared of
judgement. He doesn’t have to explain it any further, because you
already know.

The tips of your noses bump when you nod. “I’ll try. That’s a lot and it’s
really hard to just settle all of those things, but I’ll try. Just for you.”

“Bonne fille. It’s scary to be brave. And you’re not doin’ it for me, you’re
doin’ it for you because you want to. Because it’ll create something
new inside of you. Yeah?” Waiting for your nod, his lips catch yours,
sucking you in for a kiss and caressing your tongue just once,
“mmm….. fuck.” He pulls back, swiping his thumb across your bottom
lip. “You feel so good. Nothin’ like it. I’m a Cherry-junkie.”

“If we do decide to revisit and explore this, it needs to be quiet. I don’t

want the press or Rusty or anyone new or old complicating or
conflating things while we’re so far apart. Especially considering of all
the rumors that circulated after you were fired. He threatened to go to
the press with a negative spin on Indy’s accident, remember? A whole
exposé. I had reporters knocking on my door to ask about your sudden
disappearance for months.”

“I want it to be quiet too, you know that.” Sam appreciates that you
acknowledge his forced departure from the circus, his mishap with Indy
as an unfortunate accident and not retelling yourself the story in
Rusty’s narrative. Although he wouldn’t expect you to fall for Rusty’s
lies so easily, it still feels incredible to have someone standing by him
throughout stretches of time and space. Someone who bears his truth.
“I don’t give a fuck about Rusty. Let him lie. And you’re too big in the
industry now. He can’t touch you.”

“No, that’s not true. I’m a woman, remember? And we’re too fragile as
a couple. Too new. It worries me. I want to protect this.”

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“Hold up.” His finger bounces between your chests, “’a couple’?” The
size of his grin eats your silence. “Protect ’this’? C’mon, I need some
transparency. Just imagine me swallowed up by the airport wearin’ a
pitiful pout, sadly journaling all alone in a crowded terminal with
speckles of rain on all the big windows and scrawlin’ on about whether
or not you like me. Then answer.”

“Okay.”

“’Okay’? ’Okay’ what? Say more, please. Big girl sentences. Go on,
nudge it out. Somethin’ I can’t misinterpret. I need it. I deserve it. Be
clear for me.” Sam pinches your chin and clicks his tongue against the
roof of his mouth, his uniquely soft wordless way of coaxing answers.
“Ça va? You payin’ attention? Shinin’ me on?”

“Wait, wait. Hold on. Before I answer that, there’s just one thing I need
to know first. Two actually.” Your fingers weave into his hair as you
climb into his lap, his soft hum sinking into your skin your muscles the
carpet. You didn’t know it was possible to miss the physical weight of
someone’s body against yours, a lead blanket of loving protection. And
you don’t yet know how much you’re about to miss it, but you’re finally
ready to brave the mystery. Your eyes narrow and your mouth pulls
into a coy smile when you whisper, “did you see me topless that first
day in the dressing room?”

Sam shakes his head. “No.” A small smile tugs at each corner of his
mouth, then drops.

“Sam…..”

“Move it along, what’s the second one?”

“Fine. What did you name your motorcycle?”

“Well played. ’Kay, can you keep it a secret?” With an eager nod on
your end, he dips closer, his grin slowly pulling into his cheeks, his
voice slipping into a whisper. “Piggy Magnet. But you’re right
Honeysnoop, she’s red for you. Cherry is my favorite ride. Now you
answer my question.”

She’s my little Piggy Magnet.

Sam’s ability to hide in plain sight is astonishing, a master of

conspicuous camouflage, and you show your appreciation with giggles
and one baby snort that bleeds honey. Squeezing your legs around his

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hips, you cup his cheeks in your hands and he stays fixed, waiting to
see how you’ll steer the rest of this moment. And his heart and
stomach inflate like a beach ball when your fingertips slip into his hair,
your head tilting to leave a hot puff of whisper against his ear. “You’re
definitely my boyfriend now.”

Sam grabs your jaw and takes it upon himself to lend him your ear.
“You’re supposed to ask, Cherry.”

“Oh, right. Will you be my main squeeze, Sunbaby?”

“Oh yeah?” His face scrunches up in faux distaste. “Mmm—”

“Sam!”

“Oui.” His smile hasn’t lost an ounce of spunk as he angles his head up
to press your foreheads together. And he tries everything in his power
to keep his obvious, desperate enthusiasm at bay. But it doesn’t work.
“Shit. Cool. I’m high. C’est mon amoureuse. Can’t wait to tear your
clothes off the second we’re alone in Miami. You gonna think ’bout that
for the next month? My tongue inside you.” He hisses. “Fuck. Hey.
We’re so lucky we get to miss each other this way, don’t you think? I
mean….. we were missin’ each other anyway. Look at what we get to
remember this time and look forward to next time. It’s fuckin’ gnarly.
Feels good to finally miss someone in a healthy way.”

Just like his hugs, the heat of the Sun lingers far longer than when the
embrace ends.

Pinching the hem of your skirt, Sam starts to slowly slip the fabric up
your thighs, his fingers inching towards your center. His stomach
spinning at the prospect of his touch, your heat drawing him in like a
moth to flame. “I have two questions for you now, Cherry.”

“Okay, I’ll do my best.”

Apprehension is swimming in his eyes, but it washes away when he

licks his lips and blows his lips out on an exhale. “Do you still have my
ring?”

“Of course.”

“Yeah?” His entire face is alight with surprise. “Really? Fuck. ’Kay…..”
He’s not really sure what to do with that information and he’s not really
sure what to do with the next answer you may give him, either. But he
asks anyway. Because Sam’s on a roll and his stomach is kicking and
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his intuition is strong, as always. “Second question: did you choose the
name Cherry Simone so that I could find you if I went lookin’? Like, just
for me?”

Sam, you’re the only person in the world who thinks that nickname is
obvious. You realize that….. right? You’re the only one.

Tangling your fingers into his curls, you grip tightly and smile into his
smile. “And how.”

Sam is stunned all the way down to his skeleton. It’s as if before you
had left for tour, you locked yourself inside of a sunny vault with a
special code that only Sam had memorized. A little intercontinental
game of hunt and chase that tastes like dreamy romantic hope and
chocolate cream pie, bathing in sunflowers and powdered sugar. Over
and over again. Rock Paper Scissors, shoot.

“Jesus— alright.” Nodding slowly, Sam attempts to count the teeny

pauses between each rapid heartbeat for grounding. His palms are hot
and for the first time in years, his brain is illuminated with neon electric
love. All of the little nooks and crannies, red and pink passion replacing
his five senses. “Hey, what’d I tell you about that rinky-dink phrase?”
He catches your swat mid-air, lacing your fingers together. “Kiddin’.
Listen….. love has no boundaries, yeah? Love is awareness and
awareness is peace. You die into it. I’m gonna treat you like royal silk
and pistachio ice cream and baby seedlings. I’ll prove it, I’ll show you.
I’ll do anything I can, I won’t fuck this up.”

“I’ll show you too, Sunshine. The very best I can. Just for you.”

Sweet dreams ’til Sunbeams find you.

And then he simpers out your favorite question in the whole world, a
question that you’d thought about daily, but had been deprived of for
two-and-a-half years until it sprung up again, as unpredictable as an
earthquake. A question that, for a long time, you were convinced you
would never hear again; a brush of his lips against yours, his nose
scrunching in amusement, his hair tickling your cheeks. Your heart
swallowing every syllable. “Kisses, please? Un, deux, trois? No….. five.
Surreal to have you back. Thank you for takin’ the plunge with me. M…
m... I’m beamin’. Je t’aime. I love you. Love you so much, Cherry pie.”
And your favorite request is paired with the wordless promise that one
of those kisses will stretch much longer than all the rest, but you could
never guess which one he’ll hold you hostage with. Or for how long.

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This time it was the fourth. Long, slow fourth. Punctuated with a little
Cherry on top.

As per usual, and unsurprisingly, Sam was right.

There’s something wildly sexy about a stealthy, remote love. It hurts so

good, as if there were no forces on earth powerful enough to stop
either of you from indulging yourselves in a little painful pleasure. In an
odd way, missing someone can feel incredible, because the time that
you do spend together feels like it’s on fire and the time apart is spent
reflecting on those flames with your teeth sunken into your bottom lip.
Counting down the days until you’re allowed to dance in that inferno
once again. The two of you had a bit of experience with this sort of
romance in Malibu, but this time around is a much higher magnitude.
Since you’re hiding from the world instead of merely the local circus,
local press, unwitting coworkers and your boss.

Since March, you and Sam have seen each other a grand total of two
times; three days in Miami in mid-April and five days split between New
Orleans and Austin in early June. Each time that he leaves you is
exceptionally difficult, with tears from both parties and lots of intimacy
that feels like a heartbreaking combination of makeup and breakup
sex. Each separation follows a pattern where you both cling to one
another in your absence and attempt phone calls that connect and
phone calls that are missed and phone calls that disconnect. Gifts sent
to each other’s hotel rooms. Until it’s snuffed out by exhausting
schedules and exhausted hearts, then the cycle begins again.

Distance also roots up insecure arguments about your time apart with
Flint and Sam’s slew of random hookups, about the future, about the
present. About the past. It all washes away when you see one another
again, but those reunions are so rare that at times, it’s a challenge to
remember why you’re both choosing to suffer like this in the first place.
But you both have your moments of strength and your moments of
weakness, taking turns to step in and bolster the other when things are
feeling particularly challenging.

It’s provocative to imagine Sam, half a world apart and half-listening to

Mose reading his upcoming schedule over the phone, scribbling black-
out poetry in a magazine article, lost in thought about the scent of your
perfume on his clothes. And for Sam, he loves to imagine you sleeping
in the pair of briefs and wifebeater he quietly left behind in D.C. for your
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sake. Maybe even pumping the volume on the radio as you wear them,
allowing yourself an opportunity to drown in music late at night, the way
that you do only when he’s around.

Luckily the sphere of Hollywood instinctively and contractually keeps its

mouth shut to the outside world and turns an ignorant eye to this sort of
tryst. Not a word or question is breathed your way when Sam lingers
backstage at your performances, requests an extra key to your hotel
suite, or slips into the backseat of a car with heart-shaped sunglasses
outside of an airport terminal, smothering you in kisses as soon as the
door slams shut.

Those in and around the industry know that all sorts of affairs and
closeted liaisons are taking place in every back room, and stars as
high-profile and well-loved as you and Sam are guaranteed to be
protected. Truthfully, what you and Sam have is innocent in
comparison to the corruption, misogyny, drug use, cheating, extortion,
operations, violations and crimes of its other members. Because the
situation that you and Sam have is nothing short of a personal choice,
simply to cushion the novelty of a prominent romance without any more
added hurdles.

At times, it feels as though Hollywood just wouldn’t function the same

without the hidden or contrived scandals, the very things that the
general population would view as offenses if they were allowed a
closer peek. That type of privilege has an unfortunate tendency to
breed the worst in some people who are lucky enough to possess it,
but you and Sam aren’t interested in abuse of power. You’re just
interested in each other.

You can trust Roach and Mose to guide your worldly rendezvous
whenever you and Sam request them, you can trust close friends and
family, hired drivers, hotel employees, crew members and producers to
remove their noses where they don’t belong. You can trust Sam to
back off, and vice versa, when interactions with the public take place in
order to professionally uphold your appearances. And since information
doesn’t seem to spread quickly unless it’s an above-the-fold
newspaper headline or magazine cover, you can trust casual run-ins at
local dive bars and hotel lobbies, so long as the two of you utilize
separate exits and covert entrances.

For better or worse, there is a scaffolding of security in this business

due to the volume of money that revolves around it. That’s just how it

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works; so long as the players are happy, then the game is successfully
played and its fans will continue to cheer. Most seedy Hollywood
secrets never leave the shadows of backstage. And the stricter, the
wealthier, the more powerful the inner circle, the tighter the lips.

Scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours, ya dig?

After returning from the Dulles International Airport from your first of
many tearful goodbyes with your lover back in March, you were
delighted to find his Peace ring sitting on the nightstand. The one that
he plucked off with his teeth and spit onto the mattress in the heat of
one of several farewell lovemaking sessions. Likely discovered by
housekeeping when the bedsheets were changed, leaving you with the
deep ache of loneliness once you’d realized that his scent had also
been washed clean. You had immediately threaded the band onto a
chain and clasped it around your neck, knowing that it’s precisely what
Sam would have encouraged you to do. And the only time it’s ever
removed is during a performance, but it’s always waiting for you
alongside your Honeybee Jamboree afterwards.

Months ago, Sam was not ashamed to admit that he fully cried into his
tomato juice on the flight to France when something quite
uncharacteristic slipped out of his book and into his lap; your
impossibly tidy, sensual handwriting scrawled across a sheet of
complimentary notepaper from the hotel nightstand. Torn perfectly at
the seam, not a single corner bent or ripped, folded precisely in half.
Sealed with a kiss in bold red lipstick. The printed equivalent of the
very first lick of a cherry lollipop.

To the Sun,

Thank you for your bravery. And for every single drop of light you shed.
Then, now and tomorrow. You’re the only one. If the ocean is your
god, then I think the sky might be mine.

And how I love you,

Also — My body is skating, flying. But my mind is xpls, xpls. I will not
be scared. You like that, don’t you?

Till Miami ♡

His new, new favorite bookmark.

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Over the course of the following five long months, yours and Sam’s
relationship has consisted of a roster of every clever long-distance
technique in the book. Every new hotel suite that you check into has a
fresh bouquet of five happy Sunflowers waiting on the breakfast table,
a small piece of the Sun himself. Something that to you, communicates
that Sam is wishing he could feed you pancakes and orange juice at
that exact moment.

The sight of them standing proudly in his absence clarified that each
and every time he gifted them to you throughout your relationship in
Malibu, they weren’t ever yours. They were his. Each Sunflower was a
shred of him, a petal a seed a root, existing to joyfully soak up
unfiltered water in your presence. Scattered around every corner of
your bedroom your kitchen your dressing room, happy and brilliant.

And on Sam’s end, he’s been known to receive a variety of daisies

wrapped in brown paper and tied off with red twine; pink Gerberas,
Oxeyes, Wild ones and Common ones, with their white petals and little
yellow middles. Something that to him, communicates that even though
the pair of jeweled daisies may be separate, they’re still a pair.

Returning late from a performance and sometimes on your way out in

the mornings, there is often a note written in French waiting for you at
the front desk of your hotel. Something along the lines of:

Hi,

Je me branle souvent quand je pense à toi. Comment est-elle?

Appelle-moi à onze heures, chez toi. xpls + waffles stacked to the
ceiling,

ton Sunbébé

Or:

Honey,

Il y a une part de tarte aux cerises dans ta suite. Je ne peux pas dire la
même chose pour moi. Bon appétit. Appelle-moi quand tu te réveilles.
xpls + tout ce qui est trop torride pour être dit à haute voix,

ta Crêpe

Or:

Qu’as-tu mangé au petit déjeuner, Cerise?

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And over the course of those five long months, yours and Sam’s one-
on-one time has consisted mainly of words funneled in and out of
telephone receivers:

Vivienne: Milwaukee, Wisconsin. 10:02 P.M. May 17th, 1968. Sam:

Bondi Beach, Australia. 3:02 P.M. May 18th, 1968.

“Hello—”

“Mon chouchou. Finally. Hey, it’s just your boyfriend.”

“Hi, Sunshine! I’m so sorry we kept missing each other. I’ve had the
worst day, just nonstop pulling from all directions. But I just got your
sweet note at the front desk and it brightened me up so much. How
are—” Four loud knocks ring through your hotel suite for the second
time in thirty seconds. “Oh gosh, someone’s knocking. Would you mind
hanging on just a second?”

Sam clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth in sympathy.
“Sweet girl. Did you choose answering the phone over answering the
door? Thinkin’ it might be me callin’? Wow. Hot. Hey, babe? Go on and
check the door. Bring me with you though, yeah?”

Clutching the base of the telephone, you drag the cord across the floor
while Sam waits and listens. Truthfully, you’d been trying to get in
touch with your lover for three whole days by this point, but this
particularly massive time-gap between the U.S. and Australia is testing
the limits of your LDR. Your last attempt was from the greenroom just
before your performance earlier this evening, hoping for a bit of Sunny
luck to offset the string of annoying incidents today.

On the other side of the door stands the hotel concierge with a rolling
cart, adorned with a vase of five golden Sunflowers, a bottle of
expensive brut rosé on ice and a single coupe glass. Concierge nods
at you and wheels the cart into the room, lifting the silver lid off of a tray
to reveal several small plates: a dish full of green pitted olives, a
spread of hard and soft cheeses with water crackers and buttery
crackers, a single Belgian waffle topped with powdered sugar and
lemon, another shallow bowl with dark Luxardo cherries and dollop of
sweet cream. And lastly, a plate with steaming, salted French fries with
a miniature glass bottle of ketchup. “Room service for Miss Cherry
from,” he double-checks the slip of paper clutched in his palm, “Mr.
Minnow.”

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You stand stunned into silence, tears in your eyes, smiling wide at the
hotel employee, but the smile is truly meant for your lover. The quiet
space around you diffuses with Sam’s soft, resonant voice rumbling in
your ear, “that’s you, Honeypop. Thank the nice person.”

“Wow, um….. thank you.”

Sam’s voice acts as a little, private devil on your shoulder. “Nice one.”

“My pleasure. Will you be you needing anything else at the moment,
Miss?”

Sam remains in your ear feeding you lines, crushed velvet and a wispy
frayed knot tickling your cheek, “nope, you’re all set.”

“No, I’m all set. Thank you so much.”

“You’re welcome.” Concierge wheels the cart beside your breakfast

table and then backs up towards the door. “Enjoy, Miss.”

It’s impossible to peel your eyes away from the luxurious spreading,
overwhelmed with lots of sticky emotions that refuse any shred of
lucidity. “Thank you…..”

“Good girl. Tip’s taken care of. Lock the door, pop the cork and get into
bed for me. Let’s spin the shit outta your ratty-ass day. Didn’t know if
you were cravin’ salty or sweet, so I got both.”

“You’re perfect. Je t’aime, Sam. Thank you— how could you possibly
know that I needed something like this?”

“Superb clairvoyance….. and a little Bug.” Sam knew that rubbing

elbows with Roach might come in handy one day, for strictly virtuous
and friendly purposes, of course.

“Sam! You and Roach have to stop gossiping behind my back. I’m
starting not to trust what I say to her—”

“Hey. Would you thaw out? I called you right back, but you were
already warmin’ up and she answered instead and mentioned some
stressful shit happened. I buttered her up, alright? It’s on me. I can
back off if you want, but save your breath for now. Bug is the shit. She
only wants you to be happy.”

“I decide what makes me happy.”

“Goddamnit. Jump back and let people love you, Vivienne.”

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“Sorry. I’m sorry….. you’re right. Again. I get irritable when I’m anxious
and I’m projecting onto you. I’m a control freak who’s terrified of
intimacy and commitment, can you blame me?”

“Not one bit. But I’ll chisel that layer of ice off of you one chip at a time
until you start to trust yourself. Now shut the fuck up and pour yourself
some bubbles. Actually, y’know what? Check and see if the phone cord
reaches your bathtub. ’Cause guess what else is also on the menu?
Rainbows.” It’s quiet on your end for a beat too long and Sam looks at
the handset before jiggling the adapter for a better connection and then
chirping out his most theatrical French, “allô?”

“Je suis triste maintenant.”

“Non. Cerise. Pourquoi? ’Cause of me?”

“No, of course not. I miss you and now I miss you even more and this
just made me think about how lonely I feel and maybe have felt for a
long time without even realizing because I’m too busy to stop and think
for a single second. I never just sit and relax and breathe and be—”

“’Kay. Babe, je t’aime, but you’re just spiraling ’cause you’re havin’ a
fuckin’ shit day. You love your independence like a fierce lioness. This
is what you wanted — a full time career and a part time steady — and
don’t take that shit lightly because you don’t make flippant choices,
remember? You’re allowed to feel sad and to miss people and still be a
bad bitch. I know it sounds stupid as fuck and I think it’s like a Thomas
Jefferson quote or something, but ’this too shall pass.’ It’s a rusty link in
your chain. You have a long, shiny one ahead. Nothing will feel perfect
or consistent all the time. Things get shaken up sometimes, especially
on tour. I’m right here, ’kay? I’ll stay up all night with you if I have to.
You just need some physical touch and I’m so sorry I’m not there to do
it. I’ll give you a Honey Slowdown for a hundred hours next time we’re
together. Once you realize you’re not simply looking for happiness, but
instead not wanting yourself to have to live with difficulty, then
contentment comes in. Once you understand that difficulty is part of the
human condition, you can take a step back from it and start to process
it. Now test the length of your fuckin’ cord before I send a bellhop to do
it for you. Cherry! Are you listening? Turn on the bath, pop the
champagne, strip. Can you do that for me? Fuck it, I’ll do it too.”

You know that he’s counting off his demands on his fingers, even
though he’s the only one that can see it. “Will you?”

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“I actually already am.”

Your face twists as you comprehend his statement, paving the way for
a long pause before you start giggling into the receiver. “Are you?”

“Yeah, I’ve been in the bath with my marbles in my hand for like, twenty
minutes, waitin’ for you to get your shit together.”

Your laugh grows distant and Sam knows that you’ve dropped the
receiver to your chest to properly expel your amusement. Rewinding
the conversation to reframe everything that he’s said throughout your
phone call; imagining him now staring at his bare wiggling toes,
gesturing as he speaks with little plinkets of water falling from his
fingertips and scratching his wet belly with wet locks of hair sticking to
his cheeks puts a whole new spin on things. And Sam mentally counts
down the seconds, waiting for your snort to fill his ear before your voice
returns to a normal volume. “I didn’t even know you liked baths.”

