Let It Be

Chapter 29

I ran into Tristan again about two weeks after the fight as I walked out of the locker room in my practice sweats, on my way out to the parking lot to go home after a long practice.

"Nice shorts," he commented, taking the old, faded fabric in his fingers.

I glanced down at them. Yes, they were pathetic. But Goodwill really hadn't had much to choose from.

"I know someone who would love to buy you some new ones. He's already bought you some nice stuff."

I didn't want to talk to him about Sam. He was coming to pick me up in just a few minutes. If he saw me and Tristan alone, he would know that Tristan was bothering me, and he'd lose it again. I couldn't let him get in another fight.

I ignored Tristan and stalked past him. He let me slide by.

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Sam was lying back in the grass, hands behind his head in contentment and I sat holding his jacket. Eyes squeezed shut, I tried to focus my thoughts.

Sam.

Samuel Durand.

I blew out my breath angrily when the acceptance didn't happen.

"Is something wrong?" he asked.

"Nothing. Just frustrated."

Why wasn't it working? Was it because the thought of being immortal made me nervous? I calmed whenever I remembered that I'd spend my eternity with Sam.

I frowned, eyes still closed, as I thought of something new. It must be because I don't believe I deserve Sam. That he deserves someone better, someone undamaged. A perfect can of soup, not the busted one.

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I watched Sam close The Great Gatsby when I walked over to our table, giving me a huge smile, an honest smile that said he was happy to see me. After quick greetings, Sam informed me that he and Emile were having a special dinner that night.

"What's the occasion?" I asked, grabbing his soda and taking a sip.

He started to answer, then realized that he didn't have anything to say. He closed his mouth with a frown, thought intently for a minute, then finally replied. "I don't remember anymore." He stopped and laughed. "It's been too long, but it's tradition now, March twenty-third. It's fun to have random traditions. We've done it for years now."

"How many years?" I asked on the sly.

"A lot," he replied with a smile, knowing he was foiling my plans to find out about his past, which he still hadn't told me anything about.

"Are you ever going to tell me?"

"We'll see. But not today. Will you come to our celebration?"

I smiled. "Your celebration that you can't remember what you're celebrating?"

"Exactly."

"Then of course. I like ridiculous traditions."

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To my distress, I soon realized why Sam had first introduced the event of March twenty-third as a "special dinner."

They had made an absolute feast, like the sort of Thanksgiving dinner you saw on TV, the perfect dinner to feed twenty people. But this time, it was just me, Sam, and Emile and Paula. My heart sank as my stomach churned. Nausea from the nervousness, not just the scent of food. How was I going to get out of it?

I sat and talked to Emile while Sam bumped around in the kitchen. When he came back, Emile got up to go get something out of the oven.

Sam came around my back and put a plate in front of me. "Eat."

My heart sank even further. It was loaded two inches high with rich foods nearly spilling off the edge. "Sam," I begged in a whisper.

"Eat," he replied, harsher this time, staring at me. It wasn't a true command with magic, but I knew he meant it nonetheless.

I did what he said, I began eating. But once I hit my usual limit, which was wasn't much, I stopped.

"Don't stop."

"Sam, I'm not used to so much... it's going to make me sick," I whispered in shame.

"Just try."

I did, all that I could without vomiting there at the table. A cold shiver shot through my body, my face going pale. Tears formed in my eyes. I didn't want to disappoint him, but I just couldn't do it. I looked up at him, apologizing with my eyes.

He didn't force me anymore. "You need to fix this," he rumbled angrily.

"I'm trying," I whispered.

Emile came back, his own plate loaded, and chatted away amiably. He was the cheeriest I've ever seen him, which felt weird since I was feeling so down. So was Sam. It was strange that Emile didn't sense the tension.

Sam stewed in silence, and even when I joined him in cleaning up and putting away the massive amount of leftovers, he didn't speak to me.

I didn't stay long after we ate.

Before I left, I grabbed a Sticky-Note and a Sharpie.

I'm sorry I ruined March 23rd.
I know it's because you love me. I'm trying.
Love you.
A

The next day, as the warning bell was ringing for first period, Sam appeared next to me. He kissed me, which was weird because we rarely kissed when other people were around, and never in a crowded hallway with people staring. But he kissed me, put something in my palm and let me walk into Spanish.

That was weird.

I sat down in my seat, people watching me curiously, and looked at what he had given me. It was a piece of paper torn out of a notebook, a note written in his careful script that proved he didn't learn to write anytime lately.

You did not ruin it, I did.
I am sorry I upset you. I know you are trying. I just hate that you are hurting and I cannot do anything about it.
I love you, too.
PS. I remembered why we celebrate March 23rd. It was the first time Emile ever beat me in a wrestling match. Dumb, huh?
SD

Stapled to the note was a bag of green grapes. It made me smile.

At least until Senor Tibet yelled at me. Something along the lines of, "Senorita Shea. No comer in la clase." Which I was pretty sure meant no eating in class.

Mood ruiner.

At lunch, I proudly presented Sam the empty bag of grapes with a smile. I had defiantly snuck them during Spanish, just to spite Senor Tibet. Sam looked relieved. "Thank you."

I really did try to work on it. I didn't make a ton of progress, but I usually ate a handful more than I normally did, whether it was grapes or chips or cereal, whatever was on sale at the grocery store that week. I knew Sam expected more of me, but I couldn't compromise everything yet.

A few weeks later, I gave up on it. I went back to my old ways, but didn't tell Sam. I eventually paid for it.