Okay (5 page)

But I’m so not okay. And considering I’m in love with someone I can never have again, I’m pretty sure I’ll
never
be okay.

Nevertheless, I slip on my mask as we all climb out of Carl’s Audi. Carl is in an exceptionally good mood—she has been ever since she and Tuck resolved their issues in Miami. But her concern for me is weighing down her contentment. It's in her sideways glances—the ones she intermittently casts my way to make sure I'm coping. And so I plaster on the mask even when Sam's not around. Carl's a great friend, the best girl friend I've ever had, and now that she's finally happy, the last thing I want is to mitigate that with my own misery.

Andrew marches right to Tina as soon as we walk in, obviously impatient over having had to wait on his girl to arrive at his own party. I half expect him to be angry, maybe to grab her arm or growl some reprimand. But he doesn't. He just kisses her sweetly on the lips and laces their fingers together.

I'm reminded again of how screwed up I really am. I think about what Cam told me the night I told him what Robin had done, the night before he died. He said that what Robin did—how he was—it wasn't normal. He was right of course, it wasn't normal.

And now, neither am I.

Carl's eyes lock on Tuck right away, and I immediately turn in the opposite direction. Because I know that where Tuck is, Sam usually is too. And as much as most of me wants to see him, that small part of me—the coward—is painfully aware of how weak I am in his presence, and it's scared.

I'm
scared. Because I've exerted the greatest strength of my life in letting him go, and despite what Sam used to think, I'm not strong enough to feel confident that I won't falter.

But as soon as I turn, I nearly smack right into him. I catch myself at the last moment, though part of me regrets the instinct. If we'd collided, at least he'd have to touch me. He hasn't touched me in weeks, not since Miami, and that small fearful part of me vanishes at just the mere thought of his touch. But I caught myself, and so he doesn’t have to.

And he doesn’t.

He doesn't give me a hug or kiss on the cheek in greeting. He doesn't even shake my damned hand. He just startles barely instantly before offering me a warm smile. His perfect dimple is there, and it affects me, and it takes me a moment to gather myself. I try to force the mask back in place.

I am okay.

But Sam notices. He pretends not to, but it's there in his eyes. He saw me fluster and he's put off by it. His reaction makes me even more anxious. Immediately I realize my mistake. That my reaction to him, no matter how fast I tried to cover it, wasn't fast enough. He's annoyed, because he's trying to act normal for the sake of our friendship—my request—and here I am, acting like some lovesick puppy, even if only for a moment. Robin's words from Miami invade my mind, the accusation that I was following Sam around like a
fucking puppy,
and I blush, ashamed.

But ever so quickly, we both slip our masks into place, and Sam's smile returns.

"How are you doing, Ror?" he asks. I worry my lip between my teeth before I can stop myself, and then release it as nonchalantly as possible. I wonder if Sam has picked up on the lying tell only Cam and my parents have ever recognized.

"I'm doing okay," I reply. Sam seems unsure as to whether he wants to hide his skepticism or not.

"What are you up to this weekend?" he asks.

I shrug. I know his family is hosting some brunch on Sunday. I know because Tucker invited Carl, and Carl mentioned Chelsea was going to be there as well. This irks me, of course, though I have no right to be irked.

Chelsea's parents are friends with Sam's mom, and Sam and Chelsea have been friends since they were little. They had one spat when Chelsea tried to take a photo of my scar while I'd been changing in a bathroom stall after phys ed, but apparently Chelsea saw the error of her ways after Sam stopped speaking to her, she ended up grounded, and her parents cancelled her spring break trip.

I understand why Sam accepted her apology. Really, I do. What I don't understand is how he fell for her story about being over her "little crush". Chelsea and I both know that her feelings for Sam were more than some insignificant crush. For as long as she must have been pining for him, there can be no small amount of feelings that have amassed over the years. I mean, I've only known him a matter of months and look at me. Chelsea didn't just get over him in the past couple of weeks, and I can't understand how Sam doesn't get that.

And it's not like I can say anything about it. Surely I'd just come across like the jealous girl who's still pining over Sam herself. Or like I'm annoyed Sam accepted Chelsea's olive branch because I'm still holding a grudge over the bathroom incident.

I'm both, of course. But neither are the reason for my perception of the situation. It's simply the situation. And Chelsea's pretense of being
over
Sam, is just that, an obvious and utterly transparent pretense.

But Sam seems to have accepted her story without question. And just as he's done with me, he's managed to act as if nothing disruptive to their friendship ever even occurred and gone back to being just that—friends.