“I kinda don’t. I always take a cold shower after.”

“Is the water getting cold?”

“I think it’s….. somehow hotter?”

“Did you really say ’this too shall pass’ while fondling your balls in a
lukewarm bathtub?”

“I’m a complex person with simple needs, Honeydew. Been sayin’ this
for years.”

“Understatement of the century.”

Vivienne: Seattle, Washington. 5:28 P.M. June 15th, 1968. Sam:

Bali, Indonesia. 9:28 A.M. June 16th, 1968.

“Sam, do you like practicing yoga? I hear lots of people mentioning it.
I’m thinking about giving it a try. I saw a studio a couple blocks away
from my hotel.”

“Uh, yeah. I downward raw dog you whenever I get the fuckin’ chance.
Where’ve you been this whole time?” Sam crouches down in front of
the dated black and white television, flipping through staticky channels
on the dial and adjusting the antennae for a clear signal. “I don’t
understand television.”

“What do you mean?”

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“Majorly advanced egghead NASA-level technology, for what? So that

people can sit in their lounge and watch cowboys eat steak and shoot
each other? Which is like, somethin’ I’d do if I were four percent more
unstable, I think. Jesus Christ, it’s like watchin’ hair grow.”

You’re giggling in his ear, beautiful and herbaceous. Just like basil.
“You’re perfectly stable. But I don’t think I’ve ever seen you eat a steak
before. Aren’t you in Bali? Why don’t you go outside? What time is it
there?”

“Nine A.M. sleepy jet lag fluff. I already surfed for two hours, Honey. I
want snuggles and honesty now. Can you ramble off a naptime story
for me instead? It’s gotta be better than this horseshit. What’re you
havin’ for dinner?”

“I think I’m gonna order a giant bowl of spaghetti with a mountain of

parmesan cheese. And a slice of cherry cheesecake. What’d you have
for breakfast?”

“Ooh, that was a funky answer. Nice one. I had Nasi Goreng, banana
crepes and Pisang Goreng, babe.”

“And you thought my answer was funky? What’s all that?”

“Fried rice with veggies and a fried egg, a big plate of banana
pancakes with coconut syrup and fried bananas.”

“Oh wow.”

“Knocked my socks straight off. Ready for round two.” Opening up the
cabinets in the kitchenette, Sam peers at the practically bare shelves
and then mumbles more to himself than to you, “guess I’m the only
snack in the joint. I miss peanut butter so fuckin’ bad.”

July 12th, 1968. Vivienne: Las Vegas, Nevada. Midnight. Sam: Rio
de Janeiro, Brazil. Five A.M.

“Hang up, Sunny.”

“No, you hang up, Cherry tart.”

“No, you hang up.”

“No, seriously. You hang up. Double dare you.”

And it’s even better than the type of play that Sam assumed he was
going to receive, when you dryly and directly obey his command with a
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firm, “okay,” and instead deliver his je t’aime through the click of the
handset and the sound of the dial tone.

Perfect little trash panda.

August 8th, 1968 Vivienne: Detroit, Michigan. 8:08 A.M. Sam:

London, England. 1:08 P.M.

“Hello?”

When you’d rolled out of bed this morning and stumbled over to the
phone for a quick distant-kiss from your lover, you hadn’t been
expecting a feminine voice in your ear. And it’s honestly so light and
lovely and chipper that you’re not in a hurry to rush her off the
telephone.

Even though you send flowers to Sam’s flat every Sunday to help
brighten his mother’s week seeing as she lives alone, you’ve yet to fully
hear the sound of her voice. Except for that one time when Sam was
on the phone with her in Philadelphia and you were trying your hardest
to expedite his conversation. By nibbling on his stomach and peeking
into the waistband of his joggers, a quiet hiss of no coupled by his hand
swiping through the air and wagging a disciplining finger at you with
another hiss of bad. You had then squirmed your way under his arm
and plucked the cigarette from his mouth, kissing his lips before putting
it back in its place. Listening as his mum rambled on, you purred a soft
greeting into the mouthpiece pressed against his lips, hi mama. And
you could hear a happy chirp back from the handset, something along
the lines of, —darling….. pretty petal!

On the back of Sam’s right hand, he’s habitually scribbled the words
call mums so often that he’s joked about the idea of tattooing it.
Because he’s gotten really tired of abandoning and fleeing from things
when they feel difficult. He’s too big, too grown, to act like his life is too
difficult for him to live.

“Oh— hi there! This is Vivienne calling for Sam. Are you—”

“Goodness, Vivienne! It is so delightful to finally hear your voice. I’ve

heard endless things. Oh dear, here he comes. Thank you so very
much for the flowers each week, I always put them in the kitchen—”

Sam and his mother wrestle over the telephone for a bit until he finally
grabs it and pretends to bonk her over the head with it before pressing
it to his ear. “Oui, allô? V? Parle français, d’accord ?”
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“Salut, garçon amoureux! Comment est-il?”

“Chérie, je suis incroyable. Tu me manques tellement, ouais?

Comment va-t-elle? Parfait? Dis oui, s’il te plaît.”

“Oui, je le suis maintenant. Merci. Je t’aime. Je veux te parler de

California, tu as cinq minutes?”

“Yeah, Pop Tart. Puex-tu attendre pendant que j’entre dans ma

chambre? Nosy people ’round.” Sam points to his mum and raises an
eyebrow in accusation, which she takes like a bullet to the heart. And
lets him know with a guilt-tripping pout, that he then retorts with a
heavy eye roll.

“That’s fine, Sunshine.”

“Ooh, poetry. I think I heard piccolos. Say it again.”

“Hurry up, clod.”

“Even better. That had more of like a….. farty bass drum to it.”

“Sam, you’re hurting my pockets here.”

“Be cool.” Sam cups his palm over the mouthpiece to address his
mother, who is slowly bleeding out on the couch with a rerun of
Thunderbirds flickering on the television screen. “Mums, can you hang
this up for me in a sec?”

He doesn’t wait for her to respond before he’s jogging down the hall to
his bedroom to pick up the second line. Then peeking around the
corner, he finds his mother slowly raising the telephone that was left off
the hook in the kitchen to her ear in an effort to snoop. A loud gasp of
treachery pulls through his teeth, covering the mouthpiece in his hand
and hissing down the hall to her, “hey! Don’t be like this, alright? It’s
bizarre.” Waiting for her to hang up, he grumbles something to himself
about women and their infinite toughness before softly clicking his door
closed behind him and dragging the cord of his telephone as he paces
across his hardwood floor. “Hi.” He licks his lips and flops down onto
the edge of his bed, his body and voice relaxing with you now pressed
against his ear, in a quiet space. Just how he likes, just for him.
“Eighteen days, yeah? Lotsa time to work on Sam: The Musical. How’s
your bod?”

“Good. It’s dreaming about your hands every single night. What are
you doing right now?”
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His voice is calm, deliberate, slow. “Thinkin’ about fuckin’ your brains
out.”

Everything below your bellybutton squeezes itself tight, a small gasp

sucking through your lips. “Wow—”

“Y’know like, when we haven’t seen each other in so long that we can’t
even get past the airport loo without loving on each other. Still dressed,
panties pushed aside. Tryin’ to come without makin’ a sound, my hand
clamped over your mouth. Leavin’ with a secret.”

“I think I’ll need to sit down for this conversation—”

“Shit hurts, but you’re still a goddamn rainbow. Do you miss me?”

Your voice softens to a flickering blue flame. “Oui, tu me manques. I

was just reminded of that club in New Orleans—”

“The loo with the purple sink at The Meters show?” He can hear your
voice trembling in his ear, he can feel your pause in his stomach, he
can taste your hiss in the back of his throat.

“Yes.”

“I had to stick my thumb in your mouth to keep you quiet. You came as
soon as I told you to. Left my handprints on the mirror. And your ass.”

“Sam—”

“Same night you let me hold your hands behind your back while I loved
you.”

“I slept for twelve hours after that.”

“I remember. So indulgent. Honey kitten needed her sweet recovery.

Next time you’ll let me tie your hands to the bedposts, fuck you on your
belly.”

“Please….. you’re teasing me. You know that’s my favorite position.”

“I know.” You can hear an audible but soft hiss, followed by a hearty
exhale of smoke. “You get so wet when you’re face down. Especially in
the morning. You like the comfort, the softness, the release of control.
Being taken care of. Getting fucked straight into the mattress. Pillow
under your hips. You like when I pause and lay down on top of you.
Polish your pearl. Sweaty skin. Slow rockin’. Kiss you sideways.”

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Your sigh is tender and sweet, the color red after it’s been baking in the
sun for days. “I want that….. I miss you so much. Your hands, your
arms. Your shoulders and your feet. Your freckles. Your thighs. Your
heart-mouth. Your bellybutton.” He hums in response, piquing your
curiosity about the room he’s inhabiting right now, wishing that you
could transport there even if it were just for five minutes. Your lull is
drawn to a close with an echo of his earlier question, air sucking into
the holes on the receiver, “do you miss me?”

“Comes in waves, right now I’m drownin’. Jealous of everyone who

gets to see you. Hell is lovin’ you in my sleep and then waking up
alone. You look beautiful today.”

The rollercoaster of emotions from his rickety sentence ends with a

small chuckle on your end. “How can you even be sure?”

“I just know.”

“Sam…..”

“Hey, I’m losin’ my fuckin’ mind here.” Sam winds his finger into the
telephone cord and stretches the coils out. “Think I’ll cut out from Oahu
a day or two early to get a jumpstart on our California Honeymoon.
Mose can reschedule my flight real easy. Then I can catch one of your
shows in the Bay and maybe cop a couple Honey Princess Hours. I’ll
get you lei’d and bring you chocolate-covered macadamia nuts. What
d’ya think?”

“You know we all want to see you, but I don’t want you to feel
pressured to rush around. I don’t want you to be exhausted. And it’s so
expensive to reschedule—”

“Yeah, uh-huh. And?”

“…..Really?”

“No, I’m completely fulla shit. Fuck off, Cherry.” The soft scrape of a
match on flint is followed by the purse of his lips through an exhale of
smoke. “Listen, I got some casual news to spill and I don’t want you
wiggin’ out.”

“I promise nothing.”

“’Kay, so….. first off: flying, sleeping, driving arrangements and all that
are booked for LA. Roach is all caught up, so she’ll fill you in when you
see her next. Don’t sweat it. Cool so far?” Sam listens for your soft
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agreement, knowing that you’re relieved to be so cleanly taken care of,

before he pulls in another heady drag of cotton candy. One that makes
him light-headed enough to admit his next piece out loud. “…And I
scheduled a shoot and interview for Aerial Magazine while we’re in LA.
“

Sam can hear in your voice that you’re grinning from ear to ear and he
knows you well enough to know that you’re doing your very best to stay
as low-key as possible right now so that you don’t make him wig out
any more than he already is. “Pardon? Aerial Magazine? This is huge
for you! Congratulations on the feature, Sunshine. I’m completely
shocked to hear that you’re agreeing to do that — but in the best way
possible. I’ll buy a hundred copies when it’s released. I’ll memorize the
entire article. I’m so, so proud of you and proud of every choice you’re
making with your career and your life. You’re going to touch so many
people just by being exactly who you are. It’s groovy. You’re groovy. I
admire you. You’re exactly the man I want in my life.”

“Jesus Christ!” The butterflies in Sam’s stomach are so explosive that

he feels the need to hunch over and squeeze his eyes shut for a
second. “Ow— do you hear this shit? That’s my sweet fuckin‘ girl.
Thank you so much. I don’t know how you do it, but you’re a walkin’
cloud-nine-daydream. I’ve got a couple things I wanna get off my chest
and now seems like a good time. Aerial seems like the right move.”

“Trust those instincts.”

“I will, shit.”

The telephone line turns staticky and tinny for a couple of dreaded
seconds, both of you pausing to wiggle the cord in the handset in a
desperate effort to stay together.

“Sam, are you there?”

His voice finally swims through the static and breaks free with clarity.
“Allô?”

“Phew. Almost lost you.”

“Imagine how weird that would be if it happened in real life.”

Your giggling softens to a pause to pave the way for a burning

question. “So….. is it a cover sto… y...?” Sam stays silent and your
eyes dart around the room as you wait for the answer that never

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comes. And somehow and in some way, you can hear him smiling in
the silence. “Hello? Are you still there? Are you going to be on the
cover of Aerial? Are you putting your face on the cover of an actual
published magazine? And saying things directly, out loud, to a person
of the press, that will be printed in ink forever?” Before he has a chance
to respond, you’re gasping and jumping up off of the arm of the couch.
“Sam, this is major! I’m so proud of you! Say something, oh my god!”

Aside from the statement Sam made to the Associated Press in 1965
about his departure from the world of circus, the only other splashes
he’s made in the media are the viciously rare paparazzi photo or brief
one-sentence comments about surfing and participating in
tournaments. Not a lick of anything personal, not a drop of his heavily-
guarded Sunny personality anywhere in existence. And nothing
remotely close to voluntarily sitting down for a one-on-one pry-session
paired with a styled photoshoot, something that you know the world is
foaming at the mouth for.

“Yeah, it’s weird. I dunno. Just….. feels good. First and last time,
probably. At least for a long-ass time. Not exactly my scene.”

“Oh, wow. That interviewer is going to need a debriefing first. And

maybe a weed brownie.”

Sam laughs and you know it’s the kind that makes his eyes crinkle in
the corners and you wish more than anything that you could see it.
“Fuck you. I’ll be on my best behavior. So, you didn’t disagree to me
showin’ up early. You want me there just as bad, yeah?”

It takes a moment for the information to resonate. “You caught onto

that, hmm?” But when it does, you’re flooded with nostalgia, the
sensation of perpetually living in between two seasons and the
excitement and jitters that comes with the next one as you leave the
other behind. “Yes….. I want you here. I need you here. I can barely
remember what you look like.”

Sam chuckles quietly and it’s one of the sexiest sounds on earth. Aside
from his agitated hums when you squeeze your hand down the front of
his trousers, the moment the world is muffled quiet by the slam of your
hotel room door. “Ten fingers, ten toes. Tall drink of water. Hard dick
and heart eyes.”

“It’s all coming back to me.” You imagine that he’s sitting shirtless in his
bedroom window, flicking dusty rose-colored ash into an ashtray with

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the phone perched between his ear and his shoulder, tucking a lock of
hair behind his ear. Just like he does when you’re together, his final
cigarette before sleep. “And you mentioned your precious Honey
Princess Hour, are you wanting to hang back with Nettie during my
show in San Francisco? Do it. You absolutely should.”

“…..Yeah?”

“I can hear you smiling, Sunshine.”

A small laugh puffs through the receiver, pink and cloudy. “Do I sound
cute?”

“Yes, very. And please hang out with Nettie, Ash and Beau. They miss
you so, so much. They’re going to be wildly happy to see you.”

“Fuck yeah. Je t’aime. Wait— is this a chick trick?”

“No, of course not. You can’t honestly think that. You’ve been to at
least a dozen of my shows, I can feel your support from across the
planet. I want you to enjoy your trip and you’d have much more fun
smoking a joint with Nettie than sitting backstage, watching the same
routine while Roach paces the room and plans world domination at the
same time.”

“Je t’aime. Je t’adore. Tu es tout pour moi. Can’t believe how fuckin’
mint you are. Eighteen days, sugar bear. You’re all gettin’ tackled.
Hard. Hope you have a good helmet.”

Late August, 1968 San Francisco, California

“Can I please borrow The Thing?”

The biggest time-gap of your distant romance is finally drawing to a

close after you and Sam have both shuffled through your LDR
rolodexes a dozen times over. The last time the two of you saw one
another was in Austin, Texas approximately eleven weeks ago, due to
Sam’s schedule pulling him to South America for three back-to-back
tournaments in Chile, Brazil and Peru throughout most of June and all
of July. And because he hadn’t been back to London since early April,
he’d felt a strong need to first check in with his mother and sister before
heading off to Hawaii earlier this month. His final stop before your
California Honeymoon. Inching and inching closer to you, the Sun
slowly pushing past the horizon for a warm splash of daybreak.
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Little earthquakes vibrate and tremble the earth that you walk upon,
sizzling with anticipation over the prospect of getting your hands on
one another after so much time apart.

And in perfect Vivienne-Surefire-fashion, you’ve gone to great lengths

to prepare your home for his visit. Sweeping, mopping, sweeping
again. Three loads of laundry including sheets, blankets, curtains and
at least half of your closet. Dusting cobwebs from the corners of the
ceiling, giving Beau a long, warm bath, organizing your books and
records, vacuuming the carpets, shaking out rugs, squeaking every
window and mirror clean. Pulling all of the food from the refrigerator for
a deep clean, before meticulously putting every item back in its place.

When all was said and done, you stood back and carefully surveyed
every nook and cranny of the living room. Taking in the familiar fluffy
terracotta, orange and yellow shag carpet littered with patterned floor
pillows, the acrylic coffee table, the record player with loads of shelved
vinyl. A swag lamp hanging in the corner, plants swimming around the
curtains, the same red vinyl couch from Malibu. The jutting bay
windows with a view of Haight-Ashbury and Piedmont Boutique across
the way, a pair of risqué women’s legs in fishnets kicking out of the
shop’s window. There’s no way that Sam wouldn’t immediately fall in
love with the space that you’ve curated in his years-long absence.

Since you know that your lover has an appetite that’s equivalent to a
family of four, you’d also gone out of your way to stock up on all of his
favorite American foods that he can’t get his hands on while he’s
traveling: peanut butter, brown sugar and cinnamon Pop Tarts, Oreos,
Ritz Crackers. Plus the classics; two cartons of orange juice, avocados,
eggs, bread, pancake mix, apples, cheddar cheese, bananas and
absolutely anything else at the market that screamed Sunshine to you.

To top it off, you called your mother and obtained your Aunt Cleo’s
famous ambrosia salad recipe, to finally give him a taste of the treat
that he’s been hounding you about for years.

“Come again?”

Rinsing out your glass in the kitchen sink, you place it in the drying rack
before smoothing your skirt down and fidgeting with the headscarf tied
below your chin. That and a pair of dark sunglasses has become your
newly-acquired uniform for going out in public, especially places as
public and crowded as an airport. “I was just wondering if I could
borrow your car to pick Sam up from the airport?”
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“No, no. I heard you. I’m asking you to explain the audacity.”

Nettie and Asher exchange a glance from across the kitchen, which
forces her to reconsider her harsh dismissal and then groan out loud.
Nettie knows that no matter how many luxurious utilities are at your
disposal through your manager and the like, that you still prefer the
normalcy of doing things on your own. Even if in this case, doing things
on your own means borrowing a car that doesn’t belong to you. The
beloved yellow Volkswagen Thing that Asher washes once a week for
his girlfriend, using a newspaper and vinegar diluted with water to
make the windshield and windows shiny.

“Fine. But do not let that grubby friend of yours even put his hands on
the steering wheel. He’ll pull something reckless and entitled, I know it.
I’ve never seen him in a convertible before, but I have a feeling he acts
a lot like a dog with his head hanging out of the window on the freeway.
Just….. tongue flapping, hair everywhere. You get the picture.” She
swipes her key from the hook in the hallway, hovering it over your open
palm before she raises her eyebrow. “No backseat bingo.”

“I—”

“No. Backseat. Bingo. Ash will never be the same if he has to clean
that up.”

Asher looks up from his bowl of cereal, the spoon hovering in front of
his open mouth as his expression coils up in disgust. “Why is it
automatically my responsibility?”

The drive from your duplex to the San Francisco Airport is normally
less than a half hour from your place, but today every minute is
stretched into an hour. And every minute of waiting for Sam to appear
through the terminal exit is a lifetime, forcing you to continually
question if your copper-colored dress with bell sleeves and block-
heeled strappy sandals was the right choice for a reunion outfit after
being apart for so long.

You have already walked inside the terminal on two occasions; once to
check the flight information display system to ensure that Sam would
be arriving at the scheduled time. And browsing the different statuses
on the electronic board only caused your anxiety to increase, seeing
words like delayed or cancelled or missing aside some of the flight
numbers. Even though it appeared that his flight would be arriving as

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scheduled, you still made your way inside a second time to check with
an attendant that it was indeed correct.

It was Sam’s suggestion to meet in the parking garage for as much

privacy as possible. And since it’s in your very nature to obey his
commands, that’s where you’ve been standing for the past twenty
minutes. Leaning up against Nettie’s car with the top up so that Sam
can strap his board to it, your sweat pushing through every pore on
your body, a half-chewed lollipop between your teeth. Your gaze
flicking to your wristwatch every thirty seconds. Sam had originally
been expecting you to pick him up with a hired driver, so you can only
imagine his reaction to seeing you alone. All to himself. Just for him.
With a car that he just so happens to historically drool over every time
he sees it.

And then, all at once, you see him.

First, you recognize the bounce in his walk, then the bounce of his
grown-out wild curls, then the easy swing of his pink suitcase. His pink
surfboard tucked under his other arm. Donning psychedelic, wave-
patterned yellow and brown trousers and a lacy see-through button-
down, wifebeater underneath and tucked into his waistband. His red,
heart-shaped locket nestled against his stomach and his daisy earring
shining in his earlobe. A walking piece of the Sun, his smile stretching
wider and wider with every step he takes in your direction. His eyes are
hidden by his heart-shaped sunglasses, but you know without seeing
them that they’re currently scanning your body from head to toe. Just
as yours are.

Your heart eats itself.

He’s more beautiful than you remembered. He’s more beautiful than
the last time you saw each other. He’s beautiful.

