Читать книгу Sam is Dead - Hannah Kirkell - Страница 10

Chapter Five

Sam will have been dead for four months tomorrow. God, it isn’t getting any easier. Everyone who said that it got easier was lying.

Lately, I’ve been stuck in a painful toss-up between wanting time to pass quicker and wanting to be able to turn back the clock. I’ve heard that as time goes along, the pain of loss fades into a dull ache, and eventually, you all but forget that they’re not there.

But I don’t want to forget. Part of me likes that I miss Sam—and a scarier part of me likes how much it hurts.

It is, after all, my fault that he’s dead.

But, God, what I wouldn’t give for just ten more minutes with Sam.

As I drift off to sleep, I realize how much worse I’ve gotten and how I haven’t managed to shed a single tear over the loss. At this point, I’m not sure I could cry for Sam if I tried.

I wish I could. You’re supposed to mourn the dead.

And Sam is dead.

*****

Just three days after our run-in at the library, I saw Sam again. I was shocked, to say the least, to find that I was happy to see him.

I walked in to Jay’s Café, planning on getting a coffee and going for a walk, when I noticed a familiar form sitting near my usual spot; however, all thoughts of walking left my mind.

As I ordered a coffee—black, in an attempt to get to know Sam better—I figured it was about time for me to return the favor and make an effort to talk to Sam. When my drink arrived, I took a deep breath, squared my shoulders, and stalked over toward the lone figure by the window without a second thought. Not trusting myself to speak, I silently pulled out the chair next to Sam and sat down. Although his eyes never left the page of the book he was reading, I saw the ghost of a smile make its way across Sam’s mouth.

“That you, kid?” he asked, keeping his eyes trained on his book.

I nodded. “Yeah, it’s me.”

Sam’s eyes flitted away from his page, and for a fraction of a second, our eyes met.

I’ve never been good at reading expression, but I would be willing to bet that I saw a hint of gratitude inside Sam’s cold eyes.

Without another word, Sam turned his attention back to his book, a thin red book titled Slaughterhouse-Five. After a few minutes of silence that wasn’t entirely uncomfortable, I cleared my throat.

“Any good?”

“Confusing. Requires full attention,” he deadpanned. Surprised at the sting following his words, I nodded in understanding.

Sam blinked and looked up at me. “Wait. I’m sorry. That came out wrong.”

“What?” I asked, confused.

“All I meant was”—Sam sighed—“it’s a complicated plot. I wasn’t trying to be…” his voice trailed off, and he sighed again, shoulders slumping slightly. “Erm,” he cleared his throat. “You know.” He looked almost sheepish.

I smiled at him, a little shocked. “You’re fine. I get it. Books do that to people.”

Sam cracked a smile, laughing a bit. “Yeah, they do.”

We shared a hesitant smile, and I became aware of all the eyes watching our interaction. I turned to see most of the people in the coffee shop staring unabashedly at the two of us.

“What?” I asked, unable to stop myself. “What’s the problem?”

Sam glanced down and kept his eyes trained on the floor. “Just…drop it.”

I felt a rush of anger that I couldn’t explain. “The hell is your problem?”

“He’s a murderer,” one of onlookers hissed. “That’s the problem.”

I sat there in complete confusion. I helplessly looked at Sam, but it appeared that the older man had found something fascinating about the hardwood floors. I placed a tentative hand on his shoulder and jerked it back when I felt how violently he was trembling.

“Sam?” I asked.

He didn’t answer. After a minute or so of complete unbroken silence, Sam rose, pushed his chair in with a piercing screech, and walked out, keeping his eyes locked on his shoes.

*****

I still kick myself when thinking of the unbridled pain in Sam’s eyes. I’m not sure what I could have done, but I wish I’d done something, anything.

There’s a bit of a recurring theme found in my memories of Sam: me failing to help him when he needed it most. I’m not sure what I could have said to the man, but it always hurts to be insulted—even if the insult is true.

As he knew far too well, death isn’t a disease that can be cured.

And now, Sam is dead.