“I did,” Sam admits faintly. He wasn’t sure what he was expecting, but the guy seems nice enough, if a little schleppy and quiet. “And the whole operation didn’t shut down after that?”
Claudia shrugs. “I mean,” she points out, “it’s very delicious chicken.”
Sam shakes his head, looking across the table at Fiona. “Thatwouldbe your restaurant of choice.”
“It’s her birthday,” Fiona says, nodding across the table at her sister. Sam likes watching them together: how easy they are with each other, how comfortable and funny they are. He and Adam get along fine, but it isn’t like this. “I just made a helpful suggestion.”
Sam helps her clean up after dinner, wrapping the murder chicken in plastic and loading the plates into the dishwasher. As Fiona is boxing up the leftover birthday cake she swipes one sneaky finger through the frosting, but before she can lick it off Sam catches her hand and slips it into his own mouth instead, tasting the cloying sweetness of the sugar mixed with the salt of her skin. Fiona swallows hard, the muscles in her throat moving. “That was mine,” she protests softly.
“Oops,” Sam says, and goes back outside to get more plates.
Fiona’s dad has disappeared into the house, but Claudia and Estelle are taking glamour shots in the fading light, cooing about the magic hour; Sam is gathering up the glasses when Estelle puts a hand on his arm. “Sam, honey,” she says quietly. She’s wearinga long sparkly gown and a pair of heels so high he’s immediately concerned about her old-lady ankles. “Listen.”
Sam turns to look at her. Something about the tone in her voice has him expecting the kind of speech Jamie’s character might have given to one of Riley’s potential boyfriends onBirds of California:If you hurt her I’ll cut your balls off and put them in the Vitamixor something. Well, Jamie’s character wouldn’t have said that, exactly—the Family Network had very strict rules about vulgarity of any kind—but that would have been the gist. Maybe the dialogue will be a little spicier on Family After Dark.
Now he looks at Estelle and holds both hands up, conciliatory. “Whatever you’re about to say,” he blurts, “I know you all are protective of Fiona. And rightfully so. She’s been through a lot. But I care about her, and I wouldn’t do anything to hurt her on purpose. So you don’t have to worry about that.”
Estelle looks at him for a moment, a wry, knowing smile playing over her brightly painted lips. “Those champagne flutes can’t go in the dishwasher, cupcake,” she tells him. “They’re crystal.”
Sam feels himself blush from the bottoms of his feet clear up to his hairline. “Oh,” he says, nodding vigorously. “Um, good to know.”
“They’re the real thing, and they’re delicate.” She raises her eyebrows. “That’s all I was going to say.”
Eventually Sam wanders down the hall to pee, then stops in the door of Fiona’s room on the way back. He’s not sure what he’s expecting—chaos, maybe, shit everywhere—but instead it’s calmand tidy, a pale quilt smoothed over the queen-size mattress and little jars of essential oils lined up on the dresser. There are framed photos of her and her sister, plus one of her and Thandie with their arms around each other, so young they look like they’re going to a middle school dance. The smell of vanilla and sandalwood hangs in the air. He’s just wandering over toward her bookshelf when he hears Fiona’s voice behind him: “Looking for drugs?”
Sam turns to look at her leaning in the doorway, arms crossed and a half smile on her face like she’s onto him. “Guns, actually.”
Fiona nods seriously. “Guns are in Claudia’s room.”
“I was going to check there next.” Sam turns back to the bookcase, his gaze skipping across the titles: plays, mostly, but a decent amount of fiction, an essay collection or two. The shelves are stuffed to the gills, bowing a little bit. It’s no wonder she and Erin got along. “Oh-ho!” he crows, prying a paperback copy ofThe Alchemistout from between a gruesome-looking true crime book and a battered hardcover ofThe Velveteen Rabbit. “What do we have here?” he asks, holding it aloft in victory.
Fiona rolls her eyes. “I never said I hadn’treadit,” she says, crossing the room and taking it out of his hand before tossing it onto the bed. “I’ve read a lot of things.”
“I know you have,” Sam says quietly. He turns back to the bookcase and runs his finger along the spines until he gets toWeetzie Bat, pulling it off the shelf and holding it up. “Can I borrow this?” he asks.
Fiona’s eyes narrow. “Why?”
“Why do you think?” He shrugs. “You’ve read mine. I want to read yours.”
Fiona looks at him for a long moment like she’s waiting for the gotcha. “Fine,” she says, when she’s satisfied there isn’t one coming. “If you promise to bring it back.”
That makes him smile. “Do you want to write your name in it first?”
“Maybe,” she says, but before Sam can reply she’s already kissing him, hooking her fingers in his belt loops and yanking him close. Sam groans quietly against her mouth—dropping the book and curling his hands around her waist, running his thumbs along the soft skin just above the waistband of her jeans. He tries to remember the last time he wanted someone like this, and he can’t. He wants to hand her a Sharpie and hold his arm out, to look down and seeProperty of Fiona St. Jamesscrawled in her handwriting across his skin.
He starts to walk her backward toward the bed, his hands creeping higher, but Fiona stops him when the backs of her legs bump against the mattress. “Not here,” she mumbles.
Sam groans low and quiet, presses his hips against hers. “Why not?”
Fiona arches, then pushes him gently away. “Because my entire family is watchingThe Bachelorin the next room, perv.”
“Oh.” Sam swallows. “Right.” He stands there for a moment completely unable to problem solve, dizzy with desire. Finally Fiona laughs, reaching down and lacing her fingers through his.
“You want to get out of here?” she murmurs.
Sam does.
They don’t talk as he winds down Laurel Canyon toward his apartment, the windows down and the warm night air blowing Fiona’s hair around her face. There’s a part of Sam that wants to speed east until they get to Palm Desert, to lay her out on a blanket and gaze up at the massive bowl of stars; there’s a part of him that wants to drive north to see the redwoods, to walk across the Golden Gate Bridge. Sam’s lived in California for fifteen years and he’s never done any of those things, but with Fiona in the passenger seat beside him he thinks maybe he’d like to.