Sam tucks his fingers into his mouth to deliver an ear-piercing wolf
whistle that echoes through the parking garage, then stops in his tracks
as he pretends to lose control of his leg as if he were a dog being
scratched in the right spot. He shouts over the hoods of several cars,
“the fuck you sportin’, girl? My heart’s weak, I just descended from the
ozone layer.” He clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “I got
bubble ears, so speak up.”

Somehow both incredibly obnoxious and incredibly charming: your

boyfriend.

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Your voice is naturally much quieter than his, most people’s voices are,
but you do your best to uncharacteristically match his volume. “Are you
lost, sir?” You point towards the west. “The beach is that way, dude.”

Sam laughs brightly, that great wheezing raspy thing that can be heard
from several tables over in a crowded restaurant, cutting through
clouds of rainbow cigarette smoke and snaking in between everyone’s
dimly-lit conversations. Sometimes he does it on the telephone and the
image of his wide-open smile projects through the earpiece on your
receiver, flicking a dusty rendition of it on the wall above your
headboard. A beam of light with a heart-shaped tongue and happy,
shining eyes.

“Shit, Honey. I’m buzzin’ to see you, too.” Dropping his bag and his
board to the ground, Sam tears off his sunglasses and tucks them into
the neck of his undershirt, his arms stretching out wide for a hug before
he’s even within reach. And you’re bounding towards him, your skirt
hitching up around your waist when you toss yourself into his grasp,
squeezing tightly as both of your bodies immediately heat and melt
upon contact.

Hauling you into the air, Sam guides your legs around his hips and
holds you in place for maximum, close viewing. “Mmm…..!” His hum is
as enthusiastic and warm and tight as his love. And you’ve missed it.
More than anything else in the whole world. “Qu’est-ce que c’est?” He
tugs the neck of your dress away from your chest and peeks in for a
private glimpse of your bare tits, pleasantly surprised to see that you’ve
spoiled him by going braless today. “Holy—! What? Good god. Still
there. Still hollerin’. Et ça?” He slips the skirt of your dress up even
higher and steals a private peek of your panties this time. “Sh… t...
outta sight.…And... I’m already horny.”

Backing you up, Sam pins you against Nettie’s car for balance, his
hands sinking into your hair as he tilts his head to align your mouths.
His breath puffs out against your lips, the volume of his voice dropping
to a Sam-whisper. “Hi, my sweet babe. You know what I’m gonna
ask?”

“Please.”

Cupping his cheeks, you kiss his forehead and his nose first before
slowly folding your lips in a kiss that has weeks and months of hunger
behind it. Slow and severe, red and pink. His tongue slips out to circle
yours and send Sunlight to your stomach along with his quiet moan,
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your legs holding him captive with your centers flushed together. It
feels alien at first, giving and receiving love and butterflies in this way
with this person, until half a second melts by and strawberry meets
chocolate again. The memory of a feeling that can never fully die. His
weight, his security, his orange-peel kisses.

Inching back, you tap a freckle on his cheek. “Hi. This one’s new.”

“Sunkiss just for you. Je t’aime.” Taking two big handfuls of your ass
and squeezing hard with another little moan, his actions slow down
once his body remembers just how much he missed you from this
motion alone. He tugs on a loose strand of your hair and pulls your
sunglasses off, smiling brightly with his dimple kissing his cheek after
glancing down at your cleavage once more. “Damn. You’re super hot.”
And then his voice drops even more, the tip of his nose poking yours
and your lips nudging together a couple times to wake up the mess in
your stomach. As he speaks, he toys with his Peace ring that you’ve
got strung around your neck. “Hi. Fuck. Wow. Miss you so much. Oh
my god, my noggin can’t fuckin’ keep up with everything that’s
happenin’ right now. Big time Smiles. Hi, Cherry pop. How’s she?”

“I miss you, Sunbaby. You’re so pretty and happy. Je t’aime. I’m so

excited to see you, my hands are shaking.”

“Yeah? The hell is taking you so long to dish out a gobby? Has the fire
burned out? Should I head back to Hawaii? It was bitchin’ there. I
hoovered a Loco Moco every single day.”

“Well, this has been fun.”

Planting your feet back on the ground, Sam gathers his belongings
from the spot where he dropped them and tosses his board on the roof
of the car. “I’m drivin’!”

“Oh— no, no, no. Nettie will kill me if anything happens—”

“What, did she say that? Nothing’s gonna happen. I haven’t driven a
car in fuckin’ ages and this is a VW, Cherry. It’s my shit. Toss me the
keys. Winnie won’t mind, cross my heart.” Pulling a bundle of rope from
his suitcase, Sam quickly hitches his board to the roof. Then he shoves
his suitcase through the open window to plop onto the backseat, rather
than using the trunk like most people would. “Keys, Miss Thing. Or I’ll
hot wire this bitch and then we’re both in trouble. Double trouble.” He
spins to face you, squatting down low to take on the stance of a
baseball catcher. “Hit me. Two strikes. Last chance. C’mon, what the
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fuck? Let’s boogie, I’m starvin’ here. I’m gonna wolf down all your
chocolate-covered macadamia nuts if you don’t—”

His sentence is interrupted when you take off in a sprint towards the
driver’s side of the car and reach for the handle, in an effort to plant
yourself in the seat and wordlessly end this argument. But he’s hot on
your heels, gathering your arms behind your back and then locking
your wrists together in a fist, his hand clamping down over your mouth
to cut your squeal short.

Licking his lips, he breathes into your ear. “I said I’m the one who’s
driving, ma’am.” Walking you around to the passenger side, he clicks
the door open and then grabs the back of your head in one large palm,
sending you cackling into the car when he roughly shoves you into the
passenger seat. “Shut up. You have the right to remain silent and all
that bullshit. You’re goin’ downtown. Watch your feet, Honey.” And then
the door is slammed shut behind you, effectively putting a cease and
desist on your conflict.

Aside from the multiple fake-out swerves on the freeway, Sam

manages to get you back to your place safely. And he’s full of remarks
the entire drive, pointing at every single restaurant the car passes with
a happy gasp and keeping his palm hot and heavy on your inner thigh
when he isn’t shifting gears. He’s floored by the exterior of your home,
right in the heart of Haight-Ashbury, with its gradation of green, yellow
and orange shingles and a giant golden sun painted on the garage
door.

Sam doesn’t bother to cover up his appearances on the street as much

as you do, with your usual headscarf and sunglasses that he loves to
tease whenever he has an opportunity. In fact, with his bright clothing
style, full-sleeve of tattoos and noticeably distinctive curls, he’s typically
spotted quite easily. Especially when he has his bright pink surfboard
tucked under his arm. So, on the short two-block walk from Nettie’s car
to your front door, he’s stopped three times by people asking for a
handshake or a hug. And you absolutely love watching him interact
with his fans; calm, cool and collected. Bright and joyful to be chatting
with any and every one who takes a genuine interest.

And the final interaction with a fan happens just half a block from the
entrance of your home, when she bounces up from her perch on the
street corner where her friends sit with guitars and bubbles, her hands
closing into fists as she screams at the sight of Sam in front of her.

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Then suddenly, all of the blood drains from her head and she faints at
his feet, her knees buckling as she withers back down onto the
sidewalk into her friend’s arms. Sam reacts faster than lightning,
propping his sunglasses on top of his head and bending down to help.
But the girl’s friend brushes him off, explaining that when she comes to,
she’ll be so embarrassed to see him standing there that she’ll likely
faint again.

The last few steps to your house are stunned into silence until you pipe
up, with your key spinning in the lock of your door, “I think she thought
you were cute.”

“Scared the daylights outta me.”

“Does that happen often?”

“Not the first time.” Before you can get the door fully open, you’re
spinning around to face him with your giggles starting off quietly and
then gaining volume. Sam rolls his eyes and pushes your front door
open, then shoves his suitcase into your arms. “What are you, five?
Help a brother out, would ya? Jesus.”

“I explicitly asked you if I could carry your suitcase for you and you
said—”

“Beau!” Sam is already charging up the steps two at a time to your top
floor apartment, kicking the door open, propping his board against the
wall and then whistling loudly with his fingers slipped into his cheeks.
But Beau didn’t need the announcement, he’d already flung himself off
of the couch when he’d heard the key in the lock followed by the sound
of Sam’s voice at the bottom of the steps. Forever his favorite human.

As expected, their reunion is dramatic and physical. By the time you

make it to the top of the steps and drop his suitcase in the foyer, Sam
is crumpling to his knees and then flopping onto his back, allowing
Beau to climb on top of him with his tail wagging so fast that it blurs.
His tongue pouring out of his mouth and slathering every inch of Sam’s
face as Sam loudly sings “Top Of The World” to his long lost pet.

Nettie and Asher step out of the kitchen to survey the scene in front of
them, with Beau playfully nipping at Sam’s neck and swatting at him
with his paws. Sam climbs to his knees and shoots him with a finger
gun, which Beau immediately obeys and plops onto his back with his
tongue dangling towards the floor.

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Nettie shifts her attention to you. “Was someone screaming outside just
now?”

“Yeah, it was me. Just so stoked to see you.” Sam pins Beau down as
they continue their play, with Sam blowing raspberries in his belly and
scratching everywhere he can access. Taking a break from whispering
against Beau’s snout, Sam glares at you and then Nettie with a raised
eyebrow. “Hey. Someone’s givin’ him too many snacks. What’s with the
jigglebelly?”

Both you and Nettie point fingers at one another and her face drops in
betrayal. “Traitor. I may give him a tiny little bowl of cereal with
bananas for breakfast every morning, but you give him an apple and a
giant scoop of peanut butter every night before bed.”

“But he loves peanut butter.”

“Like father like son, my little drama dragon. Does he still make bubble
sounds when he sleeps? Slippery soap, little poppin’ hiccups? I miss it.
His tummy hops when he lets me nap on him.” Sam squishes his face
into Beau’s belly and growls, “baby Beau bubble machine. Fuckin’ love
you, dude.” Then he slurps, “just wanna suck your eyeball outta your
head like a little wet marble.” And he looks beautiful like this, smiling up
at you with one busy hand scratching behind Beau’s ear. Sam grips
your wrist and cranes you down close, his grin stretching farther across
his lips. “Mmm….. thank you for takin’ solid care of him, mama. Real
sexy of you.”

Nettie interrupts your kiss, since everyone in the room knows that if she
doesn’t, Sam would have you on top of him after one more swipe of
tongue. “To be fair it’s been mostly me lately.”

“Whatever, thunder thief. Take it easy.” He dodges the flying pillow

hurled at his face, allowing it to softly collect onto the carpet. “Brain
injury alert! Violence isn’t the answer, peacenik.”

But then he’s jumping to his feet and crossing the living room in three
steps, gripping Nettie’s elbow and tugging her in for tight, warm,
encompassing hug. They embrace for a solid ten seconds with Sam
muttering a greeting in her ear, something along the lines of didn’t
know if I’d ever see you again and love you, Winnie. Then he pulls
back to study her face, the both of them smiling and smiling, before
they go in for another hug, humming and squeezing one another with
years of missing time between them.

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Asher is greeted similarly, except with a wet kiss to his cheek that he
wipes away and grumbles about once Sam releases him from his
clutches.

Sam scans the impeccably clean space and knows damn well that in
preparation for his visit, you spent hours on your hands and knees
scrubbing the baseboards until they glistened. “Nice pad. What’s up,
you couldn’t even run a broom across the floor, Cherry? You knew I
was comin’.”

Shaking her head, Nettie breathes in a long huff of composure. “I’m

trying to decide if I missed this or not.”

“Where are the snacks hidin’?”

Not harboring much interest for a grand tour of his surroundings just
yet, Sam threads your fingers together and makes his way into the
kitchen with you in tow, immediately swinging the refrigerator door
open and popping the carton of orange juice for a long swig straight
from the carton. He hums softly when you crowd up behind him,
smoothing your hands up his stomach and chest for a hug while Beau
circles your feet, hoping for a piece of food to fall to the ground.

“I made you something, Sunny.” Reaching around his hip, you pull the
giant bowl of ambrosia salad from the fridge and hand it off to him.

Sam doesn’t hesitate to rip the lid off, his eyes bugging out of his head
with a loud gasp. “No fuckin’ way! Thank you so much, Cherry tart. I’m
gonna destroy this. Toss me a fork. Or a spoon? How does this work?
Smells like magic. Ooh, look at the baby marshmallows. What a treat.
Where’s that spoon at?”

Nettie joins you in the kitchen, pulling herself up to sit on the counter
with her legs swinging in the air. “Has Bibi told you how I feel about
ambrosia salad?”

Depositing the orange juice onto the counter and collecting the spoon
from your hand with a muttered thank you, he digs his utensil into the
sweet salad and widens his eyes in anticipation. “No. How do you feel
about ambrosia salad?”

“Indifferent.”

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Sam laughs and plows a heaping spoonful into his mouth, trying his
best to talk and chew with his mouth closed at the same time. “I dunno
why she never told me that. Seems worth mentioning.”

Hopping down from the counter, Nettie puts the orange juice back into
the refrigerator and then turns to watch Sam’s reaction. Which is
guaranteed to be entertaining, just like everything else he does. She
crosses her arms over her chest and leans against the fridge. “It’s
salty, it’s sweet, it’s a little confusing. It’s the salad equivalent of an
affair that wasn’t worth it.”

Sam squints while he chews, his jaw popping and his face looking a bit
uncertain. But then he reconsiders with a downturn of his mouth and
shovels another giant mouthful past his teeth. “Yeah, passes the test
for me.”

You’re standing patiently by, with your hands held together in prayer
while you wait for Sam’s consensus. “What’s the test?”

“The extremely low Hungry Sam Bar Test. I’ll eat anything.” His eyelid
drops in a wink. “Anything.” And then he waits for Nettie to turn around
before mouthing to you, ass a la carte.

“Are you two always this suggestive? Or do you let it rest from time to
time?”

You point at Sam at the same time that he points to his own chest.
“Just this guy. This girl’s catchin’ on though.”

“Adorable.”

“Y’know, this tastes kinda like—”

You interrupt him, “no.”

“I was gonna say—”

Nettie interrupts him, “no.”

But in reality, nothing can interrupt him once he’s put his mind to it.
“Post-breakfast pom-pom. Y’know? Like, extra sweet sleepy goodies
that are also a little zesty. I think it’s the mandarins.”

Nettie’s eyes fall closed as she pulls in a long drag of air through her
nose, likely a visual signal of her attempting to erase her memory clean
and harness her patience. Ash’s laughter can be heard from down the

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hall, starting off low at first before rolling into a full-blown cackle. But
the kitchen is annoyingly quiet in comparison.

“Hey, Sunshine? Just eat the salad, okay?”

“Okay, okay. Mellow out. I’ve got a lot goin’ on here.”

Nettie finally speaks up after finding her footing, “It’s the sour cream.”

Sam starts laughing with his lips sealed around the spoon. Your stare
bounces back and forth between your two best friends before you
shake your head and hold your palm up in the air at them as a signal
for them to please stop. “I’m never eating ambrosia salad again. I
should’ve known the two of you would run off with this. Thanks a lot.”

“Aww, don’t sweat it, Cherry. Y’know breakfast is my favorite meal.

This is an easy runner-up, though. Flawless. Ten out of ten. Freaky-
deaky, but saucy. She’s got a lotta personality, very quirky.”

“You two probably should’ve gotten some action before you came
home and started sexualizing a dessert salad right here in my clean
kitchen.”

About a quarter of the bowl of ambrosia is already missing, swimming

somewhere in Sam’s belly. “We did. Ten times. Well, she did. I didn’t
have that much reserve. Savin’ it up for later.”

Nettie’s jaw drops as she spins and glares at you. “Bibi! In the Thing?”

Your sight shifts to Sam with your jaw now hanging open as well. “No,
we did not! Sam, please stop talking. Please. Just for two minutes.”

With his eyes dead set on yours, his tongue flattens wide to lick the
back of his spoon clean. And he figures the best way to keep his mouth
shut is by shoving something in it, so he begins pacing the kitchen and
raiding the cabinets and the freezer, looking for a way to keep himself
occupied before he pisses you off and is sent back to Hawaii on the
next flight. Locating a frozen TV dinner that consists of turkey, mashed
potatoes and peas, he rips open the box and tosses it into the
microwave, standing extremely close to the electric oven while it works
its magic. Salivating and staring at it, watching it cook on its little
turntable.

He’s still eating the ambrosia straight from the giant bowl. “Hey, isn’t it
kinda bad to stand too close to a microwave?”

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“Yeah, you should back up. That’ll scramble your brain or something.”

But Sam’s response to being told what to do is the exact opposite, so

he leans forward and smushes his face against the glass. Nettie laughs
and Sam loves it because she so rarely laughs, then grabs him by the
arm and tries to tug him away. She struggles a bit at first, because it’s
way too easy for Sam to continue fucking with her and resist her weak
force. “Simon, why make the damage worse? Honestly.”

“What damage? It was an upgrade, in my opinion.”

Asher shuffles his way into the kitchen, scratching his tummy and
giving Nettie a kiss before he swings open the refrigerator door, on the
hunt for some leftovers. And much less than the two minutes you’ve
requested pass before Sam blurts, “hey, Smasher. If you had to
choose between super strength and super speed, which one would you
choose?”

“Strength. Who wants to be super fast? That’s embarrassing. Like,

you’re the only one who goes that fast? Cool.”

“Is this actually what boys talk about?”

Sam hauls Nettie close with an arm around her neck, hugging her and
swaying back and forth with his chin propped on her head, her arms
around his waist. You watch the two of them chum it up for less than a
minute before you’re ready to breach a topic that’s been haunting you
for months. Ever since Sam dropped a hint back in Washington D.C. in
March, when Nettie had called your hotel suite for a chat and was
interrupted by Sam’s gusto. “Hey cuties, since I have both of your
attention, what’s the HPP?”

Now seems like the best time to surprise them with your inquiry. When
they’re together and completely blindsided, leaving no room for he
said/she said and plenty of space for full real-time analytics of all of
their micro-facial expressions. A gentle backing-into-a-corner, if you
will.

Time will tell.

Sam and Nettie exchange a long, hard stare before they both look at
you. Sam plucks a cigarette out from behind his ear, bending down to
light it with the gas stove, watching the smoke curl around his fingertips
before he becomes brave enough to speak up first. “Don’t get hacked,
’kay?”
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“I promise nothing.”

Another long, hard stare is exchanged between Nettie and Sam. Asher
gets involved in the stare-down this time, and for some reason that
makes you even more nervous. Likely because Asher tends to not get
involved in many things.

“It’s the Honey Princess Pipeline, Cherry pie.”

The microwave beeps to signal its completion, but no one moves a

muscle.

You stare at Sam for a long time without blinking, until you finally do,
then flick your gaze to Nettie who stands with her hands on her hips
and her line of sight moving everywhere; to her toes, her nails, her
boyfriend, Sam. Then finally back to you.

“Um. Wait, stop. No. Hold on. What in the hell is the Honey Princess
Pipeline? You two have not been in touch this whole time. No. Have
you? I refuse to believe that.”

“Yeah, well….. kinda? Not the whole time. But yeah. Almost two years.
Little less.” Sam directs his next statement to Nettie even though he’s
not looking at her. And every word in Sam’s sentence gets
incrementally louder and sterner until he lands on the last word, which
is a frustrated exclamation point. “Which is why I was so fuckin‘ pissed
that I didn’t know you had a boyfriend.”

Throughout all of the information that was passed on to him by Mose

and some other covert sources, the one thing he could never get a
handle on was your romantic life.

“Excuse me? Nettie is not a referee, nor my personal gatekeeper.

She’s my friend.”

“She’s my friend, too.”

“Was that a separate thought or are you continuing to argue with me?”

The latter. But Sam doesn’t want to make anyone in the room even
more uncomfortable, so he settles with, “separate thought.”

You look at Asher. “Et tu, Bruté?”

“How did I get dragged into this?”

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In all of the letters that Sam had sent to Nettie over two years with
international postage and no return address, he was careful to remain
vague about whether he would be returning or not. Because truthfully,
he didn’t know until this year. But he did mention to Nettie that if you
and him happened to get back together or you tried to marry some
other bozo, whatever happened first, that Nettie would be given the
green light to pass all of the letters over to you so that you could read
them all. Nettie, being the excellent friend that she is, tucked them all
away in a shoebox and slid them underneath her bed. All of the
missing pieces of your two-and-a-half years apart.

And maybe, just maybe, Sam had a dark and twisted fantasy of you
standing at the altar with some other clown. And the moment that the
officiant would say speak now or forever hold your peace, Nettie would
calmly rise from her pew in a yellow mini dress and sunglasses
propped on the top of her head as she began reading one of Sam’s
letters out loud in front of all of your friends and families. Beginning with
the words, 05 July 1967. No time for formalities, my lungs are on fire.
I’ll never stop missing her. We carved rays of sunlight and drips of
honey into the other and no one else is shaped quite like that, no one
else will fill the space the same way. It’s too exact and clean, like an ice
cube frozen in a tray.

“Guys, guys. Stop. I’m standing right here. Simon, do you want to
explain this to your very stunned girlfriend or do I have to?”

“Wynette, you’ve got to be kidding me. I’m so beyond floored right now
that I can’t even formulate a sentence—”

“Hey, Cherry? It’s not on her. I asked Winnie to lemme know if you
moved outta Malibu, so she sent me your address when you booked it
to San Francisco. In case I wanted to contact you. That’s all, ’kay? And
then I wrote her a couple letters so someone close to you would know I
was alive and thinking ’bout you. I asked her to keep it hush-hush until I
was ready for you to see them. I didn’t plan on keepin’ it from you
forever. Honest.”

“Sam told me to save the letters and give them to you if New York
didn’t work out.”

“You knew that Sam was going to surprise me in New York? Sunny,
she knew?”

