It takes about twenty minutes to walk to the center of town. My bangs are stuck to my forehead by the time I get there, and I hold my hair in a dense pile on top of my head to cool my neck down. Other than a new café with a sandwich board advertising lattes and cappuccinos (neither of which you could get in town when I was a kid), the family businesses on the main street are pretty much the same. Somehow I’m not prepared for the wallop of seeing the butter-yellow building and the red sign painted with Polish folk art flowers. I stand in the middle of the sidewalk, staring. The Tavern is in darkness, the green patio umbrellas folded shut. This is probably the first time since the restaurant opened that it’s been closed on a Thursday evening in July. There’s a small sign taped to the front door, and without thinking, I move toward it.
It’s a short message, written with black marker: The Tavern is closed until August to mourn the loss of owner Sue Florek. We thank you for your support and understanding. I wonder who wrote it. Sam? Charlie? Butterflies swarm my stomach. I lean into the glass door with my hands cupped around my face and notice a light on inside. It’s coming from the windows that lead into the kitchen. Someone’s in there.
As if drawn by a magnetic force, I head around to the back of the building. The heavy steel door that leads into the kitchen is propped open a few inches. The butterflies become a flock of flapping gulls. I pull the door wider and step inside. And then I freeze.
At the dishwasher stands a tall, sandy-haired man, and although his back is turned to me, he is as unmistakable as my own reflection. He’s wearing sneakers, a blue T-shirt, and navy-and-white-striped board shorts. He’s still slim but there’s so much more of him. All golden-brown skin and broad shoulders and strong legs. He’s scrubbing something in the sink, a tea towel over one shoulder. I watch the muscles clench in his back as he lifts a platter into the washer rack. The sight of his large hands sends blood rushing to my ears so loudly it’s like waves are crashing inside my head. I remember when he knelt over me in his bedroom, running those fingers along my body like he had discovered a new planet.
His name slides softly from my lips.
“Sam?”
He turns, a look of confusion across his face. His eyes are the clear blue skies they always were, but so much else is different. The edges of his cheekbones and jaw are harder, and the skin underneath his eyes is tinged purple, as if sleep has eluded him for nights on end. His hair is shorter than he used to wear it, cropped close on the sides and only a little floppy on top, and his arms are thick and corded. He was beautiful at eighteen, but adult Sam is so devastating I could cry. I missed him becoming this. And the grief of that loss—of seeing Sam grow into a man—is a fist squeezing around my lungs.
Sam’s gaze moves across my face and then drops down my body. I can see the flint of recognition that sparks when his eyes make their way back up to mine. Sam always kept a snug-fitting seal on his feelings, but I spent six years figuring out how to pry it off. I devoted hours to studying the subtle movement of emotions across his features. They were like rain that traveled from the far shore and across the water, unassuming until it was right there, pelting the cottage windows. I memorized his shimmers of mischief, the distant thunder of his jealousy, and the whitecaps of his ecstasy. I knew Sam Florek.
His eyes lock on to mine. Their hold is as unrelenting as ever. His lips are pinched into a flat line, and his chest expands in slow, steady breaths.
I take a hesitant step forward as if I’m approaching a wild horse. His eyebrows shoot up, and he shakes his head once like he’s been startled from a dream. I halt.
We stand staring at each other silently, and then he takes three giant strides toward me and wraps his arms around me so tight it’s like his large body is a cocoon around mine. He smells like sun and soap and something new that I don’t recognize. When he speaks, his voice is a deep rasp that I want to drown in.
“You came home.”
I squeeze my eyes shut.
I came home.
* * *
SAM PULLS BACK from me, his hands on my shoulders. His eyes ping around my face in disbelief.
I give him a small smile.
“Hi,” I say.
The lopsided grin that curves his mouth is a drug I’ve never kicked. The faint crinkles at the corners of his eyes and the stubble on his face are new and so . . . sexy. Sam is sexy. So many times I’ve wondered about what he’d be like all grown up, but the reality of thirty-year-old Sam is so much more solid and dangerous than what I could have imagined.
“Hi, Percy.” My name passes from his lips and straight to my bloodstream, a sudden injection of desire and shame and a thousand memories. And just as quickly, I remember why I’m here.
“Sam, I’m so sorry,” I say, my voice cracking. I’m so raw with grief and regret that I can’t stop the tears that roll down my cheeks. And then Sam is holding me again, whispering, “Shhh,” into my hair while he moves one hand up and down my back.
“It’s okay, Percy,” he whispers, and when I peer up at him, his forehead is wrinkled in concern.
“I should be comforting you,” I say, wiping my cheeks. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t worry about that.” His voice is soft as he pats my back and then takes a step back, running his hand through his hair. The familiar gesture tugs a frayed string inside me. “She was sick for years. We had a long time to come to terms with it.”
“I can’t imagine any amount of time being long enough. She was so young.”
“Fifty-two.”
I inhale sharply, because that’s even younger than I had guessed. And I can imagine how this must gnaw at Sam. His dad was young, too.
“I hope it’s okay that I came,” I say. “I wasn’t sure you’d want me here.”
“Yeah, of course.” He says it as if it hasn’t been more than a decade since we spoke. As if he doesn’t hate me. He turns back to the dishwasher, emptying a tray of side plates and stacking them on the counter. “How did you know?” He glances at me and squints when I don’t immediately reply. “Ah.”
He’s already figured out the answer, but I tell him anyway. “Charlie called me.”
His face darkens. “Of course he did,” he says flatly.
There are serving dishes and chafing trays lined up on the counters—the kind of equipment needed to cater a big function. I move beside him at the dishwashing station and begin putting some dusty serving utensils in a rack to run through the washer. It’s the same machine from when I worked here. I’ve run it so many times I could do it with my eyes closed.
“So what’s all this for?” I ask, keeping my eyes on the sink. But I don’t get a response. I can tell from the quiet that Sam has stopped emptying dishes. I take a deep breath, in one, two, three, four and out one, two, three, four, before looking over my shoulder. He’s leaning against the counter, arms crossed, watching me.
“What are you doing?” he asks, voice rough. I turn to face him straight on, taking another deep breath, and from some deep forgotten place, I find Percy, the girl I used to be.
I lift my chin and give him an incredulous look, putting a hand on my hip. My hand is soaking wet, but I ignore that as well as the swooping in my stomach.
“I’m helping you out, genius.” The water seeps through my dress, but I don’t budge. I don’t look away. A muscle in his jaw twitches and his frown loosens just enough that I know I’ve stuck a knife under his sealer lid. A smile threatens to ruin my poker face, and I bite my lip to hold it back. His eyes flash to my mouth.
“You were always a shit dishwasher,” I say, and he bursts out laughing, the rich bellow bouncing off the kitchen’s steel surfaces. It is the most magnificent sound. I want to record it so I can listen to it later, again and again. I don’t know the last time I’ve smiled this widely.
His blue eyes sparkle when they find mine, then drift down to the wet spot my hand has left on my hip. He swallows. His neck is the same golden brown as his arms. I want to stick my nose at the curve where it meets his shoulder and inhale a hit of him.