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"You mean the doctor who knows what really happened but believed my dad's story because they're golfing buddies?"
I drag the ugly green chair, placing it next to her bed, and I take a seat. "You don't have to stay with your parents."
"I thought it would help," she says. "Get away for a while. There was so much gossip floating around the office, especially when people heard I landed in the hospital. You must remember."
"You were vague about what happened."
She looks at me like I'm an idiot, again. "What am I supposed to say--I was fucking the boss, who, as you guys probably know, is my fiancé's father. And I got so depressed after he died that I swallowed a bottle of sleeping pills?"
"It's okay for a first draft."
She shakes her head. "It was better to say nothing."
We're quiet for a while. We stare into our plastic cups of wine, sipping it so we won't have to talk. Samantha stares at her fingers. She squeezes her cup so tightly I think it will break.
I bring my eyes to hers. "Why don't you come back to Los Angeles?"
"I might. I certainly can't stay with my parents. They treat me like I'm fourteen. I don't have anything to do except sit in the study and look at my law school textbooks longingly."
"Read them."
"I do. It's pathetic. It's like I'm taking Torts 101 for the first time." She finishes her glass and motions for me to refill it.
I give her a look--should you drink so much?
She strains not to roll her eyes. "You don't get to boss me around anymore, Lawrence. I'm not your girlfriend. I don't have to listen to you."
"When did you ever listen to me?" I oblige her with a refill.
Two glasses worth of wine and she's happy. Three, and she's mouthy. Four, and she throws a fit. A very tiny, contained fit that no one will ever see. She does care about appearances, even with me.
She smirks, her voice brimming with confidence. "When I was trying to get in your pants." Color floods her face as she drinks, like the red of the wine is bleeding into her cheeks. She looks down at her cup. "I feel like I finally remember why I ever cared about the law."
"He killed your passion, didn't he?"
"Luke, please don't--"
"Why not? I can handle it."
"Maybe I'd rather not talk about it with you," she says. "Have you considered that?"
I nod. It's painfully obvious that Samantha doesn't want to talk about her affair.
She finishes her cup and sets it on the table. "I'm sorry, okay. I don't know if it's possible for me to apologize enough, but I am sorry. I should have told you from the beginning. I shouldn't have lied for so long."
I swallow hard. "Don't you hate how 'I shouldn't have fucked him' isn't on that list?"
She lowers her voice, her eyes on the floor. "I'm sorry. I really am. I should have ended things way before I did. You didn't deserve that."
"It's okay. I wouldn't have let you end things if you'd tried."
She adjusts her glasses and looks me square in the eye. "Please, Luke. Don't tell me it's okay again. I'd feel so much better if you called me a cunt and told me you never wanted to see me again."
"Would that do us any good?"
"Tell me the truth."
"We've been over this."