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Nettie nods, carefully choosing her wording and her tone in order to
keep you from flying off the handle. “I’m the one who told him you were
going on tour, baby. And I also happened to know you were freshly
single, which I chose to verbally omit because I figured it should come
from you.”

You’re living your dream. There’s nothing to be afraid of. Literally

nothing. Do your thing.

Ashing his cigarette in the sink, Sam scratches his forehead with his
knuckle and then sucks down another long drag. “So, then I asked
Mose to find any dates that aligned in our schedules. And I chose the
very first matching date. Honestly had my heart broken into little bits,
but I managed somehow.”

Yeah. That night was brutal. Findin’ out you had a serious boyfriend for
a fuckin’ eternity is a close second.

After Nettie had sent a letter to Sam’s London flat to inform him of your
move, Sam had discovered through industry chatter that you’d joined a
new circus in San Francisco. So, he phoned a friend that lives there
and asked them to check the phone book for Nettie’s number, knowing
that you wouldn’t be listed. Sam waited to call Nettie until he thought
you would be at work, except the first time he tried, it backfired when
you answered and his heart beat into his mouth as he slammed the
receiver back down before you could hear him breathe.

He didn’t try again for a few months.

You’re quiet now as you struggle to process this load of information.

And your jaw has been hanging open for this entire conversation,
causing Nettie and Sam to look at one another again in an effort to
seek answers. A look that is somewhat difficult to read, but it looks a
little bit like guilt on the former and liability on the latter. “What if Sam
and I ended up not getting back together? Would you have ever told
me that you were penpals with my missing ex that I cried over for
years?”

Years. Plural. Cha-Ching.

“That depends on what Sam wanted, baby. Please understand. You

know how much I supported you in your efforts to drop Flint. It was for
lots of reasons, not just because he’s kind of a dipstick.”

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Sam’s big grin makes any confusing feelings or anger begin to dissolve
in your chest. Mostly, he loves hearing from others that Lint is exactly
how he imagines; nowhere near being exciting enough for you. “Told
you I was writin’, Cherry.”

“I’m either blind or you’re both way too sneaky. I take it back. You’re
not cute.”

“Like I said before, ’tis herself. We’re spooky, like the wind. Can’t catch
us.”

“I’m suddenly on the outside of my own relationship.”

Sam pinches your elbow and drags you close, using his thumb to tilt
your ear up towards his mouth. “Gotta couple extra days….. we can
book it to Vegas. Get hitched. Tuck you right into the center of this
relationship, cozy Honey. Flashy billboards. Mrs. Sunshine and her
dreamboat.” He guides your head back down to lock eyes with you, his
stomach quivering at the narrow and blank expression freckling across
your face. The blush on your cheekbones. The softness in your eyes
that you’re fighting against, so, so hard.

“You’re going to have to work on that proposal, Sunshine.”

“Am I? Make it one that you can’t refuse it, or?”

“Okay. You’ve just backed me into a corner.”

“Yeah, a sexy one. And to be fair, you backed your juicy ass into that
corner all on your onesies.” Cradling the back of your head in his palm,
Sam silently mouths kiss, please against your lips, humming quietly at
the buzz of electricity that flares up in his stomach when you oblige.
Each and every time. And it seems as though this time Sam
remembers how to whisper. Actually whisper. Just for you. “Merci…..
oh hey, when you’re ready, I want you to husband me.”

You might not ever admit it out loud, but your stomach dissolves into
foam each time he throws that word around. But he probably already
knows that.

After a beat of shared silence circles around the stuffy kitchen, you
step forward and wrap Nettie up in a hug, squeezing her tightly and
breathing into her ear after several seconds, “thank you.”

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Sam stands idly by with his arms held in the air in disbelief, palms up.
His face pinched up in exasperation. A silent what the fuck? “What am
I, chopped liver?”

Then you step forward and wrap one arm around each of them, pulling
them both in for a warm embrace. The trust and support that you have
standing by you and holding you and humming in your ear is something
that you will never take for granted and something that you vow to
reciprocate to the best of your ability. Your group hug is long and silent
in nature, but speaks volumes about the strength of harmony.

Je t’aime, je t’aime, je t’aime.

You could’ve sworn that you’d packed a bottle of aspirin in your purse
before you left your duplex for the airport. It’s proving to be evasive
now, as you dig through your purse about twenty minutes before your
flight descends into Los Angeles. The sun is setting just outside of the
airplane’s windows, pink and orange and yellow and maybe even a
little purple. A perfect horizon of fluffy clouds eating away at the
sherbet light.

Sam sits beside you, his head angled down towards his journal as he
chews on a hangnail and writes at the same time, a sugary cigarette
burning to the filter between his fingers. A glass of tomato juice with
melting ice is collected by a passing flight attendant and Sam hums out
a thank you before flicking his gaze your way, curious as to your plight.

Leaving San Francisco seemed to be a lot harder on Sam than you’d

previously assumed. A lot of it had to do with the guilt he feels over
leaving Beau behind, but it helps him to know that he’s in such careful
hands with Nettie and Asher while you’re both on the road. Before the
two of you left this afternoon, Sam took a moment to whisper promises
of his eventual return in Beau’s ear. Then he kissed both of your
roommates and skulked out the door with his surfboard in tow, trying
his best to make peace with the fact that he’s chosen a life that
requires many goodbyes. Or maybe this life chose him, it’s hard to tell.

After your performance in San Francisco, you were finally blessed with
a glimpse into the world of the elusive Honey Princess Hour. Even
though you’d only overheard a tiny piece of their conversation, it gave
you a pretty good idea of how they typically play out. And even though
all the windows in your home were open, the apartment was an

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absolute hot box with Nettie’s favorite album, Surrealistic Pillow, lazily
drifting through the golden haze of incense and grass.

An open bottle of bubbles with the sticky soapy wand laid in a tiny
puddle on the coffee table, heart-shaped cigarette butts and pineapple-
scented joint roaches in the ashtray, Sam and Nettie sprawled out on
the shag carpet on a pile of patterned floor pillows, Ash carrying a big
plate of freshly cut cantaloupe from the kitchen. Candlesticks flickering
all over the room, the illuminated swag lamp hanging from the ceiling to
cast watery light on the walls. Haight-Ashbury humming with dreamy,
vibrant energy just on the other side of the bay windows. Plus, Sam
was sporting a new yellow manicure and a soft sweep of marigold eye
shadow, brightening his pretty irises from all the way across the room.

The snippet of conversation that you overheard concluded with Sam

saying,…..so, li… e... I wake up the next mornin’ and realize it’d been
bakin’ in the oven all night, right? My entire flat was filled with smoke.
And when it cooled off, the peach cobbler was just like a solid black,
rectangular, bumpy brick. I hung it up on my wall as art though. Mums
thinks it’s grody.

But the best part was Sam’s facial expression when his eyes landed on
you, exactly like someone had turned his lights on.

And even though you had told Sam that he didn’t need to bother
showing up to your performance, he still quickly stopped by about an
hour before you were meant to hit the stage. With a bouquet of
Sunflowers in tow and kiss pleases and good lucks, armed with a
simply tender line of, I know you told me to hang back but I also don’t
listen to anything anyone says, so hi. Do good, Honeypot. Proud of
you.

And maybe he also popped in just to double check that Lint wasn’t
stupid enough to show his face.

“Still gotta headache?” Sam remembers you mentioning the onset as

you were leaving your apartment in San Francisco, when you mumbled
more to yourself than anyone else that you could feel the pain sneaking
in and then didn’t bother to mention it again. Which likely means you’ve
been quietly suffering for hours in cars and airport security and take-off
without saying a word. His palm lands heavy and warm on your thigh,
which he rocks back and forth when you don’t answer him straight
away. “Earth to Cherry. Come in, Cherry.”

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It’s the details. The way he listens to you, holds on to insignificant

gripes, cares about your comfort. His presence that you strive for and
have also condemned in the past, due to his lack of processing his
history and concern about the future. But his presence is an absolute
gift in a companion and it makes you want to try harder to emulate it.
“Sorry, I hear you. Yeah, I do, but it’s small and I’ll be fine.” You locate
yours and Sam’s sunglasses in your bag and slide yours on, then hold
his pair out for him. “So long as no one flashes any bright lights in my
eyes or asks me any challenging questions in the next twenty minutes.”

Sam gathers his heart-shaped sunglasses from you and slips his on as
well, a perfect match to his mouth. “All you gotta do is strut your pretty
ass into a pretty car, Cherry. Breezy.” Glancing over his shoulder and
into the aisle to make sure no one is eavesdropping, Sam leans into
your space and whispers in your ear, “really missed an opportunity to
hop on that plane to Vegas. Coulda gotten hitched real quick before
our Honeymoon. I think that’s the order it’s supposed to happen.”

After a moment to comprehend his words, your face puckers in distaste

before shaking your head in disagreement. “You’re not serious. Vegas?
And while we’re on the subject, I can’t help but hear innate bias in the
words ’husband’ and ’wife.’ Why is wife such an ugly word and
husband is so….. soft and comforting? It’s like, ’oh, I can’t wait to go
home and curl up with my husband’, or ’that’s such a lovely husband,
where did you find it?’ But wife sounds like, ’ugh, I keep scrubbing
these dishes, but I just can’t get the wife off of it’, or ’I should probably
take out the trash, it’s starting to wife.’”

“Okay, okay, I see you. You think bein’ a wife sounds like hardcore shit.
Personally, I’d eat and fuck the shit out of a wife. But I think you’re on
to somethin’ bigger here anyway, Honey. I’ll be the wife if you prefer.
You can be the husband. I’ll even take your last name; Sunny Surefire
sounds bitchin’. And you can wife your tongue through my asscrack
whenever you fuckin‘ want.”

“Wouldn’t it be the other way around—”

“Then husband my grundle, whatever the fuck.” Your lungs, everything

inside of your chest and your throat ache from laughing so hard and
just when you feel like you can catch your breath, a snort rattles
through your skull and sends Sam cackling back into the chair with his
hand on his belly. “Every fuckin‘ time! Unbelievable. You’re too easy.”

“How dare you say the word ’grundle’ to me.”

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“You’re a big girl. Hey, question.”

“Oh, god….. okay. Go ahead.”

“Gettin’ knocked up.”

“That technically wasn’t a question. And either way, no. Not now. You’d
be such a naughty dad. Slipping them cookies behind my back after
they’ve just been disciplined. I can see it now.”

“What the fuck, Cherry? I’d never undermine you….. but even if I did,
you’d have to just accept it. How else am I supposed to get them to
love me?”

“Just accept you being sneaky?”

“Babe, no crime….. but, you’re worked up over an imaginary fuckin’ kid

right now. Usin’ all your pretty brainspace for hypothetical
stressbubbles, as usual. Chill out. Just imagine me sittin’ around like
this, scarfin’ pancakes, readin’ the paper. But also bouncin’ un petit
poussin in one arm at the same time. Is your lady stuff talkin’ yet?”

Just like he asked, you take a second to imagine it. Sam shirtless or in
a wifebeater, drinking orange juice from the carton or boiling water for
tea with soft streaks of Sun melting through the windows. A little baby
effortlessly cradled in one arm as he goes about his business wholly
unbothered, cooing softly in conversation in his typical madlib-style
ramblings of praise or laced external processes. Quietly singing
“Dream Baby” to them just as he did outside of your bedroom window
years ago. Glancing up when he sees you step into the kitchen with
your hair squashed up on one side, a bowl of pancake batter ready to
be fried.

“No.” Maybe.

“Liar. Fulla shit.”

Adjusting the knot of your headscarf below your chin, you glance out
the window for a better idea of how much longer you have until landing.
“Thirteen-year-olds aren’t as cute as babies. You know they’d be
thirteen one day, right? Screaming in your face that they hate you and
wish they were never born?”

“Wait. Babies grow? Nevermind, you’re right. Fuck kids.” The tray in
front of him rattles when Sam tosses his pen down. Then he strikes a
match and lights another cotton candy cigarette, taking a long drag that
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burns a quarter of the paper down, before exhaling past his teeth and
settling in for sincerity. “’Kay, so let’s take a quiz an’ see if we’d be
decent folks, hang on a sec.” Sam slides his journal in front of him and
leafs it open to the back, popping the cap of the pen between his teeth
and holding it there while he talks. That same rascally lock of hair
brushing his face, sharpening his dry humor and tapering the cut of his
jawline. “Question one— this is multiple choice, by the way. ’Kay,
question one: The kid is cryin’. What do you do? A, pretend you don’t
notice and continue napping. B, scream in their face. C, put them in a
basket and send them downstream. Or D, hug ’em and tell ’em it’s
okay to feel sad.”

“C.”

Gasping, his jaw falls open and the pen cap sticks to his lip for a
moment before dropping into his lap. “That was the bitchiest option.”

“I’ll put you both in the basket.”

“What— alright, I’m stoppin’. Hey. Je t’aime, ouais? Je t’adore. Je veux

que tu sois heureux. Je veux que tu sois heureuse avec moi. I want
you to be fulfilled. I want you to have everything you want. I think you
know that, but just in case you don’t, please hear me.”

“Tu es parfait pour moi.”

“Tu es parfait.”

“I want you to be blissful, Sam.”

A big beautiful open-mouthed grin spreads across his face before he

shoves a giant handful of salted peanuts past his teeth, his cheek
popping when he mumbles with his mouth full. “I am. Bliss city,
girlfriend. Oh, we have a little date planned, by the way.”

“What? We do? When? What is it? Really?”

“As soon as we land. We’ll grab the Mini Cooper that Mose hooked us
up with and then the world’s our oyster.”

Your sleeping arrangements have already been organized between

Sam and his manager and your manager. When Sam told you that he
was taking care of every single detail in LA, you allowed him to keep
his secrets without prying and with full trust. You know how much they
mean to him, after all. Both keeping and executing them. And how well

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he functions in and around mystery. “You’re not gonna tell me what it

is, are you?”

“Nope. But you’re gonna be in a blindfold for about an hour ’til we get
there, so enjoy the sights while you can.”

On the walk through the terminal towards the parking garage, you and
Sam are only stopped one time by a fan who happened to recognize
you through your headscarf and sunglasses. Luckily they were polite
and kind, requesting an autograph on the back of a gift shop postcard
which read Greetings from Los Angeles, California! which you happily
agreed to sign. It had dawned on you in that moment that this was the
first time you were traveling without Roach on your tour, simply
because the first show of your residency at the United Artists Theatre
in LA wasn’t for several more days. Because you and Sam wanted to
make the most of your time alone. And what that alone time consists of
is yet to be determined, since Sam takes so much pride in keeping
secrets.

And even though Sam is carrying his suitcase, his surfboard and your
cardigan, he still manages to hold your hand as he leads you towards
the spot where you’re meant to pick up the loaner car. Opening doors
for you and pausing every so often to plant a kiss on your lips when no
one is watching, muttering the words hope you’re hungry or how many
bikinis did you bring? against your lips with a smile pulling into his
cheeks.

That is, until you reach the exit and are blinded by a bright flashing light
before you can even make it through the door.

Wrapping his fingers around your elbow, Sam hauls you backwards
and behind the nearest corner. “Oh….. no. Oh, shit. Pisser. Son-of-a-
bitch. Motherfucker— how do they— ’Kay. This is fucked up. Fuckin’
hell. They were probably campin’ out and got lucky. Just keep your
head down, V. S’okay. It’s just noise, that’s all. You’re a cloud. We’ll
drift past it. It’ll be over in ten seconds. We just have to get to the car.
You okay?”

But you know it won’t be over in ten seconds. You know that this is the
very beginning of a big change that neither of you were ready to
embark on yet.

Before heading out through the potential clusterfuck outside, Sam

drops your hand out of respect for both of your wishes to keep this

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relationship a secret, even though a big part of him realizes at this point
that the effort to hide is futile.

But you reach for him, weaving your arm through his to squeeze his
bicep and feel the warmth of his knowing light beam down to your
stomach. It begins as a pinprick of Sunshine in the center of your chest
at first, but gains traction as it spreads in all directions and past your
toes, bowling over Sam everyone in this airport lobby parking lot city
state country oceans world, past the atmosphere and through the
asteroid belt, as far as the mind can possibly imagine. A shimmering,
golden, impossibly Sunny blanket of contentment that paints the galaxy
with glitter and doesn’t stop with the mention of the universe’s limits.

“I’m fine. Actually fine.”

And with that, you both march forward, through the sliding glass doors
and through the blinding flashing bulbs and glassy soulless lenses.
Through the shiny oxfords and black jackets. Through clicking and
chattering. Through the faces that are no longer faces, but clunky
analog cameras that desperately try to beam your relationship to the
world with a giant, fuzzy question mark.

Are you and Mr. White dating again?

Doesn’t your notorious fallout concern you as a couple?

Are you a couple?

Are you enjoying your evening?

Where are you headed?

How’s your date going?

When did you reconnect? How long has this been going on?

Mr. White, how long are you in town? Are you here to support Ms.
Surefire? Or to practice? Both?

Sam, are you concerned about your performance in the World Surfing
Championship?

Ms. Surefire, what do you plan to do when your tour is over?

Vivienne! Vivienne! How do you balance your career with your personal
life?

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That’s the question that makes you stop dead in your tracks and spin
on your heel to eye the reporter up and down, before locking on his
face. The crowd grows still with your unexpected and curious halt, the
camera clicks growing sparse. Sam’s grip stays tight on yours, his grin
slowly spreading wider and wider because he knows you are very
carefully choosing each word of your response. And it’s going to knock
them all on their ignorant asses.

“In the same way that men are expected to do it, sir. Although, I can’t
help but notice that women are the only ones asked this question. Why
is that? We all struggle equally. You have quite a bit to reflect upon and
manage. And please don’t step on my shoes, you’re awfully close and
they’re quite expensive. Goodnight.”

The press all turn their attention to Sam, awaiting his additional
comment. Sam, who continues to stand there with a toothy smile and
sparkly eyes, his gaze trained on your profile in admiration until the
very second he peels it away to address the photographers. An
exceedingly rare occasion. “Night night. Hope you wake up.”

Not much conversation happens between you and Sam before you
reach the private sanctuary of the Mini Cooper. Mostly because being
photographed has created a storm of paranoia inside the both of you,
concerned about who may be listening or who may be ready to jump
out from behind a parked car for an ambush of more camera flashes.
And mostly because what has just happened to you is a lot to process.
And mostly because Sam fucking hates the paparazzi since they
always manage to put him in a shitty mood, especially because he
does everything in his power to outsmart them and usually succeeds.
Except the exchange that he just witnessed between you and those
slimy fucks was titillating enough to keep him fully turned on for the
next six months.

As soon as his board is strapped to the roof and the car doors slam
shut behind you, five seconds of silence and deep breathing is
dissolved by Sam’s declaration. “Damn. Bien cuit. That was juicy as
fuck. Fuckin’ field day of torn buttholes. Butthole massacre. We’re
pinched, baby. Fuck. Feminist princess Honeybee, standin’ up for men
and ladies everywhere. You groovy?”

“I think so. Are you?”

“I think so.” Studying your face, he nibbles on his bottom lip and notices
the sensation of his palms prickling with sweat. “Now what?”
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“Um….. hope their film gets exposed?”

“Mhm.” Sam rakes his fingers into your hair and scratches his nails into
your scalp, “and when it doesn’t? Bitches love scuttlebutt, Honey. That
was annoying as fuck.”

“Then Mose and Roach can pay the papers off to get rid of the
photos….. or at least tell the press to put the pictures on hold until
we’re ready for them to run? If ever? Maybe?”

“They definitely could, yeah. No question. But do you want ’em to

run…..? You’re the boss.”

“Me?”

“Yeah, you. Who the fuck else?”

“Well….. what about you?”

“You already know my answer, Cherry. Dig real deep and you’ll find it.”

“This is just all on me now?”

“No. Doesn’t have to be. Rock Paper Scissors?” With your stomachs
twisting into knots, both of your fists meet in the air before shaking and
tossing your shapes; two stubborn rocks on either end. A bold,
unflinching stalemate. “Shit. Fake me out. Two out of three?”

“No, I think this is our answer right here. We agree that we like what we
have and we don’t want it to change. And I feel like it’s threatening to
change. We weren’t ready to face this and we certainly don’t want
anything to spoil our trip, so let’s just go easy for a bit. We don’t have to
take action right this second. Let’s connect with Roach and Mose
tomorrow, right now we can just let it go.”

“Nah, it didn’t change. We’re cool, trust me. I won’t allow that shit to
run. Fuck those dorks. We’ll figure this out and keep our secrets.
They’re gonna double now. We’ll be like James Bond and Honey
Ryder. Or Bonnie and Cly—”

You stare at one another with blank expressions. Somewhere in the far
distance, a cat hisses.

“Anyways.” Sam holds his hand up for a high five, appreciating the way
you stay tough and level-headed in potentially nasty situations that
involve your career. “’Kay? I’m with you. Got this one in the bag,

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Cherry. Patience is ten outta ten after witnessing that patriarchal

castration.”

Shaking your head, you deliver the high five he’s waiting for and burst
out into laughter. “You’re a dream.”

“No shit. That’s what I’ve been tryin’ to tell you.”

“How are you so obsessed with the dissolving of patriarchy when you
directly benefit from it?”

“Are you kiddin’ me? I’ve seen women get hired for jobs because their
tits hit the wall before their toes did. Not even one percent ironic. It’s a
major bummer. I hate it.”

“I’ve been asked to do that before. I didn’t actually do it, but I was
asked to.”

Clenching his teeth together angrily, Sam decides to change the

subject before he follows through with the urge to rip the steering wheel
from the car and hurl it at the next man who walks by. Also, he’d rather
not experience anything else this evening that would threaten to ruin
the date he has planned. “How’s the headache?”

