For Research Purposes | ✔

CHAPTER NINETEEN

     The woman patting him down asks him if he's okay. He always get the pat down and the sweat drenching the front of his tee shirt probably isn't helping.

     He finds her gaze, unnecessary concern in her expression. "I hate flying," he says because it checks out.

     She nods and mumbles a you'll be okay.

     Will Sage be okay without him? What if he meets somebody, creates something real in this small amount of time they're apart. What if Sage decides what they're doing, whatever it is, isn't actually doing anything for him anymore.

     Sam wants more but he's afraid Sage will want even less.

     He goes through the process of waiting, and then boarding in a daze, checking his phone a ridiculous amount of times like Sage would have anything to say, any reason to text him. He should be excited. He's going home. He's going to see his family whom he hasn't seen in too long. But he already misses Sage.

❧

     Sage will be spending the whole weekend thinking almost exclusively of Sam, and Sam only. The is just the sort of hell he'd be condemned to.

❧

     Sam's crying before he's even passed the threshold and is in his mother's arms. And she's saying, "I'm dreaming, I'm dreaming," uttering the words like a prayer, like she wishes she was. In a dream anything can happen. You can be anywhere. A minute can last a moment and a moment can exist forever. Dreams are unbound by relativity and time. Sam's dreaming, too.

     And he hasn't in a long time. Dreamed. He hasn't wanted anything besides the necessities, the most tangible of wants, things well within his reach except maybe the one thing. Except maybe two things, now, actually, he thinks and then swallows it. One thing. A job in the states to keep him there. He has learned not to ask the world for more than the least he can accept. Ask for very little and hope when the hand pours it can fill that one demand.

     "How are you here?" Sam's mother asks in their native tongue. He hasn't spoken Azerbaijan in too long that it feels more foreign than native when he tells her it doesn't matter, I'm here.

     His mother is a short woman, a frame composed of long, soft strokes. Everything within the lines is sharp. Her pointed nose, and slanted eyes, thick dagger-like eyebrows. She is round hips and thighs, and an even rounder chest, shoulders hanging low. Her hair is black and cut blunt past her ears, parted down the middle, and tucked behind the ears she wears dainty, dangling rubies in.

     She reaches up and cups Sam's face between her chubby hands. He can feel the calluses on her palms. They're citrus-stained and make his eyes water. "You're too thin," she says immediately. "Come. Come inside. Your sisters will be home soon."

     "Where are they?" he asks. "I'm not too thin," he adds.

     "You're not eating enough," she says shaking her head. She's pulling him into their kitchen. It is as cozy as he remembers and smells of fresh linen. There's a balcony off of the room. Floral sheets flap in the wind, hanging from her clothesline. "They're at the market. Come, sit."

     She pulls a chair out at the kitchen table, and then raises the plaid towel draped over a ceramic bowl. Honey rolls. It is not a request to eat, Sam knows and takes the seat, reaching for one. He could gorge himself on these rolls and has. They're baked from scratch, a recipe his grandmother passed down to Zahar.

     She sits down across from him and grabs his free hand, holding it between hers. She turns it around and pats the back. "My son," she says, choked up.