CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
February 11, 1993.
I’m still annoyed about my therapy session when I arrive at Javier’s office the next evening. His door is locked, so I walk the halls to find him teaching his last class of the night. The students actually look engaged, and he’s pacing in front of the chalkboard, calling on people who raise their hands.
When he dismisses the class, students saunter out of the classroom, and I slip in. He’s adding a stack of papers to his briefcase, and when he sees me, his lips twitch. “Hmm.”
“Hi,” I say, stepping closer. “I’m sorry.”
“What the hell for?” he asks. “You didn’t–” He stops when a freshman, holding his textbook against his chest, approaches us. “Mr. Finderson?”
“Professor Torres, I’m afraid I need an extension on next week’s exam. My grandmother died.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. When is the funeral?”
“The day of the test.”
“In town?”
“No, she lived in Nevada. Reno, specifically.”
“Are you driving or flying?”
“We’re driving.”
“I see. Well, Mr. Finderson, I know how difficult losing a grandparent can be, so if you bring me a receipt from Reno, Nevada, I’ll give you a three-week extension on the exam. It could be from a gas station, restaurant, even grocery shopping. Bring any receipt from Reno on the day of or after the funeral, and you have your extension.
“Without a receipt, you’ll receive no extension, and if you do not attend the exam, you will receive a zero.”
The freshman looks stricken.
“That being said, if your grandmother’s funeral is canceled or postponed, and it turns out that you can make it to the exam, feel free to join us. That sound fair?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you, sir.”
I had come here to grovel, but when the kid leaves, I’m grinning. “Seriously? That’s morbid.”
“I hear that a lot, but morbid or not, it works every time. The liars show up for the test, and the honest students receive my compassion during their bereavement. Depending on the loss, I might excuse the paper or test entirely, but in my class, you don’t get to use falsified grief as an excuse to be lazy.”
“Hmm,” I say.
“Know me well enough to put that together, huh?” He picks up his briefcase. “Why are you here again? Oh right, to apologize for some imaginary indiscretion?”
“You’re not mad?”
“Why would I be mad?”
I look around the empty room and lower my voice. “I asked you to sleep with me, then told you I never wanted to see you again.”
He spreads his arms. “We’re consenting adults, and there’s nobody here. Why are you whispering?” He turns off the light and gestures for me to follow him. “Not only am I not mad, Sam, but I’m happy to see you. I figured there was a fifty-fifty chance on whether you’d stay away, and I’m glad that you didn’t.”
“In retrospect, I feel like I used you.”
He unlocks his office. “You did, I suspect for a good reason, and I was happy to help. Sometimes, we need to be with another person to feel a connection to the outside world or to remember that we are still alive and that we matter.” He raises his eyebrows. “Is that what it was?”
“Something like that.”
“Then I’m fine with it,” he says. “Is that the only reason you came down here?”
“No, I… I need a favor.”
“Ask away.”
“But we won’t be sleeping together again.”
He chortles. “Yeah, okay.”
“I’m serious.”
“And I believe that you are. That’s fine, Sam. You have my word that I will not initiate us sleeping together.” He places extra emphasis on the “I”.
“Aren’t you clever?”
“Just realistic. So, what’s the favor?”
When I’d practiced asking him, I’d felt nervous, but I didn’t expect to feel… this. I lean against the filing cabinet and cover my eyes. “Fuck.”
“Hey!” He claps, startling me into looking at him. “Badass Sam wouldn’t be nervous. She’d just fucking ask.”
“I’m not nervous,” I tell him. “I’m guilt-ridden.”
His whole demeanor shifts, and his voice softens. “About what?” When I can’t make my voice work, he steps closer. “About what, Sam?”
“Layne went to this gala every February.”
“I remember. I was his plus-one a few years ago and soon learned that it wasn’t my scene… But it was a big deal to him.”
“It was. It made him so happy, and I really enjoyed going with him to see that, you know?”
“Yes.”
“It’s coming up again, and I feel like I should go, but if I go by myself, the entire night will just be people coming up to me and giving their condolences. I know I probably won’t enjoy myself anyway, but I’d rather it not be a full night of pity.”