“Oh….. actually, I forgot about my headache. It’s completely gone.”

“Righteous.” Loosening the knot under your chin and slipping your
headscarf off, Sam folds it over a couple times in his lap before guiding
it over your eyes and tying it behind your head. He mutters bye, bye.
kiss, please against your lips and hums at the feeling of your mouth
folding with his. “You look so pretty like that, don’t you? I could eat you
right now. Thank you for trustin’ me, babe. Ready to scope the scene?”

“Um—” That was a lot of information with significantly less senses. “I

can’t see anything, but yes.”

“Cool. Hang tight, we gotta long drive. You can pick the tunes— oh
shit, you can’t see. I got it, Honeybunny.”

“’Kay, stay right there. I’m gonna help you out. Don’t sneak a peek or
anything.”

The car rocks gently as Sam lets himself out and closes the door
behind him, leaving the scent of cotton candy in the now stuffy vehicle.

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A muffled silence is splintered by a backdrop soundtrack of his feet

crunching in gravel outside, until he pops open the passenger side
door and stands still for a handful of seconds. You can hear the
crackling of his cigarette paper before he inhales and flicks the butt
aside, sweet breath fanning out against your lips a moment later. “Such
a sweet girl, sittin’ pretty just like she was asked.” His palm finds your
throat and squeezes just enough that your pulse can be felt against his
skin. “Does she have a kiss for him?”

“I’m afraid if I pucker, your junk is going to be in my face or

something—”

A laugh explodes in your face before the sound is directed elsewhere,

likely because Sam has either bent forward or pitched backwards in
order to get the volume out properly. “Shit, wish I thought of that. And
very valid fear, I’m ashamed to say. Just razzin’.” He helps you out,
spins you in circles a few times until you’re properly disoriented and
then steers your shoulders for several steps before pausing.

Your breathing is heavy and your mind is on fire as you frantically try to
blindly adapt to your surroundings, taking in any smells or breezes that
might give you a hint as to where you are. Trying your best to guess
what is about to happen, even though in perfect Sunny-tradition, you
know there’s no use in even trying. He has a way of surprising you with
the obvious, words and experiences that make perfect sense the
moment you’re introduced to them. Proving again and again that you
can trust each and every one of his talents.

“Wanna take a stab at it?”

“Well….. we’re outside.”

“Wow, look out. She’s a magic eight ball.”

“Sorry, um….. I can hear the ocean.” Your laughter is so sweet and
lovely, with the gentle gloss of your retort fizzing through it. Vanilla ice
cream floating in a frosted glass, overflowing with root beer foam. “My
anxiety is through the roof. How much longer are you going to make
me wait?”

His mouth meets your ear, “you love when I make you wait, don’t you?”
Sam snuggles up behind you, his arms squeezing around your waist as
he sweeps your hair from your shoulder and blows a puff of cool air
against the back of your neck. His hand spreads out over your tummy

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to both soothe and spur the butterflies already flying there. “’Kay, let
go.”

Slipping the blindfold off is one of the more disorienting experiences

you’ve had, with adjusting to your surroundings at whiplash speeds
with a tidal wave of emotion hovering just over your head, ready to
knock you down. And in an instant, you know exactly where you are.

The lights inside of the small building are clicking off one by one,
saving the name of the establishment written in cursive neon lights until
last, grapefruit pink breaking off into blackened silence.

Susie Q’s.

The faithful diner just a few blocks from your old duplex in Malibu,
where you and Nettie had milkshakes the morning after Chubby’s and
Sam plowed down everyone in his path for a chance to talk to you. The
diner where you would often indulge in celebratory root beer floats after
particularly great performances. The diner where you and Sam had
become somewhat regulars for Sunday morning pancakes while you
were dating. The diner where you picked up an order of waffles for your
lover at midnight, only to have your life tossed up in the air the
following morning. Your favorite diner in Malibu. Your favorite diner in
the whole world.

Fuck, Honeymoon. Is it haunting you too? I barely slept.

How little things have changed.

Sam props his chin on your shoulder and you glance back to meet his
gaze. There are a hundred things that you want to say, but your mind
stumbles over every half-sentence. Instead, you cup his cheek and
brush the tips of your noses together, whispering a soft thank you, Sam
before sealing your lips in a kiss to swallow his loving hum.

The parking lot is empty aside from the loaner car and another one
parked by itself underneath the street lamp. Since you’re well
acquainted with this diner, you happen to know that it typically stays
open until one o’clock in the morning. And since it’s nowhere near one
o’clock in the morning, you surmise that Sam arranged to have the
restaurant close to the public a couple hours early so that the two of
you could have the place to yourself.

Slipping your fingers together, Sam walks you to the backdoor right as
the chef walks out, who accepts a folded fifty-dollar bill before
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exchanging it for a key in Sam’s open palm. “Don’t forget to lock up on

the way out, brother.” He pats Sam on the shoulder and smiles at you
on his way out, with Sam’s cool gratitude following behind him on the
silky breeze.

Inside, the chairs are all put up on the watermelon pink plexiglass
tables, the jukebox softly glowing near the wall of windows. Sam turns
only a few lights on to keep it a bit dark and romantic and then covers
your eyes with his palms, maneuvering you through the tables to sit
you down on the center red vinyl stool at the counter. “Keep ’em
closed.”

Strolling around behind the counter, Sam tugs his matchbook out of his
trouser pocket and lights two pink tapered candlesticks that the chef
has set out for him. Then he honors your favorite scent in the world, by
the extinguishing of a flame with his wet fingertips. Cementing yet
another warm memory tied to the fragrance of heather gray cashmere
smoke, the scent of slowing down. The scent of satisfaction. Your
favorite.

Sam rings the cook’s call bell twice as a signal for you to open your
eyes. And when you do, you first find a vase filled with five happy
Sunflowers. Next you see a bottle of rosé brut with a pair of flute
glasses and two place settings side-by-side, with one directly in front of
you. The napkin tucked beside your plate has a joint rolled in tissue-
thin pink paper and a book of matches gently nestled underneath. On
your plate is a breakfast menu and on top of that, a key attached to a
keychain that spells out Malibu in cursive, with a palm tree curling
around behind the u.

Sam is wearing a chef’s apron, his palms spread out wide on the
counter, his head angled towards you with a lock of hair slicing into the
corner of his grin. “Hi.”

Your mouth slowly curls into a smile. “Hello, Sunshine.”

“What d’you want for breakfast, Cherry? Whatever your heart desires.
I’ve gotten pretty fuckin’ good at this, by the way. Just haven’t had a
shot to show you yet.”

A grandiose gesture. But not by way of money or artificial, cliché

romance. It’s grandiose in thought. Sam is perfectly sentimental,
thoughtful and easy, achingly classy in the most hush way possible. A
chic and soft silk dress with years of wear and tear and a little

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stitchwork, endlessly loved by all of its keepers; the Sun, the Ocean
and you.

Simply sexy.

And maybe he’s working hard at shedding some light on what your
future could possibly look like as well.

I would imagine you as my wife when you would make us breakfast.

You lean over the counter and pull him in for a kiss, slow and fervent,
sucking on his top lip and then his bottom, before sealing your lips
together with a charged moan from both of your chests. It feels as if
you breathed hard enough a tear would come along with it, so instead
you hold the sensation tightly and imagine that same pinprick of light
softly burrowing a hole there instead. Allowing the light to flood to your
toes and the tips of your fingers until you’re saturated in gold, seeping
into Sam’s hair and straight into his ribcage.

Sam cups your cheek and inches back for some air, his breath puffing
out softly. “Hey, that’s alright. I was hopin’ you’d have some big
feelings. What’s the skinny? Tell me everything.”

“This is the nicest possible date you could’ve taken me on. It’s
completely perfect. I’m kind of speechless.”

“Oh yeah?” Tipping his chin up, a little smile pulls at the corners of his
mouth and his eyebrows raise up before dropping back into place. “Go
on. Spoil me then.”

“It feels like you’re rewriting history. Not trying to erase it, but reminding
me of where we came from and how much potential we have. That no
matter how much things may change, our adoration for one another is
constant; a private and reliable sanctuary, just like our favorite quiet
Sunday morning spot. How things just are and how we’re observing
them be. Our collected experiences then and now and all the little
pieces of us that make us who we are, together and separately. All with
a stack of sweet pancakes piled to the ceiling. You’re such a good
man, Sam. You’re everything and I’m so grateful for you. Thank you.
I’m so happy right now. Je t’adore absolument. Are you happy, too?”

By now, Sam’s smile is so wide that it doesn’t feel like it could possibly
fit on his face anymore. With squinted eyes and crinkles puckering at
the corners, a small and sexy chuckle sparkles behind his teeth. “Fuck

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yeah.” He cups your jaw in his palm, then tangles his fingers into your
hair with a tight grip. “Je suis tellement amoureux de toi. Tu sais, hm?”

The symmetry of your daisy earrings, split in half between the two of
you, glow in the harmony of it all when you kiss again. A perfect match.

“Je sais.” You both breathe out a small laugh together, a light exhale of
curious nerves and overflowing contentment. Whatever the sentiment
is, you’re both drowning in it. A time-lapse flip book of a heart breaking
open and sprouting chrysanthemum and palm trees, daisies and
sunflowers, growing and growing until it multiplies off of the page. His
fingers weave through yours and you squeeze for a bit of stability. “I’m
not really sure that I’ve ever felt this way before. And thank you for
that.”

Besides, instant gratification is killer, but bonding with you slowly until
you suddenly realize you’ve fallen madly in love with him again is way
better. Right?

“Nous sommes tombés amoureux deux fois.”

“Nous avons deux fois plus de plaisir.”

Chewing on his bottom lip, Sam chuckles softly through a closed

mouth. “I think that’s the feeling of entering a new echelon of love,
baby. Just when you thought it couldn’t level up any higher. Trippy,
huh? My tummy’s buggin’ out, too. Hey, wanna hear somethin’
original?”

“From you? Impossible.”

Sam leans forward, gesturing you close with a curl of his fingertips.
And then again, but this time with his eyebrows raised in playful
annoyance when you don’t immediately respond. He waits for your
giggling to die down and the butterflies in his stomach to land from the
sound of your sweet giggles, with his hand cupped around your ear
and his hot breath on your skin, before muttering, “I save all your
articles, too. Ads, magazine covers, interviews. All of it.” It’s in a
shoebox underneath his bed, along with Frank Sinatra’s mugshot and a
small stack of photographs. Alongside another shoebox stuffed with
blackout poetry. The personal items he’s never been able to part with,
through all of the parting he’s done in his lifetime. “Gimme your hand.”

You extend a shaky hand towards him and watch as he isolates your
ring finger instead of your middle finger this time, and slips a well-
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known warm hunk of jewelry into its rightful spot. Your thumb runs
along the familiar, worn red thread wrapped tightly around the silver
band. A warm, clunky hunk of jewelry that he earned for football in
secondary school and gave to you on your first official date at
Temptations in 1965. A hunk of jewelry that you haven’t touched in
years, ever since the day you took it off. The day Sam forgot you.

During Sam’s allotted Honey Princess Hour time in San Francisco,

while Nettie and Asher were in the kitchen cutting up fruit to snack on,
Sam tucked his hands into his pockets and glanced out into the hallway
with his lips puckered, casually, to see if they were paying attention.
And when he discovered that they weren’t, he sauntered into your
bedroom and over to your vanity, casually, and flipped open the lid of
your jewelry box. His ruby red varsity ring was tucked neatly between
two soft red velveteen pillows, exactly in the same spot you’d always
kept it before, with a glint of light reflecting off of the corner.

So, he plucked it from your jewelry box, casually, and slipped it into his
pocket.

“Love you to death. Je t’aime à mourir. Might need more thread to

tighten it up, though. Looks real pretty on that particular finger. What
d’ya think?” Vague and straightforward, very Sam. Drawing on the past
for inspiration, while facing the future with fearless optimism.

Your smile doesn’t feel like it could possibly stretch any farther. “It
looks perfect on that finger, Sunbaby. Je t’aime à mourir.” Vague and
straightforward, very you. Soaking up every drop of presence that he
has to offer, while facing the future with trembling bravery.

“Cool. My stomach’s gonna explode. Jesus. Let’s eat somethin’.” He

takes out a pad of paper and grabs a pen from the cash register to
write down your order. But first he tucks the pen behind his ear to seem
more professional, then pulls it right back out and pops the cap off
between his teeth. “’Kay, what’s she havin’?”

“What’s he having?”

“Sunny eggs, rye toast with butter, crispy potatoes, chocolate chip
peanut butter pancakes with strawberries, an avocado. OJ. Maybe a
milkshake. The standard. Now spill, sky’s the limit.”

Your nose scrunches up in amusement. “Is that all?”

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“Hey judgy, I haven’t eaten since lunch and I know you’re gonna bogart
some of my spuds.”

“You’re right. How’s your French toast?”

He pauses to think about it before flashing you a thumbs up.

“Optimistic.”

“Okay. Can I have French toast, please? With maple syrup, powdered
sugar, bananas and cherries. And a big glass of orange juice on ice.
And some of that champagne. And by some, I mean half the bottle.”

Nodding along, Sam listens to your order but doesn’t actually write
down anything that you’re saying. Rather he scribbles the words
SUNBABE, IOU 1 EGG WHITE SURPRISE XOXO, CHERRY in his
big, sloppy half-cursive. Then tears the small sheet of paper away from
the pad, crumpling it up in a ball and holding it over his head to aim at
the trash can in the corner. “Alright. If I make this, you’re due for a
sucktask later.” Before you can answer, he shoots and sinks it in, then
points to you with a little finger gun and a click on his tongue. “Make
with the jaw stretches, sugar. You’ve got a big pill to swallow later. Real
big. Then a game of Doctors and Nurses, so. Hope you’re rested and
hydrated.”

Your laughter is warm, the type that speaks both humor and
agreement. Melting sugar cubes on your tongue, medicine pooling
through his bloodstream. “Duh. And where are we going later
exactly…..?” The key dangles from the tip of your finger, swinging back
and forth in the air.

Swiping the key from your hand, Sam tucks it into his pocket and spins
around to flip on the griddle while also serving you a helping of
sarcasm. “Oh, are you confused? I dunno why, I explained it so well.”

“Well, there’s lots of places to stay in Malibu.”

“Yeah? Name one.” Gripping the cork of the champagne with the
bottom of his apron, he pops the bottle open and angles the spout over
your mouth. “Glou glou, Cerise.” A little bit dribbles down your chin, but
you catch it with your fingers. “Jesus— don’t fuckin’ waste it all. It’s
supposed to go in your mouth. Show me how good you can swallow.”
After you, he helps himself to a long swig from the mouth before filling
both champagne glasses to the brim, then tapping his against yours
and mentally counting the seconds until your first hiccup. “Cheers and
je t’aime. To the kisses we’ve snatched and vice versa.”
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“Santé and je t’aime toujours.” Downing half of the glass in a single

gulp, your eyes widen when Sam drops a tidy stack of nickels onto the
counter. “What’s this?”

“Now you don’t have to be paranoid about hoggin’ the machine. Just us
and all. Put on whatever the fuck you want.” Gripping your chin, he dips
forward to smile against your mouth. “All I ask for is a couple Marvin
Gaye cuts. Kiss, kiss.” And his smile grows all the way to his ears when
you fulfill his request, as always. Always.

“Can I help with—”

“Fuck off. Defeats the whole purpose. Make with the jams.”

Sam stays busy prepping fruit and pancake batter and French toast
while you dance across the diner towards the jukebox, champagne
flute in one hand and a heart so saturated with love that it feels like it
might pop. Flipping through the music choices, your eyebrows tug into
a frown when you realize a rare moment of recognizing nearly every
selection on the machine before you. Ever since you and Sam dated in
Malibu, your musical appreciation has continued to expand. But still,
this seems particularly uncanny.

“Wait a minute. There’s a ton of Nina Simone records in here. And

Françoise Hardy…..”

Sam speaks to you over his shoulder, and even though he doesn’t turn
to face you completely, you can still see the smile tugging at the corner
of his mouth. “Mm. Spooky stuff, Cherry.”

“Sam….. did y… u...?”

“You’re lucky you have such a nice rack. Like, really nice.”

“Not as nice as yours.”

“Kiss ass.”

A dozen nickels disappear into the slot.

B8 Marvin Gaye “You”

E5 Nina Simone “Revolution”

C9 France Gall “Laisse Tomber Les Filles”

D7 Nina Simone “See-Line Woman”

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D5 Françoise Hardy “La Fille Avec Toi”

A1 The Marvelettes “Please Mr. Postman”

B4 Marvin Gaye & Tammi Terrell “You’re All I Need to Get By”

C6 The Zombies “Can’t Nobody Love You”

A3 The Mamas and The Papas “Dedicated to the One I Love”

F7 Barbara Lewis “Baby, I’m Yours”

And as soon as the needle is making contact with the first record, Sam
is swaying his hips and slicing and avocado open at the same time, his
face twisting up as he sings with as much theater as he can muster
from his belly. His wing-tipped oxfords easily sliding across the black
and white tiled floor. Marvin is his favorite, after all. You’re his favorite,
after all. This song encapsulates your romance, after all. At least in his
opinion.

And he’s delighted into further dramatics when he glances over his
shoulder to find you dancing towards him behind the counter, your
hands tugging at his shirt in wordless beckoning to join you in your
playful production. And he doesn’t need very much coaxing to
participate in playful production.

For the next half hour, any food cooking is abandoned for a heady
dancing and singing session. The Freddie and The Watusi, his
sarcastic Twist and your sarcastic Hitch-Hiker thumbs. The intermittent
slow dance. Sam climbing up onto the counter and then reaching a
hand down to hike you up next for a proper and comprehensive duet of
“You’re All I Need to Get By,” with straight faces and hands curled into
fists of passion. Sam making sure to drop to his knees before you to
fully convey his fervor. Taking on the male/female roles in this song
and taking turns dancing, spinning and dipping, silly and light.

Eventually, he tires himself out enough that he’s forced to retire to

cooking again while you light the joint and continue dancing around the
diner until he’s finished. And when he’s finished, you’re squashed into
speechlessness at the decadent spread before you.

Eating your first bite of Sam’s French toast, your face melts into one of
the most hilarious sights Sam has ever seen, but all he can do is press
his knuckles to his mouth and laugh quietly through his shiny smile.
With a half-frown, half-smirk, your eyebrows pull together as you gather

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your senses enough to compliment him. “This is insanely good,

Sunshine.”

His facial expression wipes clean to make way for sincerity. “No shit.”

“Really, really good.” It almost feels rude to say how surprised and
impressed you are, as if you never imagined him of being capable of
such a fundamental, somehow socially-perceived female-oriented task,
with crispy buttery French toast and powdered sugar melting on your
tongue. “Whoa, um…..”

“Don’t choke, Honey. Spitters never win. The trick is extra soakin’ time.
And a little cinnamon. Toss me that syrup? My shit’s all soaked up
already.”

Passing him the bottle of maple syrup, you watch as he douses his
meal for a second time and eats half of an entire pancake in one bite.
“Hey, Sunbeam?”

“Honey pie.”

“I was surprised to hear that you keep my articles. Normally you don’t
hold on to anything.”

“Yeah, the here and now is too rich to hang thick in the past. Whoever
actually looks at that shit? It’s powerful to be simple. I like havin’
everywhere to stand. But those articles of you are too fuckin’ precious
to toss. Especially the Surefire Roller ads, I’ve got a solid stack of
those.” Sliding from his stool, Sam gets down on one knee to mock the
pose in your magazine advertisement, his mouth knocked open in a dry
smile and his chin resting against his closed fist. His voice breaking
with the force required for the effort in impersonating yours. “’Why walk
when you can skate? Skate all day, that’s the Surefire way! Do the
exciting gliding dip on’,” his fingers wiggle in the air like falling confetti,
’Surefire Rollers!’ “ He points a hearty finger at you, his voice crackling
back to normal.”” Those are absolute gold. Gonna make bitchin’
wallpaper in the loo one day. “

“Sam, don’t you dare make a Surefire Roller bathroom!”

“Life comes at you fast when you become a roller skate pusher.” He
rises to his feet and pretends to search his pockets for a nickel.
“Lemme call mum and see if she can pick up some plaster. Hey, how
come Quickies never mentioned how tight your grip is, huh? Talk about
Quickie—”
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You gasp and this time, his name is spewed with even more teeth.
“Sam!”

“’Fast roll, tight grip’ would’ve been more accurate. That’s all I’m sayin’,
but no one asked for my opinion. Unless…..?”

“You’re right, no one asked. Not a soul asked.”

“Maybe I should agree to a sunscreen advert just for all the potential
lube puns.”

“Are we still on this?”

“Yeah, let’s fight forever.” Sam grips your wrist and tugs you off of your
stool and into his chest, the volume of his voice dropping to a soothing
rumble that perfectly mimics a radio advertisement. “Sunshine Oil:
because the only thing a woman should burn is her bra. Sunshine.”

Your nose scrunches up in humor, suddenly roped into his little

flirtatious parlay. “Actually, I think you’re on to something. What about
surfboards?”

“Sunbaby Boards: for a stick that grooves to the motion of the ocean.
Sunbaby.”

Gripping his shirt, you tug him closer and speak against his lips,
“Sunbaby, his stick and the motion of the ocean is between you and
me, Slick Daddy.”

“Horny.”

“Goon. Don’t you have an off switch?”

“Only on, unfortunately for you.” Pinching your waist, he smooths his
palm around and down your back to hitch your hips together. Guiding
you in a little rhythmic sway back and forth, he cups your cheeks and
dips close to smile against your lips. “Y’know my mouth is both the pro
and con of datin’ me. Kiss, please? Just one.”

