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“So you see, he doesn’t hate you. Neither of us do.” Samuel’s apology is heartfelt.
“Thank you for telling me that.” I sniff back my tears.
“I haven’t told Saxon.”
“Don’t worry, your secret is safe with me,” I quickly reassure.
I don’t know what all of this means. There is something I’m missing. Just like Samuel, I’m missing pieces to a puzzle which becomes more unclear with time. And hiding away isn’t going to help me solve the mystery.
“Let me just grab my things,” I say, stepping backward and welcoming Sam into my home.
He stands in the foyer, waiting politely for me to return. It reminds me too much of prom. Writing a quick note for my parents, I stick it to the fridge with a horse magnet. It’s ambiguous, but I know my mom will understand.
Gone to chase thechaos.
Grabbing my things, I lock up and follow Sam to the truck. The closer we get, the clearer it becomes that Saxon is still angry at me, which pisses me off. If anything,I’mthe one who should be angry at him for sleeping with Piper and then discarding her like some random fling. But I squash down those feelings as I open the door and slide across the bench seat and sit near him. It makes sense for me to sit in the middle, I’m the smallest, but being sandwiched between the two brothers feels awfully wrong. Sam closes the door, sealing my makeshift prison.
There is a gap between Saxon and me, as I can’t stomach touching him without wanting to scream or cry. But as Sam’s leg touches mine, I quickly scoot over. It really is the lesser of two evils. Our legs press together, and I whimper at the contact. This is ridiculous. I pull my leg away and curl in on myself so I’m not touching either brother. I’m now Switzerland.
Saxon doesn’t acknowledge me as he starts the truck and speeds down the driveway. Johnny Cash blares over the speakers, hinting there is no room for talking in this truck, which suits me just fine. Sam thankfully keeps his distance, looking out the window, taking in sights which should look familiar to him, but don’t. Saxon keeps his eyes focused on the road, his fingers gripping the wheel, his nostrils flared.
It appears he can’t even stand being in my presence. I can’t help but compare his response to how it was when we were growing up. No doubt, if he decides to acknowledge me, it’ll be with a grunt or blank nod. I absentmindedly toy with the necklace around my neck, deep in thought. Saxon peers over, looks down, and scowls.
The rest of the trip home is traveled in silence and when we pull into the driveway of Whispering Willows, Saxon leaves the truck running, indicating he’s not getting out. His empty stare out the windshield also reveals he has no intention of telling me where he’s going.
Samuel opens the door, also getting the hint and offers me his hand as he jumps out. I accept. The moment my hand slips into his, I feel nothing. No fireworks, no butterflies, nothing. Unlike when I merely brushed against Saxon’s leg.
“You coming back for dinner?” Sam asks, looking at Saxon.
“No,” he replies, leaning over the seat and slamming the door shut. I shudder at the harsh sound.
He takes off down the drive, never looking back, and for once, neither do I. If I’m going to chase the chaos, then I have to embrace the silence first. And there’s only one way I know how.
* * * * *
Two weekslater
“What time is Sophia coming over?”
“Ten.” Samuel’s sigh is a common occurrence these days. But I suppose that’s better than hearing him yell. The past two weeks have been about me embracing the silence, much to the horror of Samuel, who has wanted to embrace the noise.
He’s trying, he really is, and sometimes when I see snippets of the old Sam shine through, I think that maybe today is the day I go back to loving him. But that day never arrives. And neither does Saxon.
I’ve seen Saxon no more than fifteen minutes over these past two weeks. He comes and goes as he pleases, and honestly, I’m surprised he’s still coming. I have no idea why he’s still here. I refuse to believe it’s got anything to do with Sophia. They barely know one another. It’s impossible they’re already attached. They’ve only known one another for a few weeks. But that’s all it took for me.
“Did you want to grab lunch after my session?”
“Maybe,” I reply, not raising my eyes from my iPad. I’m emailing work about something very important. Something which will hopefully help me see past the storm.
My detachment isn’t intentional. Sam and I have made peace. He’s apologized countless times for his behavior, and for the fact he still doesn’t remember me. He’s asked to watch our home movies, even begged I take him to all of our favorite places, and I have, but it’s just not the same.
I look back at these events, places with fond memories, but I have no desire to make new ones. All I can focus on is my future, but the question is, does that future include Sam?
The thought of leaving him tears out my heart, but so does the thought of staying. I want to support him, to help him remember who he once was, but in doing that, I have to remember whoIwas. And those are memories I wish to forget.
“Have you seen Saxon?” he asks, sitting on the arm of the sofa, watching me type out the email.
“Nope.” If he’s trying to make conversation, best he chooses another topic.