“And you want me to go as your… buffer?”
“I was going to ask you, but you just said it’s not your scene, so–”
“This is different, and I think you know that.” He smirks. “You didn’t want to ask Paul?”
“I assume that’s a joke. With his profession–”
“And personality–”
“You really think Paul could be accepted at a high society charity gala?”
“I do not, no.”
“I need a guy who looks great in a tux, preferably someone with a connection to Layne, and who has a job they can discuss. You’re the first person I thought of. Actually, you’re the only person I thought of.”
Shit. I didn’t mean to be that honest. He’s standing so close that if we were actually trying to date, this would be when he softly kissed me with gratitude.
Thankfully, he doesn’t.
“That’s quite the favor,” he says, “and I’d love to go. When is it?”
“Next Friday.”
“You want me to pick you up like we’re going to prom?”
“From Paul’s house? Hell no. I’ll pick you up like we’re going to prom.”
“Touché.”
I exhale loudly. “Thank you, Javier.”
“That was an easy favor, Sam. Why the guilt?”
I rub my eyes. “So many reasons.”
“Tell me.”
“Fine,” I say, and my words come out in a quick ramble. “Because it’s shitty that I’m having to go without him at all, and then it’s even shittier that I’m replacing him with someone because I’m not strong enough to go alone, and if I enjoy myself, I’ll feel even worse because I shouldn’t be happy without him, and if I have to fend off pity all night, I’ll be pissed that he left me, which isn’t remotely fair because I’m the one who–” I stop myself. That’s enough.
“What the fuck was that ending?” he asks, glaring at me. “Were you about to say that you’re ‘the one who killed him’? Is that how you were going to finish that goddamn sentence?”
“It’s the truth.”
“I know the answer to this, but is that self-pitying, attention-seeking bullshit, or do you honestly believe you’re responsible for his death?”
“I am responsible.”
He raises his eyebrows. “You’re the deer that ran in front of the kid’s car? You’re a fucking shape-shifter?”
“I’m the one who gave the order to turn off the machines.”
“So… not a shape-shifter then.”
I roll my eyes, not amused.
“Who the fuck made you feel bad about making that decision?”
“No one. I–”
“That’s bullshit. I don’t buy it.” He slows his words. “Who… told you… to feel… guilty?”
“No one told me. They didn’t have to! It was fucking implied all the time!”
“Who’s ‘they’?”
“I don’t know.”
“Yes, you do! Unless–” He runs his hand down his face, and his volume lowers. “My god, Sam, have you internalized this so much that you don’t even realize where it came from?”
I scoff. “And you do?”
“Yeah, of course I do.” He shakes his head. “I’m sorry, Sam. I thought you were just pushing down your feelings to protect yourself, but no, you’re in full denial. I don’t know if I can help with that.”
“You think yelling at me is helping me?”
“You think the badass needs to be coddled?”
A tense silence hangs between us. “It wasn’t Paul, you know. He’s not the person who told me to feel bad.”
“I know. I’m sure he’s playing his role with complete, unconditional support. Sam, that guy always has his own agenda.”
“I know. I haven’t figured out what it is though… Why are you trying to help me, Javier?”
“Because grief is a bitch, and watching Layne’s fiance go through it is also a bitch. He’d want me to help.”
My heart is in my throat. “Then maybe don’t give up on me just yet.”
“I’ll make you a deal, Sam. You keep showing up, and I’ll keep trying.”
“I can’t promise that I’ll always show.”
“I already figured that out.”
The smart thing to do would be to thank him for agreeing to come to the gala and walk out the door.
That’s what I should do.
Instead, I lean against him. The blend of his soap and detergent reminds me of days of domestic bliss, and when he wraps his arms around my shoulders, I shutter.
“Sam, I’ll likely never be the guy who buys you flowers and tells you that everything will be okay. I can’t give you that. But if you let yourself trust me a little, I think I can help you find your way back to the badass that we both know is still in there.”
“I’ll trust you a little,” I say, “and you can yell at me a little.”
He smiles against my cheek. “Okay. Just a little.”