You fold your lips together and hum at the little drive of urgency in your
stomach that you weren’t quite expecting. Something about the way he
tastes and how relaxed his mouth is and how smoothly your hips are
swaying together in a romantic impromptu slow dance and how tingly
his little rumbles of filth are make it too good to pull away. And maybe
that was his plan when he only asked for one and then gently slipped
his fingers through yours as soon as your lips found each other. Or
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maybe it surprised him too. A Sunny-mystery that you’re content to

never solve.

Drawing back, you kiss his bottom lip once more before running the
pad of your finger over the shiny spot. “Sunny-Sweet Orange Juice: a
quick, pulpy shot to the back of your throat is guaranteed to wake you
up each morning. Sunny.”

Sam’s mouth opens wide with a neon pink cackle that echoes through
the people-empty and love-full diner, his palm resting on his stomach,
his eyes glittering. Each booth in the half-lit room glows gold and
sparkles on the edges, ecstatic to be in his presence. “Good one,
Cherry pop. What does she win? I thought my comprehension skills
maxed out after that kiss, if I’m honest. Still got it, though. You
surprised me with that one. And I’m not just sayin’ that ’cause you let
me put my dick in you. Which feels incredible, by the way. Thank you
for that. Hey, guess what?” You raise your chin and your eyebrows to
silently grant him permission to continue and he does. In a whisper, in
your ear. “I own a pair.”

With a gasp, you shove him away by the shoulders and point an
accusatory finger at his chest. “No, you don’t! You do not. Do you
really? How come you didn’t tell me until now?”

Your shove does very little to actually move his body anywhere. In fact
the only thing that moves is a finger, pointed back at your chest in the
same way. “Sure as fuck do, Honeycomb. They have pink heart
brakes, of course I do. Got pairs for all my godchildren and cousins,
too. Although I had to order ’em special for me ’cause of my big ass
Wile E. Coyote feet. Speakin’ of, I don’t know how I end up bein’ late
sometimes though, with these massive hooves. Feels like I should be
able to get places faster than most people, ya know?”

“I think that only helps you if you’re Fred Flintstone.”

“Bamm-bamm. Could you fuckin’ imagine that shit?”

You haven’t stopped giggling throughout this entire conversation. “Can

you even skate?”

His glare wordlessly reports your insolence.

“Well, I’ve never seen you on roller skates, so—”

“What can’t I do?”

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“You can’t say no to me.”

Sam pauses, his entire body frozen with his palms in the air as he
contemplates your correct musing. His body sways with the force of his
quick halt. “Shit. Got me.”

Reaching for him, you tug him back onto his stool and push your plates
of food away. Because ever since you’ve left the airport earlier this
evening, Sam has felt the slightest bit off. Which makes sense,
because so have you. And because you know him and you’ve learned
him and you know and have learned that he prefers the method of
burial when he’d rather be a big bowl of butterscotch pudding.

Or a holy terror, depending on how deep his level of burial is.

You being here just proves that she’s never, ever coming back and it’s
all my fault.

“Secrets?”

Sam leans forward and steals a kiss, humming softly with a faint smile
before stealing another. “Yeah, actually. Just one.” Your chin ticks up
as a silent gesture for him to continue, so he pulls in the warmth from
your fingertips traveling up his forearms and even though it’s hard for
him to calmly confront in a way that isn’t pushy or emotional, he tries
anyway. Just for you. For the both of you. Because maybe he’s still
working hard towards pushing aside his impulsivity and adopting your
tactic of storing information for the right time; when he’s ready and
when you’re ready. And maybe he’s succeeding at it. “Earlier it kinda
sounded like you wanted to say you wouldn’t mind if people knew we
were goin’ steady…..?”

When you a nod, a whirlpool swirls around in Sam’s stomach and

begins sucking him down through the ground to the very center of the
earth. “I did. I did want to say that, but it was scary to admit out loud
because once you set that sort of thing free, it’s hard to take it back. It
felt too soon to say for sure.”

“Yeah? Am I pushin’ you right now?”

“No. You’re not. Absolutely not. We can talk about this.”

Running his fingertips up your thighs, a whirlwind of dripping candle

wax and half-eaten meals and empty champagne glasses spin in his
peripheral vision. All of the sugar and music-leaden air and pain and

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allure around him seems to grow in size, then close in on you as you sit
in the middle of the diner, his palms cupping your cheeks before one
slips to the back of your neck, waiting patiently for you to finish your
thought.

“I think yes, but let’s put a stop to those paparazzi photos from being
run. I’d like to come at it from a different angle, something with more
control and tact. Classy and not flashy. Subtle. Something natural, but
direct….. whatever that may be.” And you have a feeling the outcome
will be a surprise to you, since that’s how Sunny-mysteries function.
And you’re perfectly okay with that, because all of the choices he
makes are excellent ones. Because you trust him. “What do you think?”

“Groovy. Kinda powerful.” Powerful because this means that you think
your relationship is sturdy enough to withstand the storm of allowing
the world in for a tiny little peek. And Sam, he’s always known that.
“Decent as fuck. I dig it.”

Powerful because to Sam, this means that your relationship is

stormproof.

“I love you, Sam.”

“I love you, Vivienne.”

Before you can utter another sentence, Sam is grabbing you by the
waist and propping you up on the counter with his lips nudging yours.
He mutters your favorite question into your mouth before awaiting his
permission, kissing and kissing until he scoots you to the edge and lays
you back, folding himself over on top of you. Your legs tighten around
his waist as you kiss, with Sam sliding your hands along the counter
over your head, toying with his ring that’s snuggled onto your finger.
Your bellies slowly breath together, the sleepy jukebox crackling “Baby,
I’m Yours” through the warm air. Hot pink wax melting into the
countertop.

A time to just kiss, with smiles that won’t die.

Early September, 1968 Los Angeles, California

“What’s the glitch, baby? Can’t get there, mmm? First for us.”

After your surprise date at Susie Q’s, you quickly learned what the key
on the Malibu keychain was for. These past two weeks, otherwise
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known as your California Honeymoon, have been mostly based out of

a humble but beautiful Malibu beach house, a vacation home that
belongs to one of Mose’s family members. A private getaway with
direct beach access so that Sam could surf every morning at dawn and
every evening at dusk. The private entrance to the beach ensured that
he could have his own slice of the ocean without any other surfers or
swimmers getting in his way. But every now and again, he had been
known to hop in the Mini Cooper and drive to other locations to
practice. To spice things up, in his words.

And these past two weeks, you have performed a short residency at
the United Artists Theatre in downtown Los Angeles on Wednesdays,
Thursdays and Fridays for evening performances and a couple
Saturday matinees. Sam drove you to and from each and every
performance, and even stuck around for more than half of them. The
times that he didn’t were to squeeze in extra surfing practice or to grab
dinner and drinks with friends that he hadn’t seen in years. Or to just be
on his own, shooting pool or journaling or soaking in the swimming pool
or hot tub at the house, his thoughts of love and life swirling like pretty
pink clouds inside of his pretty heart and brain. And even though he
skipped some of your performances, he would always appear to cheer
you on during the finale and accompany you for a Honeybee
Jamboree. Every single time.

He took you on several dates just like he did when you both lived here
in ’65, except those dates functioned under the guidelines of now
versus then. At the house, lots of meals were cooked and lots of joints
were smoked. Lots of skinny dipping and topless sunbathing took
place, in the morning and in the afternoon and in the late evening. A far
cry from Sam begging to see your tits in that mansion’s stolen
swimming pool years ago. But he always knew that you had it in you.

And he likes it better this way.

Sam peers out of the French doors that look out over the ocean and
the swimming pool from the master bedroom. Right away, he notices
you stretched out on one of the outdoor chaise lounges, sunbathing
with your tits out and a novel clutched between your fingers. He steps
out onto the balcony in a pair of sherbet orange shorts and whistles
down to you with his fingers tucked into his cheeks. Shielding your
eyes from the sun, you squint up at him through your sunglasses.

“Hey. You got baby oil on your knockers?”

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“Yes.”

“Lyin’?”

“…..Yes.”

“’Kay, I don’t wanna hear you complain later.”

“I won’t—”

“Snacktime in twenty.”

“Okay. Thanks, Dad.”

“Anytime, kiddo. Go clean your room.”

During this time, Sam also spent hours with Aerial Magazine for his
infamous photoshoot and interview. Afterwards and in typical Sunny-
mystery-fashion, he shared very little about the experience. Instead he
made you promise that you would buy a copy and read it once it hit the
newsstands in a month, just in time for him to embark on his journey to
Puerto Rico for the Championship. That request for support wasn’t
necessary and you both know it, but that doesn’t mean that Sam
doesn’t like to indulge in your sweet reassurances whenever he gets
the chance.

And the very next day after the two of you were nonconsensually
photographed at the airport, it only took two or three phone calls for
those pictures to be wiped clean from the planet without a trace. Mose
Benson, everybody.

Fuck those dorks.

But in just a few hours, Sam will be heading off to LAX to catch a flight
to Spain for his final qualifying series tournament before the World
Surfing Championship in Puerto Rico. Rightfully so, he’s feeling
nervous about possibly botching his chance to compete in the
Championship, so he’s choosing to spend an extra week in Spain to
practice before the tournament begins. And if everything works out
according to plan, he’ll be able to visit his mother and sister in London
for a bit before flying to Puerto Rico, also taking extra time to practice
there before a long, nerve-wracking, ten-day Championship that will
determine how he feels about his chosen, wildly unpredictable career.

Years ago, he can recall telling you not to rely too heavily on your body
as your only means of identity. But here he is, doing the exact opposite
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of his own advice. Because at the end of the day, his body is all he
has.

Which is extra true right now, considering he still hasn’t been able to
get a straight answer out of you on what exactly is going to happen
with your relationship once you’re both finished touring and running
around like maniacs. But this time, Sam doesn’t push. Because he
doesn’t need to. Because you always say and do the right thing at
exactly the right time. All he has to do is wait.

He fucking hates waiting, but as always, he’ll do it for you.

And right now, the stress of saying goodbye for another six-week split
and the stress of the impending tournament and the stress of finishing
up your tour is weighing heavily on the both of you. For Sam, this
stress is manifesting in biting his fingers raw and chainsmoking far too
many cigarettes.

For you, this stress is manifesting in an absent orgasm.

“Hey, hey. What’s goin’ on? S’okay, yeah? Just happens sometimes.
Just a snag. Try to not go nuts over it, it’ll make it worse. You alright?”

Sam strokes his fingers inside of your heat slowly, dragging his thumb
in circles on your clit, the charm of his red heart-shaped locket dangling
from his neck to rest on your stomach. Trying his best to tease you and
ease you back by being slushy and languid and soft.

But you’re two sides of Velcro; soft cotton and scratchy plastic. It’s your
last day together for a long time and neither of you know what’s going
to happen after that long time ends. So for you, the pressure is tangling
you up into a knot. The evasive orgasm is making you feel frustrated
and worried. And now you’re thinking too much, and you know that
thinking too much will just make it worse, so you’re trying hard not to
think about it, but that requires thinking about it. And it’s not Sam’s fault
and you don’t want him to think that it’s his fault. And now you’re
thinking that he’s thinking it’s his fault, but maybe this just means that
you’re broken forever and you’re spiraling spiraling spiraling and
demolishing any lusty head-spaces in five seconds flat with a mental
press of your thumb.

“Sam.” With a groan, you flop down into the sheets and then draw out a
pathetic whine. Sam doesn’t think it’s pathetic, though. In fact, he
thinks it’s pretty adorable, but he stays quiet to allow you the space to
lament. “I feel like weeping. I hate being frustrated more than anything
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else. It’s so….. frustrating.” Your fingers tangle into the chain around
his neck, the metal hot from his skin which immediately transforms to
cold with the air and then hot again wrapped around your knuckles. “I
think I’m just sad.”

“Hey. Honey Slowdown.” His palm is extra smooth traveling up your

stomach, as he holds your regard with no trace of judgement or
intimidation. “Your feelings aren’t the problem and neither are your
thoughts. It’s the second layer of thinking that’s the problem. The
thinking about thinking. It’s a habit to jump in and react to each thought,
to try to control it. But once you realize that, then there’s an opportunity
to let go, to allow it to pass. You’re not your thoughts, baby.
Remember? You’re so fuckin’ good at makin’ rainbows, aren’t you?
Mmm….. you ooze orgasms, Honey. It’ll come back twice as hard,
don’t even sweat it. Yeah?”

Sam’s personality doesn’t chaotically bounce around like an amateur

using a pinball machine as much as it had before, colliding into walls
and sinking into holes and catapulting from bottom to top and plunging
into escape without a trace. He’s mastered the board now; nestled
tightly in nooks and crannies and liberating himself at the perfect
moment, grazing every button that lights the machine up one by one,
gliding through narrow chutes and alleys, saving himself at the last
moment before he can slip away too soon.

But he’s definitely still a walking, talking flashy light show.

“I miss you a lot when you’re not here with me. I feel like I don’t make
any memories when you’re not around and I just count the days until I
can see you next. I barely explore cities, I go to sleep by eleven. I talk
to myself and hug my pillow and stare at the ceiling for an hour after I
wake up. It’s like day and night, really. Sun and no Sun.”

A love-filled heart-shaped balloon sucks past his teeth, red and shiny,
before slowly inflating back out on his tongue. A lightbulb flickers to life
in his mind’s eye, the pull chain swaying through space. His statement
is heavy, layered, loaded and his fingers are just tight enough around
your neck that he can feel your pulse on his skin.

Tip, tap.

“I’d do anything for you, V. You know that, right?”

I wish we’d met at a different time….. I would’ve sacrificed anything for

you.
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And right now, he can.

Slipping your fingers through his, you suck in a full breath of air and
crane your head to speak against his lips. For Sam, your choice in
words is something far more loving than declaring your admiration for
him. He can already feel your appreciation perfectly fine. What he
needs is admiration for himself. A sponge bath for his competitive
nature. Reassurance of his worth. Acknowledgment of his efforts. A
reminder of the truth, that he’s a good person with good intentions who
takes good actions and it shows in the way he positively affects others.
“You’re so good. You do so many things so, so right, Sunbaby. I
cherish you.”

Your palm smooths up his throat as your fingertips fall petal-soft over
his lips. He grasps your wrist, guiding your thumb past his teeth for a
split second and then huffing hot air against your skin when he
murmurs. “Tu es tout.”

“Je t’aime.”

“Je suis fou de toi, hm? Je t’aime davantage.”

“Égalemente.” Still unable to shake the feeling of defeat, which you

loathe, your head lulls away from him as you tangle your fingers
through your hair. “I’m going to splash some water on my face, okay?”

It pains Sam to burst the soft bubble of this moment, at a time when
you were shining beautifully in your vulnerability. But instead of pushing
you to fulfill what it is that he wants, he nibbles on his bottom lip and
nods. “Course. Take your time, babe.”

It feels extra pathetic to slink away from a warm bed full of Sunshine to
lock yourself in a cold bathroom full of anxiety. Taking a lead from
Sam’s habits, you turn the tap on to frigid and fill your palms up with
the ice-cold water, sinking your face into the little puddle until the chill
can be felt to your toes. His calming words echo around in your mind
until you convince yourself that your elusive orgasm isn’t the problem
at all. And neither is your relationship, your careers, a few weeks of
distance. The problem is your thinking; that chokehold of fear that tries
it’s hardest to steer the course of your life. That second layer of
consciousness. That childlike voice that you’ve outgrown, because
you’re parenting yourself now and you don’t need her.

A cluster of tears fill up in your nose and your sinuses and rather than
stuff them back down like you usually do, you allow them to fall.
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Because that’s what Sunny would tell you to do. Because sometimes,
that’s just what needs to happen. And after a couple minutes of
continually splashing water on your face and taking loads of deep,
cleansing breaths, you hype yourself back up enough to face him
again. Ready to talk through it or convince him it’s okay and you’re
okay and not to worry about it and you’re both going to be fine and this
isn’t going to hang like a cloud over your farewell and time will move
quickly and he’ll be brilliant and you’ll be brilliant.

And he’s a perfect sugar-drenched pink Sunbeam. And you love him.

Padding quietly from the ensuite bathroom with slightly pink cheeks,
you turn the corner to find your lover in bed again, your stomach
ripping open to unleash butterflies and your core squeezing on itself as
you stop dead in your tracks.

Because Sam has handcuffed himself to the bedpost, the key strewn
onto the carpet. Your silk sleep mask sits beside his hip, his hungry
eyes trained on you. His hair curling like a dollop of chocolate-flavored
whipped cream; heart-shaped mouth red and cherry shiny. Pitched
black briefs hugging his hips, stomach rising and falling with heavy
breaths under your scrutiny. Legs long and toned, toes curling every
couple of seconds.

A precious rock indeed. A solid diamond.

“However you want me and need me, Cherry. I’m yours. Help yourself.”

“Oh my god.”

There’s a pause where you’re just staring at him. Or taking it all in,
either way.

“Milkshake doesn’t suck itself, sister.”

You toss your head back with laughter and a tiny little snort before
pulling yourself into his magnet, swiping the key from the floor and
tucking it into the cup of your bra. You knee up onto the bed, then sink
into a straddle across his lap. Your palms drift up his chest as you lean
forward and smile against his lips. “This is truly something.”

His breaths are trembling into your mouth. “’Kay, I regret it. This was a
massive oversight. I gotta touch you. Get the key.”

“What key?”

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Sam tries to lick his lips in order to hide the smile that’s creeping in to
deceive his tone. “Sweetheart….. get the key.”

He might as well not be saying anything at all because you can’t hear it
over the blood throbbing inside of your skull. And his agitation only
increases when you take your sweet time with him, first kissing his lips
before traveling downward with more kisses and licks and nibbles; his
neck, his throat, his collarbone, his chest and his stomach, licking a line
to his bellybutton. And a final kiss over the fabric of his briefs, before
you’re sucking his clothed cock into your mouth and Sam is crying out
in a lusty frenzy, his tummy quivering in suspense.

He groans and struggles against the force of the handcuffs and then
gives up with a huff, his body melting into the sheets. “I kinda hate
this—”

“Hmm?”

“Vivienne.”

“Sam.” Tapping his hip as a signal for him to lift them up, you dig your
fingers into the elastic and draw them down his legs and off of his feet
before tossing them onto the ground. His cock springs up and bounces
against his stomach, tapping the happy trail below his bellybutton. One
of your favorite places on earth besides a doughnut shop.

And without any further hesitation, you’re sinking his length past your
teeth and to the back of your throat, propelling Sam’s eyes to roll back
in his head before his head tips back into the pillows. “Oh, god—” He
tugs on the handcuffs again, but they’re not budging and he wants
more than anything to weave his fingers into your hair and this was a
massive, massive oversight. “Baby, please get the—” But then your
cheeks suction around his shaft as his tip taps your tonsils and your
nose buries into his stomach, a loud high-pitched moan wooshing
through his nose. “Fuck— Cherry baby, please have some mercy on
me.”

It turns out that all you needed was to feel some control somehow. Not
over your partner, but over a situation, any situation. Because of the
way everything spirals around you at such a fast, wistful pace.
Sweeping you away and sweeping Sam away and dashing you back
together and ripping you apart again. And Sam knew that about you
before you did.

And he always, always wants you to feel good.

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And he really, really dislikes giving up control in the bedroom. But he’ll
do it. For you. At least for a couple minutes.

And you always, always love to hear him beg.

Sam feels like he can finally breathe when you back off and pop his
cock from your mouth, stroking him up and down a couple times in a
gentle fist before letting go completely. His eyebrows tug into a curious
frown as he watches to see what you’ll do next, and what you do next
takes him by complete, utter surprise.

Sitting opposite him, you kick your legs over his with your feet planted
on either side of his hips. Your centers aligned and so close that you
can both feel heat radiating off of one another, but not touching. Sam
cranes his head up for a better view, just in time to find your hand
traveling down to your core, your eyes falling shut as you lazily spin
circles on your clit, your hand bumping his cock every so often due to
your teasing, obscene proximity.

His jaw is dragging on the floor.

“Sam…..” You’re not exactly addressing him, but rather the fantasy in
your mind as you work yourself up. Which is exactly what you do when
distance pulls you apart into separate hotel rooms on different
continents, with his voice rumbling smut and demands through a
telephone receiver. Sam recognizes this and his breathing falls hot and
heavy into the room, his legs restless and trapped underneath yours.
“You feel so go… d...” Your fingers sink into your heat and your mouth
falls open, soft moans leaking out through your teeth. “Oh god, Sam.
Juste là. Please don’t stop.…Mmm...”

A dribble of precome blurts from his tip and oozes down his length.
Sam feels like he could reach his climax just by watching yourself get
off to the thought of him, but he doesn’t want that. He wants you. And
these handcuffs are way too fucking tight.

Your chest is rising and falling, sweat pushing on your skin, nipples
hard and begging for a lick. And when you shudder to indicate the
approach of your climax, that’s when Sam pulls hard enough on the
handcuffs that the bedpost rips from the frame in a loud crackle of
splintering wood before clattering to the ground.

Even Sam seems surprised. “Oh shit.”

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“Holy shit!” Your laughter spins through the room when Sam sinks his
teeth into his bottom lip to repress a smile, springing up to his knees
and pinching your waist, tossing you down into the sheets and piling on
top of you. “Sunny, you just—”

“Give me the key, sweetheart.” Handcuffs still wrapped around his

wrists, he gathers your hands and pins them to the mattress above
your head, the outline of the jagged metal sandwiched between the
lace of your bra and the sweat of your skin. Absorbing the pounding of
your heart.

“With what hands exactly?”

“Smart ass.”

“Who’s paying for that—”

“You are.”

