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He was afraid he knew what.
Young girl, acting out, then suddenly tries to kill herself. It didn't take a genius to figure out what was probably the cause.
Michael knew that both Samara and Fin had started getting into trouble at school when they went to live with their grandparents. He’d thought it was because of both their parents walking out on them, and for Fin that was probably the cause, but for Samara, it obviously ran a lot deeper than that.
“Come here,” he said, wrapping his arms around her and drawing her close, holding her tight against his chest. “You’re shaking,” he murmured, holding her with one arm, and with his other he rubbed her back in small circles, hoping to calm her.
“What if it’s not Sawyer?” she asked, her voice muffled against his chest.
“It is. He texted to say he was coming over.” Michael pulled his phone from his pocket and pressed in the code, opening his messages and drawing Samara gently back so she could see the phone. “See?”
“Okay,” she said, giving a shaky nod, then resolutely straightening her spine.
“Don’t do that,” he said, keeping hold of her when she would have darted out of his grip. “No one thinks you have to be perfect all the time, Samara.”
“Sawyer’s waiting,” she said, her blue eyes refusing to meet his.
“Then he can just keep waiting. You are a beautiful, sweet, caring, kind, compassionate woman. You don’t have anything in your past that you need to make up for. You did what you did, you had your reasons, I’m glad you weren't successful, but you don’t have to try to be perfect because you did one thing that you regret.”
Samara arched a brow at him like she didn't believe him.
He wished he knew what to say to convince her. When Sawyer was gone, they were going to have to have a talk because there was no way in hell he was allowing her to sacrifice herself because of misguided guilt.
“Come on.” He caught her hand and pulled her with him through the foyer to the front door.
“Everything okay?” Sawyer asked when he opened the door, giving both him and Samara an assessing once over.
“Fine,” Samara replied quickly.
“Come on in,” Michael said and closed the door behind his friend when he stepped into the foyer.
“Savannah sent a whole box of goodies,” Sawyer said, holding out a white box. His friend’s twin sister loved to bake around theholidays and always made much more than she and her husband could eat and was always sharing stuff around.
“I thought she might not have time this year to do her usual baking, now that she has Mason.” He well remembered how hard it had been to get things done with a toddler always underfoot.
“My nephew might be only four months old, but Savannah made sure he knows not baking at Christmas is not an option.” Sawyer laughed.
“Is she still making her gingerbread Christmas creation on Christmas Eve?” he asked. It was another one of Savannah’s traditions and one that never ceased to amaze him. If she ever decided she had had enough of her job working at the FBI’s evidence recovery team, then she could open up her own bakery.
“Since Christmas Eve is also Asher’s birthday, she’s making a train. You know how obsessed Asher is with them.”
“That’s cute.” Michael cast a glance at Samara who was standing beside him, her hand still clamped in his, staring listlessly at the floor. “We were going to wrap Christmas gifts if you want to help,” he said to Sawyer.
“Sure, sounds like fun,” Sawyer agreed. “Ashley won't let me wrap any of ours other than mine for her because she thinks I don’t fold the paper at the corners properly, but I enjoy wrapping gifts.”
“Actually, I think I might go lie down for a while, I have a headache,” Samara said.
She looked like she wasn't feeling well, but Michael didn't know if she wanted to lie down because she wasn't feeling well or if she just wanted some time alone so she could figure out a way to sneak out of here. “Do you need some painkillers?” he asked, wanting to give her the benefit of the doubt.
“No, I think it’s just stress, I just need to close my eyes for a bit and I'm sure it will go away.”
“All right, we’re down here if you need anything.”
Samara pulled her hand, and he reluctantly let it go, slowly, letting their fingers touch for as long as possible. Then he watched her drag herself up the stairs. He really wished he knew what to say to help her. That same thought kept running through his head, but he couldn’t come up with an answer.
“H-hmm.”
“I don’t have a good feeling about this,” he said, still staring at the top of the stairs where Samara had disappeared down the hall.