“Sam—!” You smile into his kiss and allow him to sink you back into the
mattress, his mouth traveling down your neck and chest to catch the
key between his teeth and then hover it over your face. Plucking it from
his lips, you unlock his handcuffs and toss them aside, granting him the
freedom to touch you as he wishes.

And he does, by immediately aligning his tip with your entrance to feel
the excitement you’ve produced all on your own. “Want me? It’s your
turn to beg, Honeypie.”

Sometimes it feels like your body is a heat-activated complicated panel

of electronic buttons, blinking and glowing all sorts of colors to clue
Sam in on what to tap and in which sequence. He didn’t have quite
enough time to memorize the sequence the first few times you’d had
sex years back, but these past several months and especially past
couple of weeks have boosted him to an expert-level player. In the
mornings, there is hardly anything that Sam could do wrong to send
you over the edge. You’re a ball of soft lust, bending to his every whim
and command. An extension of the sheets and the pillows and the
comforter; burning nerves on fire and wet satisfaction that sucks him
dry in five minutes flat.

In the evenings, you prefer him rough, controlled. Spontaneous,

twenty, forty minutes of attention, minimum. And you’ve got the love
bites, bruises and soreness underneath your little swanky dresses to
prove it.
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It’s in those moments between morning and evening that are a toss-up
in terms of preference. An obstacle course of spontaneity and public
places or racing back to the hotel. Like right now. And Sam, he’s
always up for a challenge.

Rocking your hips towards him, his head sinks into your heat and you
mewl out a soft cry, nodding and whispering against his lips. “Please,
I’m so close. I need you, Daddy. Please. I need you—”

Because this situation is particularly delicate, Sam doesn’t wait too long
to give in to your pleas. He just wants you to feel good, and so he
does, watching your face closely as he plunges through your muscles.
Fast and potent. Sinking in to the brim, hasty and rough.

Just what you need.

Sobbing out, your head tilts back for a moment to feel him filling you
up, before you suck your middle and ring fingers into your mouth. And
then you offer your fingers to him which he accepts readily, swirling his
tongue around your digits and nibbling on your knuckle as he continues
to work you with his hips. And then chasing your fingers for another
playful nibble when you withdraw. “Mmm….. how’s that feel? Am I
stretchin’ you? Are you—”

Without a verbal response, your wet fingertips tickle all the way down
his back and Sam slows his pace in anticipation of where you may be
going with this. He hitches a knee up to your hip to spread his legs a
little, still slowly pumping in and out of you with his eyes on fire. Right
on cue, the pads of your fingers sink between his cheeks and circle his
rim. And right on cue, and with a bit of disbelief, Sam conveys his
enthusiastic consent with a facial expression crumpling into helpless
desperation. Something that you rarely, if ever, get a chance to see
from him. “Yeah— fuck, please….. yes. Oh god, Cherry. Mhm. Neon
rainbows. Please, please, please.”

Craning close, you seal your lips together before he’s dipping you back
down into the mattress with his tongue circling yours, his eyes pinched
closed and his breathing shuddering through his nose in suspense.
You circle his back entrance in small loops a couple times before
dipping one finger in to the first knuckle. “Is that okay?”

Sam nods enthusiastically, his mouth parted in awe. “Very, very okay.
Keep goin’.” When your finger pushes through as far as it will go,
Sam’s nostrils flare before a whimper crawls up his throat, overcome

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by sensation with his cock buried inside of you and firm pressure on his
gland. The combination of the two a brand-new sensation to him. And
it’s euphoric. “Jesus fuckin’— Christ.” His face drops into your neck
because it’s so overwhelming and intense, his hips rocking back onto
your fingers and rolling forward into your heat. Slow at first as he
adjusts to the feeling, until sparkles start to rain up his spine and his
pace instinctively speeds up.

Toffee.

Jelly.

He has enough wherewithal to suck his thumb in his mouth and then
press on your rim as well, your eager approval sobbing out with a cry of
oh my god, oh my god which spurs Sam into an even more heady state
than usual, completely lost and swept away in that mindset that can
only be achieved through lusty euphoria with the person you love. His
thumb sinks into your back entrance, adding even more pressure to his
cock from the inside and your fingers are working him and you’re so
tight and wet and gripping him like a soft, pillowy fist that his vision
starts to turn purple and glittery behind his eyelids.

“Viv….. I’m— gonna come— and it… s...” Clenching his teeth, he
moans through his nose. “I don’t want it to end.” His tummy and center
tighten and he hunches over in pause to stave the sensation. “God—
perfect cunt. Perfect person. Je t’aime tellement putain.” His voice rises
in pitch with every phrase. “Fuck me, baby. Just like that. Give it t…
me... tha…’s it...…fuck me….. harder... fuck—”

Your core clamps down, hard. And then Sam experiences something
he’s never experienced before.

Fireworks.

A frenzied and curt shout bounces off of the walls when he reaches his
peak and paints your walls with technicolor rainbows, his body jerking
as he pushes as far inside of you as he possibly can, sobbing and
weeping into your shoulder. Your high sucks on his high and milks him
dry, his fingers grabbing a fistful of your hair and tugging as he
struggles to stay in the fog as long as possible, while simultaneously
clawing his way back to earth.

And after he’s gained an ounce of sense, he pushes forward in a few

sloppy thrusts that are each met with a whine, a whimper, an
involuntary blubber to draw out his ecstasy. Both of your ecstasies. It’s
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like nothing you’ve ever heard or felt from him before, with his blunt
nails dragging down your sides to pinch your hip so hard that you’re
certain it’ll bruise. Mumbling your name, pumping and pumping inside
of you, slower and slower and then still, until his weight sucks you into
the mattress with the thump of his heart pounding against your chest
like a bird attempting to escape its cage.

A long silence, heavy breathing, a complete loss of control and loss of

senses. Paradise.

Today, Sam’s velvet dream boy moment consists of an intoxicating

round of self-torture. He pulls his cock from your heat to allow his
release to ooze out, and then sinks right back in, a harsh gasp filling up
his lungs at the sensation of his excitement and your excitement
swimming around inside of you.

“Sensible?”

Sam weeps out between a couple raspy moans, “yeah—”

Rolling your hips forward, you dig your heels into his lower back to
keep him locked in place. “Et ça te plaît?”

“It’s hot as fuck— you’re so puffy and wet. Please. Your skin’s glowin’.
So, so foxy.” Sam chuckles softly and dips down to rest his forehead
on yours, slowly pulling out and pushing back, full wet puffy strokes.
Trembling breath against your lips. “I never wanna stop fuckin’ you.
Even if it tickles really bad.”

“You’re giving me phantom pains.”

Giggling in your face, Sam slowly pulls out and pauses to watch, a
heavy exhale falling from his lips after he’s freed himself and his cock
springs up and bounces against his stomach. He drops onto his back
beside you, his hand on his belly and his sight memorizing the paint
color on the ceiling. Memorizing what’s just taken place between the
two of you.

“Um…..” Sam rolls onto his side and tugs you close, laughing a puff of
air against your neck. “Powerful move, Honey.”

You drag your fingers through his sweaty hair, your nails scratching up
and down his back, your legs tangling together with his in an intimate
cuddle. “This is a really fun addition.”

“Great. Is my bottom showin’?”

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“Yes. But you’ve never been able to hide it from me, Sunshine.”

A statement purrs out that he knows you’ve been dying to expose for
two weeks now, one that has his cock jumping against his stomach and
a small wayward whine slipping between his teeth.

“Are you a recipient? Do you want to be?”

His cheeks pool with red fire in the aftermath of your detonation.

“Yeah….. no shit.”

“I knew it.”

Sam’s sigh turns into a soft moan and then a little chuckle. “That’s
forever locked in the vibe vault now. Little taste of heaven. ’Mm
shredded.”

“Are you gonna journal about it?”

“Every damn day, mornin’ and night. Like, 20 September, 1968. Dear
Diary, Twelve and a half days since Cherry checked the oil. I think I
finally came as hard as she does. Now I understand why women are so
tough: they walk around with bombs ready to explode inside of their
bellies every second. Yours truly, Sam.”

“Wait a minute. You think I come harder than you do?”

His mouth flattens and his nostrils flare in an expression of overt

certainty, as if all of the empirical evidence he’s collected over the past
several months should have already spoken for itself. Reaching for his
smokes on the nightstand, he grabs two and lights them both, passing
off a freshly spun stick of pink cotton candy. “You nearly fuckin’ black
out sometimes. It’s like watchin’ a telly lose its signal. Sometimes I
dunno if I’m ever gonna see you again.”

And then he remembers it, how you squirm to the point where he has
to hold your hips to steady you, legs trembling, back arched away from
the mattress. His name and moans and gasps and whispers falling
from your lips. Sometimes you squeeze him so hard that it forces a
laugh out of him, the kind of confounded half-ecstasy, half-tickled laugh
that boils up from his stomach and wriggles through his moans.

Sam watches your smile slowly transform into a luscious little giggle,
one that has your hands clapping together before you flip onto your
back and playfully kick your feet up in the air. Victorious and elated.
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Storing up each and every memory of every orgasm you’ve ever had
just to spray it back in his face like a garden hose. “Sorry, I don’t mean
to laugh at you. But women deserve harder orgasms. We just do.
Merci, au revoir.”

He snaps his hand open and closed in the air like a blabbing mouth.
“Yeah, yeah. Where’s my credit, huh? You’re not exactly alone when it
happens. Wait, unless—”

“You’re right.” Rolling back onto your side to face him, you reel in your
laughter by sinking your tooth into your bottom lip. Your eyes sparkle at
him, beautiful and free. “Thank you for watching me come so hard.”

“I’ll let you rub that in exactly one more time before I’m declarin’
celibacy.”

“Why are men so horny if they only have subpar orgasms?”

Sam checks his wrist for an imaginary watch. “And….. that’s a wrap.”

“Hey.” Looping your fingers through the chain around his neck, you
hover over him close enough to tap the end of your nose against his.
“You know that you’re the only person who can do that to me. You’re
the only one. You’re magic.”

“Just for him?”

“Oui, juste pour lui.”

The two of you decide to take an afterglow shower together today

before Sam sets off for the airport, compromising on the heat of the
water being somewhere in between frigid and boiling.

Over time, Sam has learned not to pack his suitcase in front of you
because it makes you sad, your eyes traipsing over his every move
from your cuddly spot in the sheets, molding like melted wax to the
mattress. The ones that Sam has to practically unglue himself from
whenever your time together squeezes to an end. It’s hard for him to
ignore your pouting so in turn, his packing is interrupted by him
crawling back into bed for another kiss. Which turns into another kiss.
And then a moan. And a titty grab. And then sex. And then a nap.

One time he rescheduled his flight.

So, now he waits until you’re in the shower or running off for an
interview or sleeping or snacking to compile his slim assortment of
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belongings; usually only consisting of a few changes of clothing, clean

underwear, a toothbrush and dental floss, a book, several packs of
candy-sweet smokes and his journal.

His suitcase is packed and sitting by the door now. Mose has just
called for a brief rundown with Sam about his impending travel plans
and when Mose asked how the house was treating him, Sam very
conveniently left out the fact that he’d destroyed the bed just a couple
hours ago. It’s okay though, because he’s already contacted a local
furniture store and ordered a replacement. And since you’ll be here for
a couple extra days, you can make sure everything is restored without
the homeowners hearing a word of it.

You’re dressed in a pair of his briefs and one of his tropical button-
down shirts, your fingers tangled into Sam’s curls as he kisses your
stomach and pokes his tongue into your bellybutton. He nibbles at
Miette de Biscuit, muttering a soft goodbye and then pausing for a
moment to watch you with his chin perched on your hipbone. His hands
drifting up your shirt to softly squeeze your breasts.

“My heart hurts.”

Sam chews on the inside of his cheek, his eyes surveying all the
details of your face so that he can properly revisit them in daydreams.
“Yeah, ditto. Fuck, feels so good though, right? Makin’ X’s in mosquito
bites. We’re so lucky to have someone to pine over. The pain is like
nothin’ else. Lucky as fuck.”

“I’ll be thinking about your mouth. Your legs. Your brain. And your
bellybutton.”

“Belly—” He pinches your hip bone, “I’ll be stewin’ on ta chatte. J’aime

ton amour. C’est parfait. Parfait pour moi, je sais cela. Suis-je parfait
pour toi?”

“Parfait. Je t’aime.”

“Maybe we’re both masochists.”

Your gaze traipses across his eyes and nose, his cheeks. His freckles
and his rarity. You watch as he licks his lips and his heart-shaped
mouth relaxes, shiny and soft like bubblegum, appealing enough to not
lose focus on. “I know we’re both masochists.”

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Sliding down the bed, Sam wraps his fingers around your foot and then
lifts it to his ear like a telephone. “Ring ring. Allô? Feelin’ real crummy
right now, mama. Down the tubes.” He pauses and glances at the
bottom of your foot before planting a big wet tickly kiss there, your
squeal of disagreement only egging him on as he kisses the inside of
your ankle, your shin, your knee. His fingers tickling ten soft lines up
the back of your thighs. “Six more weeks.”

“Six of them.”

Sam pauses for a while, his attention flying to the wall and his eyes
glazing over with concentration.

“Are you getting sad?”

“Nah. No, I mean, yeah. But I’m just tryin’ to figure out how many days
that is.” Your laugh is coated in powdered sugar and when Sam snaps
his attention to you, his smile grows fast and strong before a little
chuckle breaks through. “What?”

“It’s roughly forty-five days. Are you that bad at math?”

“Everyone’s got a fatal flaw. Mine just happens to be a basic necessity.

What’s yours? Bein’ hot?”

“Overthinking.”

“Right, right. Attack of the Honey Bad Brains, as we saw just earlier.”

Sitting up, you drop the volume and pitch of your voice to that special
sound that only occurs when you’re speaking with utmost rawness.
Sam’s favorite. “I hate the moment when you leave, when the room
empties out behind you. Like someone turned off the lights and I’m
forced to just bounce my thoughts off of myself in the dark. It’s such an
empty feeling. It’s like extreme boredom wrapped up with a barbed wire
of anxiety and sadness.”

“That was a real fuckin’ wordy way to say that you feel lonely.”

“Petite vache. Get bent.”

“If you ever want your day to be me-themed, you know who to call. And
if anyone hits on you, just give ’em my number.”

“Wow. You’re super scary sometimes.”

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“Just wanna chat. Hey, wanna take a quick stroll before I go, Cherry
pie?”

“Where to?”

“Like I’d tell you. Get your ass up.”

The last place that you would have expected Sam to take you on your
walk is exactly where he takes you. Down the beaches and boardwalk
for about a mile, hand in hand, until the heartachingly familiar sight
reaches up into the sky and sways in the breeze.

Banana Split.

Backing you up against the scratchy bark, Sam hovers his mouth over
yours, cocking his head to the side in delighted interest. “Kiss, please?
Classic, for old time’s sake?” Marveling in the tears pooling in your
eyes, he waits for his special nod before folding your lips together. He
sucks on your tongue, doing everything in his mental power to transfer
his strength to you, and vice versa.

He wants to wash away all of the sordid history that the two of you
share at this tree, but that would defeat the entire purpose of why this
tree evokes so many emotions. It tingles and it hurts. It feels good and
it feels bad. Just like life.

Inching back, Sam stays close enough that he can deliver his next
statement against your lips. “Gonna fill you up like a Twinkie next time I
see you.”

You burst out laughing. “Oh— my god. That visual.”

The sound effect that he makes to punctuate his joke sounds a lot like
a water balloon bursting inside of an angel food cake, muffled by its
sugary doughy walls.

“Sam! Stop.”

“I imagine if we had a tiny little microphone, that’s what it would sound

like.”

“You’re sick.”

“Sometimes you’re a sugar cookie and sometimes you’re a Twinkie,

dependin’ on the mood. I’m hungry all of a sudden?” Catching your
swat, he weaves your fingers together and lets them drop to your

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sides. His other hand plays with the Peace ring dangling around your
neck as he harnesses some bravery, licking his lips to quell his nerves.
“Hey….. would you follow me?”

“Oh, well….. where?”

He sucks on his bottom lip. “I dunno for sure, Honey. Anywhere.

Everywhere. Wherever the sun shines. I don’t have a chosen
destination in mind. Wherever we’d end up. I mean, just….. be with
me? All over. Nomad city, population Sunny and Cherry.”

Yeah? Where’s home?

Wherever the sun shines.

You take a moment to understand what he’s asking you and the true
depth behind the question. It could be as simple as him asking you if
you’d travel to see him from time to time. It could be as deep as him
asking you to be his companion on his mysterious winding life-tour of
earth that hasn’t stopped for eleven years, ever since his dad kicked
him out of the house at seventeen.

Would you follow him anywhere? Would you follow him anywhere and
never stop? Could you? Could you exist as an airborne seedling, no
certain home base or one in sight, but rather allow Sam to be your
home? Existing to follow the Sun?

Sam feels like the luckiest man on the planet watching your face
change; four-leaf clovers blossoming up from the ground around your
feet, pennies rolling in winding circles, shooting stars burning across
the sky, a pair of fuzzy dice swinging from a rearview mirror, a rainbow
framing the loving lean you both have against Banana Split’s trunk.

Your eyes gloss over with tears, your smile slowly growing until you
sink your teeth into your bottom lip and nod. “I like the sound of that. I’ll
think really hard about it. Or maybe I won’t think about it very hard at
all. Time will tell?”

It’s not a no. So, to Sam, it’s basically a yes.

He smiles and starts singing against your lips, quietly, his best Little
Peggy March impression. “I love him, I love him. And where he goes,
I’ll follow, I’ll follow, I’ll follow.”

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And it delights but doesn’t exactly surprise him when you sing right
back, quietly, right against his lips. “There isn’t an ocean too deep, a
mountain so high it can keep, keep me away.”

You breathe in his little chuckle, his softest one. The oozy raspberry
chocolate truffle kind. “You get it.”

October 13th, 1968 Aguadilla, Puerto Rico

It’s about two hours before dusk and Sam is feeling a little short on luck
at the moment. It’s exceptionally hard to find a private place in the
ocean to practice when there is a Surfing Championship vibrating on
the horizon, with hundreds of people milling about armed with the same
plans he had. And just about an hour ago, he’d ventured out to that
same market he visited yesterday in search of their stellar tostones.
The one about a half mile from his small, rented cabana. The one that
just so happened to close early today, for reasons that still make no
fucking sense to him.

And just about thirty minutes ago, he’d tried to call you again, for the
third day in a row to no avail. It had crossed his mind to try and give
Bug a call just to make sure that you’re alive and well, but he knows
that you don’t particularly like it when he does things like that. So, he
sat on his restless hands and buried his impulsivity, instead whipping
out his journal to allow his feelings to bleed out onto the pink page.

The last time you two spoke, you were preparing to finish up your tour.
Your final performance of the season was last night and Sam had
made sure to send you two bouquets of sunflowers rather than one,
along with adding an extra Honeybee Jamboree to your greenroom
rider and an order of French fries. It’s not so much that he needs you to
tell him that you were amazing to understand it as truth. And it’s not so
much that he needs to hear a thank you in order to feel your
appreciation, but it’s more relating to the fact that he would just like to
hear the sound of your voice if possible. The Championship starts in a
couple days and he’s more nervous than he would like to admit anyone
out loud, except for you. He needs you to know that he’s wigging out.

Three days ago, Sam asked you what your plans were after tour
ended. And you gave him the same answer that you always give him,
which is that you were heading home. Each time he asked you the
same question he’d hope for a different answer, but it seemed like your

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heart was set on finding a little bit of familiarity before making any more
big life decisions. Which he understands. Touring is insanely hard on
the mind and body.

But selfishly, Sam is worried that he’s not going to have an opportunity
to speak to you before the biggest moment in his surfing career thus
far. And maybe he’s also a little pissed that you wouldn’t try your
hardest to prioritize him, at least in some capacity. A single notion, any
notion.

A harsh ringing cuts through the quiet of room and before answering,
Sam lights a cotton candy cigarette which he knows will only be
smoked half-way. But he lights it anyway, before swiping the receiver
from the telephone. “Hi.”

“It’s Benson. Beaches are pretty clear in comparison to the past couple
days. I think it’s best if you head out there now. Do you want me to join
you?”

“Nah, that’s alright. I’ll put my suit on now. Thanks, Mose.”

Upon receiving the green light, Sam pulls on his swim trunks and
gathers his wet suit under his arm, along with some zinc for his nose
and a pack of smokes. He swings open his front door, swiping his keys
from the foyer table and then turning to step out into the hot sunshine.

And he certainly wasn’t expecting to see you standing here. In a little

baby dress with a small stack of sizable suitcases resting beside your
strappy sandals, indicating that you plan on being here, or anywhere,
with him for much, much longer than a weekend.

Sam’s mouth parts in astonishment, his hands flying up to cup his

cheeks before they slip down to cover his mouth. Watching you, he
blinks twice before doubling over and erupting in a loud, immense
cackle, proving himself to consistently be the best person in the whole
world to surprise. Straightening, he holds his arms above his head in
victory, a piece of chewing gum popping between his teeth. “Holy shit!
Jump the fuck back! Sweet Cherry pie?” His fists fall to his shoulders in
another little pump of victory, of astonishment. Of sheer joy. “No
goddamn motherfuckin‘ way. For me? Shut the fuck up. Hello? What
are you doin’ here?!”

“’Talking shit. Grooving. Sex.’ Rock Paper Scissors? I win, I stay. You
win, I don’t leave?”

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“You read it…..” His gaze travels down to your fist hanging in the air,
unfaltering in your desire to play to win. “Oh my fuckin’ god. ’Kay.”

You both throw your shapes and Sam gathers your hand in his without
even bothering to acknowledge the outcome, tugging you into his arms
and cupping the back of your neck for a long-winded kiss that sucks air
straight to the back of his throat, setting his lungs on fire. Then he
wraps you up into a hug, sponging a wet kiss to your cheek before
squeezing you tight. And you melt into him just right, his cheek
smooshed up against the crown of your head.

“Here for me? To watch? Cheer your lover on? To stay?”

Witnessing city after city wake up to the fact that Sam is the best surfer
on earth might just be the most fun you’ve ever had. The ocean kisses
the board he rides on.

“To watch you kick everyone’s ass while I taunt people from the
sidelines, yes. To stay, et cetera. Whatever happens. I’m here for you.
For us. Hi, Sunshine.” You toss your arms up in the air and sway side
to side, loudly singing your best Little Peggy March Impression. “He’ll
always be my true love, my true love, my true love. From now until
forever, forever, forever.”

You get it. He gets it.

His grin is so bright that it could light up the entire earth if he needed to.
Shaking his head slowly in disbelief, the tip of Sam’s nose reddens as
he sniffles and rubs it with his knuckle. “Hi. Gonna reduce a grown man
to tears, Cherry pop.” He sucks on his bottom lip before sinking his
teeth in the plush skin. “How’d you know where I was stayin’? We
haven’t talked since I landed. You’ve been MIA and now I know why.”

“People talk. My manager let me know. She keeps tabs on your per my
instruction.”

“Wow. Stalker. Wouldn’t it be killer if Mose and Roach got together

because of us and our obsessive needs? A love story for the ages.
Couple of Cupids.”

“Or if you and Roach got together.”

“Hey!”

“Nevermind, I think you’d both be fighting for dominance too much.”

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“Well, we both know who’d win.”

“Aww, you sound just like her.”

“’Kay, enough.” Sam picks up your suitcases and places them in his
foyer before pointing to his pink surfboard, propped up against the side
of his teal cabana and baking in the sun like strawberry pie. “I was just
’bout to make some shapes in the water. Wanna come with? Need
anything? Got an itsy bitsy teenie weenie yellow polka dot bikini on
under that little dress?”

You pull down the neck of your dress to show him your cherry red bikini
underneath.

“Alright— sick. Holy shit, I can’t believe you’re here. Fuckin’ shocked
the shit out of me to see you standin’ here when I opened to door. I’m
still recovering. This is easily the nicest, most romantic shit anyone has
ever pulled for me. I love it. Je t’aime tellement. Holy— am I gonna cry
right now?” Sam rubs his eyes with the heels of his hands, “Jesus…..
yeah. Here she comes.”

Mostly the gesture behind it; the timing of you boarding the first plane
you could catch after your final performance of tour, traveling a long
distance on your own to an unfamiliar place. The surprise that you
cooked up and served all by yourself. You’re completely different and
exactly the same. Just for him.

Just right for him.

“Sam.” All you can do is nibble on your bottom lip at the sight of his
chin quivering and red-rimmed eyes, a splash of sadness dripping
around your heart at the physical evidence of the toll this relationship
has taken on him. It would appear as though that up until this moment,
he was unsure of your conviction and maybe harbored fear over this
not working out the way he wished it would. But it has. You’re both
getting your wish and it’s so overwhelming for him that he’s shedding
actual happy tears over it. And it’s incredibly endearing. As earnest as
it is heartbreaking. “We’re together now. Steady. Just for us. Je t’aime.”

Just right for you.

Because he’s here and you’re here and he’s grown and you’re grown.

“That was a fuckin’ vow, Honey.” Pulling you close, he whispers kiss,
please against your lips and then hums at your obedience, taking slow,

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sweet sips of your tongue before drawing back to mutter, “alright, I

gotta practice. We can boom-boom in a couple hours. Ready?”

Nodding, you swipe a couple towels drying off on the back of lounge
chair and flip them over your shoulder. “Do you need my help with
anything?”

Sam picks up his board and then scans the area around him, sliding
his heart-shaped sunglasses onto his nose and then pointing to the
table right beside you with a nod of his head.

“Hand me the sex wax, babe?”

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Here Comes The Sun // Aerial Magazine

Here Comes the Sun // One on One with the Elusive Sam White

The world-famous ex-trapeze star, who has traded the sky for the sea,
gives Aerial Magazine an exclusive interview about everything under
the sun.

For those of us who dwell on land, it’s easy to forget that more than
seventy percent of the earth is composed of ocean. Sixty percent of our
bodies are also composed of salt water. It’s a powerful life force, a
chaotic mystery, powered by tides, wind, the rotational force of the
planet and the sun. The ocean is a universe as cosmic and vast as
outer space, right below our feet and our noses that we’ll likely never
fully traverse in our time on this planet.

Becoming acquainted with merely the surface of the ocean is

something that a lot of us may never experience, but will instead gawk
at with a sense of awe and amazement. Because it’s risky, it’s
daunting, it’s unpredictable. It’s a terror. And one must be a terror
themselves to outsmart it, or at least be radical enough to try.

Born and raised in England, Sam has led a life that most of us will only
ever watch on film screens or read about in books. He dropped out of
high school and fled home as a young teenager to join a traveling
European circus, working his way up from shoveling elephant
droppings and slinging cotton candy to becoming the world’s most
renowned trapeze artist. Even then, Sam withheld a high degree of
secrecy, never giving more than single-phrase answers in interviews
and avoiding public speculation at all costs. That tendency only
increased when he disappeared without a trace for over a year, only to
resurface in California with a new gig and a new trapeze partner in tow.
And then the pattern repeated once again, but this time with a whole
new surfing career and outlook on life.

Credit is due to Mr. White for pioneering a major and possibly

permanent shift in surfing and tournaments. Before Sam had made a
splash in the world of professional surfing, most surfers defaulted to
long, eight-and-a-half foot boards for their practice and competitions.
Longer boards are slow and not as easy to maneuver, but their large
size does facilitate paddling and wave-catching. Shorter boards are
quick, easy to turn on and flashy in the waves. However, that also
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means they require a lot of extra experience to ride, as they’re more

difficult to paddle due to the fact that they create less foam in the water.
Less board space also means less balance and less area to stand on,
making them harder for beginners to learn on.

From what Sam has shown us, once the short boards are mastered,
the air that can be caught and the tricks that can be accomplished are
well worth the training and potential danger. Which is exactly why the
professional surfing realm is rapidly following in his footsteps in order to
keep up. Proving himself once again to be an adrenaline-junkie and
trendsetter, simply by following his heart.

On a typically balmy, sunny summer day in Los Angeles, Mr. White and
I meet at a quiet beach spot of his choosing. He’s already there when
the photographer and I arrive, with a pink Mini Cooper parked in the
sand and his surfboard strapped on top. White explains that he’s been
here for hours already, riding waves under the sunrise and then eating
a large meal before napping in the sand with his T-shirt draped over his
face. In the backseat of his rental car, there is a horribly tattered copy
of J.D. Salinger’s Franny and Zooey which he claims to have read over
a dozen times, two open and squashed packs of pink cigarettes, a
couple changes of clothing, a pair of heart-shaped sunglasses, suntan
oil and a well-loved journal that appears to be on it’s last leg.

At first, I am nervous to be in his presence. Not only because of the

unspoken energy he exudes, but because the opportunity to be in his
presence is unheard-of and a first for one of the most paradoxically
prominent and elusive athletes in the industry. Why he chooses to
speak with Aerial Magazine here and now is an utter enigma, but I try
to allow that pressure to roll off my back. Mr. White‘ last official
statement was with the Associated Press in 1965, three years prior, to
announce his departure from the circus as well as an indefinite
departure from the spotlight, without a promise of return.

It left the whole world with leaking buckets, filled to the brim with watery
inquiries.

Admittedly, I entered this interview hoping that the mystery of Sam

White would be solved. I didn’t expect it to leave me with more
questions. Not about him, but about myself and those around me. As if
Sam were delivering a quiet message from some secret interstellar
black hole that I didn’t realize I was waiting for. It took several hours,

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but upon finally returning home later that evening, I’d realized I felt
energized. Renewed. Humbled and awakened. Grateful.

A sparrow of the air. A silver bullet of the sea. Mystery man.

Heartthrob. Fashion trailblazer. A quiet strength in public. Loud and
vulnerable in private. Most likely to steal your girlfriend. Sam wears
many hats. Some of which are rumors and fabrications due to the
insurmountable stealth he has managed to withhold throughout the
past ten years. But some of his “hats” are obvious to anyone with a pair
of working eyeballs.

Sam is indeed intimidating upon first glance. He walks with confidence

and enunciates with his hands. He threads an impressive pearl
necklace of profanity that is strung together by a pink thread of cotton
candy, which he chainsmokes like he’s being sponsored by Crush
Cigarettes themselves. His tobacco smells of baking waffle cones and
he dresses like a scoop of Neapolitan ice cream, frosted with a cool
sprinkle of jewelry. It’s as if the past, present and future can
simultaneously be seen in his bedroom eyes, but he’s too privy to
burden anyone with all of that pain, so he chooses to keep it to himself.
He feels familiar even though we’ve never been in the same room
before. And once I’d gotten over the shock and allure of his
appearance, my mind slowly humbled and allowed me to begin
absorbing his wisdom. If you’re paying close attention, it lingers like a
sunburn. Because Sam speaks in pastel jewel-toned shapes, not
words.

You’ll see what I mean.

-º-º-º-º-º-º-º-º-

Aerial Magazine: Hi, Sam.

Sam White: What’s happening, man?

AM: Thank you for taking the time to sit down with me. You’ve
competed in ten tournaments this year, which leaves one last
competition in Spain in order to qualify for the World Surfing
Championship in Aguadilla, Puerto Rico, coming up in October. Are
you scared of the contenders?

SW: Yeah. And no, it’s cool. Should I be? Honestly, I’m mostly scared
of sharks. I’m just razzing. Take that shit out. That was a terrible way to
start.

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AM: Alright. Let’s ease in with some ice breakers first. You’re stranded
on a desert island for an unknown amount of time. Which three musical
albums do you have?

SW: Three? Okay. In the Groove, Safe as Milk and Forever Changes.
Also, The Piper at the Gates of Dawn, Face to Face and Surrealistic
Pillow. Really digging Electric Ladyland and Os Mutantes right now,
too. Oh, and Astral Weeks. Begin Here, Disraeli Gears, Beggars
Banquet, Revolver and Pet Sounds are always on solid standby, too.
Shit, I can’t choose just three. You’re asking too much of me. That’s
fucking nuts. Maybe I’d be better off just covering my eyes and pulling
three at random. Are there even record players on deserted islands?

AM: Not without electricity, I suppose. Great albums, by the way. I love
The Piper at the Gates of Dawn. I listened to that album for six days
straight when it was released.

SW: And on the seventh day?

AM: I rested.

SW: Hey, what three albums would you bring to a potluck funeral in the
south? No, I’m pulling your leg. You can keep asking the questions. But
I’m going to be thinking about that for the rest of the day. Probably
something with lots of trumpets?

AM: And an electric organ. Okay, how about three foods?

SW: Peanut butter, apples and OJ.

AM: Three personal items?

SW: Ciggies, sunnies and my journal.

AM: Three people, dead or alive, aside from loved ones, friends and
family?

SW: Dr. Martin Luther King, Nina Simone and Marlon Brando.
Somehow, I feel like the four of us could put our heads together and
figure out how to get the fuck off that shit-island.

AM: Solid Crew. You’re a fairly recent addition to the pro-surfing world,
yet you’ve climbed your way to the top at whiplash speed. Over the
past year and a half, you’ve won high titles in Hawaiian Pro, Mavericks,
Oi Rio Pro, Gold Coast Open, Sunset Open, Carve Pro and Tahiti,
amongst many others. Before this, you were a world-renowned trapeze
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artist for two different circuses throughout the course of seven years.
What made you want to dramatically change careers?

SW: I had to. My first partner was injured, but pressured into
performing by our ringleader anyway. She slipped and fell during a
performance in ’63, breaking her neck and dying instantly. I blamed
myself and still do when things are particularly dark. It was nearly
impossible to return, but I was lured back in Malibu under false
pretenses against my better judgment. And at the time, I didn’t really
want to leave that job either. But Russell Buchanan is a money-hungry,
lying, manipulative, criminally misogynistic piece-of-shit that trapped
me when I wasn’t ready and cut me loose when it was too late. He
uses people, then discards them when he stops seeing dollar signs on
their foreheads. Soulless fuck. I wouldn’t be surprised if he was
embezzling cash, just saying. Maybe someone should investigate that
soon.

AM: That’s going to print.

SW: Rad.

AM: And I’m deeply sorry to hear about your first partner.

SW: Thank you.

AM: Your most recent trapeze partner, Vivienne Surefire, has her own
touring, bustling solo act now. Do you ever wish you were a part of it?

SW: If I was, then it wouldn’t be her bustling solo act, would it? She
deserves everything she’s earned and I don’t get to stick my slimy
fingers in her career. I don’t even get to have a wet dream about it,
because it’s not mine. It’s hers. And she’s far out at what she does,
without anyone’s help.

AM: Would you go back to the circus if she asked you to?

SW: She wouldn’t ask me to do that.

AM: Why not?

SW: When the universe screams in your face over and over again that
it’s time to move on, then it’s time to move on. The universe carries us
to a certain degree, but it also developed the ability for our brains to
rationalize for a reason. We have the gift of being able to step back and
think for ourselves and draw big, fat lines to carry ourselves, too. This
isn’t a game of free will versus determinism. Our lives are both,
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because nature is both. I’m capable of what I’m capable of and I can
push myself or not. I can choose this direction or that. It’s freedom
within limits and everyone has different freedoms and limits. Our
experiences guide us, our intelligence advises us, our resources limit
us, our inspirations compel us. Does that make sense?

AM: Sure. You’re done with the circus. [Sam laughs hard at this]. Are
you still in touch with Vivienne after your fallout?

SW: Can you stop a hurricane?

AM: I’ll interpret that as “yes.” Your life seems to be fast and hectic
between traveling, working, public appearances, rare promotional spots
and your ever-growing fanbase. What makes you pause? What makes
you slow down?

SW: It’s kind of hard for me to sit still for very long. I read a lot on
airplanes. I find places to play pool. I smoke. I write. I meditate. I
fucking snack hard, then I crash out.

AM: How do you handle the attention from your fans?

SW: They’re not just my fans, man. They don’t exist solely for me.
They’re people with common interests and I love them. I don’t feel the
need to handle anything. I just talk to them.

AM: How has being famous made your life better or worse?

SW: I’m happy with what I’ve achieved and am grateful for everything
that’s happened, good and bad. I don’t think too hard about how my life
is now, because then I start thinking about how it could have been
different and it’s not different, so what’s the point in speculating? My life
is my life and I don’t see the point in gloating or complaining about it. It
just is. Like how your life or anyone’s life just is. Our work is in
appreciating and understanding the things that affect us, and then
honoring and improving them for the people around us.

AM: I appreciate that. What are your thoughts about family? You’re on
the road a lot; do you miss yours when you travel?

SW: A healthy family nourishes one another equally and consistently. I

also think a healthy family is rare. It’s okay to put up hard boundaries
when you’re being malnourished. It’s okay to accept the family you
were born into, with all of their strengths and weaknesses, and then

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choose your second family. And yes, I do. I miss my mum and my
sister a lot.

AM: Do you want your own second family?

SW: Uh….. [Sam laughs and lights another cigarette]. It’s not solely my
decision to make. We’ll know when we know. I’m stoked on what I’ve
got and I’m always ready for more. I don’t want to say the wrong shit,
I’m just sitting here in my business casual. Who sent you?

AM: Well, if you did settle down, where would you want it to be?

SW: [Long pause] Maybe Biarritz or somewhere in the South of

France. Los Angeles. Or Baja, I guess. But I don’t think that’s ever
going to happen, you know? I learned the hard way that I don’t stay in
one place for very long. I’m not the stagnant kind. There’s too much to
know.

AM: The hard way?

SW: Nothing worth discovering is easy.

AM: After the year you’ve had, with one or two new tournaments every
month, I bet you’re ready for a long break. What are your plans after
the World Championship?

SW: Eat gooballs and grilled cheeses and tail Jerry Garcia around? I
don’t know, I’m happy wherever there’s sun, waves, love, baby
pancakes and mimosas.

AM: Aside from your past trapeze tricks and your current surfing
lifestyle, how do you express yourself creatively?

SW: Talking shit. Grooving. Sex.

AM: Are there any events that you would change if you could go back
in time?

SW: Nope.

AM: Not even the surfing accident that caused your head injury in
1965?

SW: I’d be a completely different person if I didn’t crack my head open

and leave part of myself on the ocean floor.

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AM: It’s surprising to me, and the world, that you had the fearlessness
to return to surfing, or the circus for that matter, after that.

SW: Fear doesn’t ever leave you. It just moves around, morphing
shape and attaching to different things. It never fully withdraws, it just
finds new meaning. New dominion. You have to keep looking in and
sharing what you’ve discovered, you know? I think that’s the only way
to refine it. Self-excavation unearths a lot of nasty shit, but sometimes
you have to level houses and start over when they’re beyond repair.
And ghosts never abandon their grounds. But sometimes if you ask
them nicely, they’ll leave you alone for a bit. You’re the common
denominator of all your problems. It’s not all your fault, but you’re
responsible for any improvement that happens or doesn’t happen. Get
me? Besides, what are the odds of something like that happening
again? Actually, don’t answer that. That was rhetorical. Next question.

AM: Rumor has it that you suffered a bout of pretty serious amnesia
following your head injury. How did that affect you?

SW: It slammed a couple doors closed and blew some new ones wide
open. Then slammed them closed again. Then opened them again.
The damage to myself and those around me was fucked up. I didn’t
process my trauma properly or listen to anyone’s warnings before I’d
flung myself into a tidal wave without any muscle or oxygen. I don’t
necessarily regret anything I’ve done, because hindsight has taught me
a lot about how to proceed in the future. But that entire experience was
just like a fever dream within a nightmare within a dream, and I went
through several versions of recovery before I’d started to feel like
myself again. A new rendition of myself.

AM: Sounds surreal. I’m glad you’re alright, man. You’ve fallen off of
the grid and out of the public eye twice since your entrance into the
limelight. The first time was back in 1963 and the second time was in
1965. Where did you go? What did you do?

SW: You know when you drop something, the best way to recover it is
to relax, step back and watch it fall, right? It’s easier to find and pick up.
And do you ever notice how it’s a person’s instinct to slow down and
breathe when we are about to go through something that we anticipate
to be painful? Like when you pull a bandage off of raw skin, get blood
drawn, or walk barefoot across sharp rocks. It’s a lot different than
experiencing blindsiding pain, like when you burn yourself on the stove
or get a paper cut, where your instinct becomes to yank yourself away

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as fast as you can. Blindsiding emotional pain should be treated

exactly the same as a burn. Your first instinct being to yank yourself
away and your second instinct is to nurture the bleeding wound slowly.
The wound should be protected and become priority. You know, take
time unringing the bell in your own psyche. Except we don’t do that
with emotions, and it’s a learned behavior that comes from generations
of shame. Reflecting on how you treat yourself and how you interact
with the strategically placed elements around you is the key to
unlocking hidden doors.

AM: Perceptive. Did you feel concern over how the public would view
those decisions?

SW: No. Why should I? Humans don’t exist as objective entities.

Anything someone else is saying or thinking about me is their
subjective experience, so whatever they project is a reflection of what
is going on inside of them. Not me. They don’t know what’s going on
inside of me.

AM: So then, what’s going on inside of you? What do you see when
you close your eyes?

SW: Warm cherry pie. Sweet honey streusel. Cookie crumbs and holy
mountains. Jamborees, smiles, boom-booms and slowdowns.

AM: Alright, and what’s the first thing you think of when you wake up
each morning?

SW: Usually I have to remember where I am. Then my stomach starts

lip flapping.

AM: You’re pretty inked up. Do any of your tattoos have special
meaning?

SW: Everything has meaning if you dig far enough.

AM: What will be your next coup? Trapeze, surfing, what’s next?

SW: Accounting.

AM: Finally, if “love” is the answer, what is the question?

SW: “Why?”

AM: The expression on your face makes it seem like you might have a
particular person in mind when you ask yourself that question.

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SW: Vivienne fucking Surefire. But when is she not?

AM: Is the infamous, perpetual bachelor confirming a rekindled

romantic relationship with his ex-trapeze partner?

SW: And how. But I haven’t been a bachelor since I’ve laid eyes on
her, if I’m honest.

AM: Listen closely. That’s the sound of a thousand hearts breaking.

SW: Life is real fucking rough, man. I get that. I’m lucky I have a person
who supports every single thing I say and do. They’ll find theirs, too.
Vivienne is the human equivalent of cutting that perfect first slice of
cake and finally getting a glimpse of what the inside looks like. All those
hidden, pretty fluffy layers of chocolate glued together with cherry
buttercream. The residual scent of burnt rosy smoke extinguishing and
all that. She’s a brick house, stone fox, badass bitch that puts up with
my funk. I wouldn’t trade that for shit. I don’t think there’s a better
feeling than realizing you don’t live in the same dimension that you
used to. And it’s even more powerful to see that same growth in
another person and recognize that you’ve done that together. That you
couldn’t have done it as powerfully or extensively if you weren’t
together. The fact that she excites the shit out of me isn’t random.
Vivienne’s connected to my purpose and I’m going to continue to follow
my purpose. She’s way too good for me, but she hasn’t figured that out
yet for some reason. Let’s not tell her, yeah?

AM: It’ll be between you, me and the world. Thank you for everything
today and good luck in the World Championship. I’m impressed by your
awareness and grounding. It seems like you really know how to take
care of yourself.

SW: Hey, thanks a lot, brother. I’ve learned a lot for someone who
never learns.

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