I don't know why this facade is so much harder for me than it is for everyone else. It seems as if wearing a mask of some kind or another is par for the course in high school, I just hadn't noticed it until I'd had to start wearing one myself. And for the hundredth time, I doubt the wisdom in attending this party when the person I wear the mask for most of all can read every thought or emotion I might possess right there on my face.

I fix my expression into what I hope passes for inscrutable before I finally manage to answer Sam's generic,
friendly
question about my weekend plans.

"I have an, uh, appointment tomorrow," I murmur, fully aware that Sam knows precisely with whom my appointment is scheduled. He nods vaguely to signal as much, as if it makes perfect sense that a shrink's office is where I spend my Saturday afternoons.

"And Sunday?" he asks, and I shrug again. I thought I might possibly consider some studying in the afternoon, but that's all I'd had planned.

"Cap!" someone—Marshall I think—calls from across the room.

"My mom's doing a brunch at my house. You should come. Tucker and Carl will be there, and Chel, and my cousins, Thea and Danny. And Bits would love to see you. And my mom, too," Sam rambles adorably.

The truth is any excuse to see him sounds good as hell to me. But if I can barely act like I'm okay when were at a crowded party where I only run into him for a couple of minutes, how could going to his house possibly be a good idea?

"Cap!" Marshall shouts again. "Come on, beer pong.
Today
, bro!"

Sam shakes his head and rolls his eyes before letting out a exasperated sigh. "I should go deal with Marshall's new obsession with what he thinks are things people do in college. Never mind that we used to play beer pong as sophomores."

I smile, gradually growing more at ease despite myself. Sam has his way of doing that to me.

"I bet less so in Columbia, though," I hedge.

Sam's smile grows, and his dimple deepens, and just as quickly as he put me at ease, he has me on edge again, sending butterflies aflight in my stomach. "You'd be surprised."

"Cap!"

I'm both furious with Marshall and indebted to him. The mask is slipping, and right now all I can think is how much I miss Sam. I'm standing right next to him, again, and I
miss
him,
again
. And in this moment, I feel that newfound selfless strength fading. The ache in my chest is consuming, and I fear I might say or do something extraordinarily stupid.

But in the end, it isn't Marshall and his drunken antics that rescue me from myself. Of all people, it is Chelsea.

She approaches Sam and me as if we're all old friends, and she didn't just basically attack me in the girls bathroom less than a month ago.

"Hi," she says casually. Sam returns her greeting as if it's the most normal thing in the world, but I just blink at her.

I can sense Sam's encouragement, feel him silently urging me to be friendly. Or at least cordial. But neutral is all I can muster.

I don't say anything polite, but I don't say anything I'm thinking either. And those things wouldn't be very cordial. So instead, I barely nod at her before making an excuse to get the hell out of there. I say I'm going to go find Dave to bum a cigarette, and I don't know if Sam's reproachful glare is for my rudeness, or my smoking—neither of which he especially approves of, clearly. But neither of which he'll call me out on either, and so I make my hasty retreat.

I find Dave and ask for a smoke. He, of course, obliges, and says he'll come outside and have one with me, which he's been doing pretty often lately. I tell him he doesn't have to, like I always do, and he insists, every time. I wonder if my being attacked in Miami has made him paranoid for me. It's humiliating, but considering it's Dave, it's also kind of sweet.

As I lead him outside, anxious to get out of that stuffy room and into some fresh air, I notice him peek over to where Sam chats with Chelsea, and vaguely I think they've exchanged some cryptic glance, but Sam is already looking away.

I'm riddled with nerves all evening, for so many different reasons I'm not sure I could possibly even identify them all. There are so few people I'm comfortable around—and one of those people makes me just as nervous as he puts me at ease. And the truth is, most of these people are virtually strangers to me, whether I know them or not. Carl and Tina both make efforts to include me in conversation, but it's obvious they're preoccupied with their guys.

And why wouldn't they be? They're
happy
. Something I can't really understand, something I only barely had a day-long glimpse of in Miami. And besides them, and perhaps Lily, and Dave, I have no one to socialize with.

When I wind up in a group conversation with Chelsea again not forty five minutes later, I decide I've put in enough hours for the night. When Sam's friend Luke accidentally shoulders me as he pushes past where I'm standing to get to the fridge, I have to hold my breath, close my eyes, and count backwards from ten before I'm confident I'm not actually going to plummet into panic in front of everyone. When I open my eyes again and half of them are staring at me like I'm crazy—and rightfully so—I mutter an excuse about being tired and flee to the back porch.

Now that spring has arrived in earnest the backyard is full of party stragglers, just as it was the first time I'd come to one of Andrew's parties. It had been unseasonably warm for February that night, and since then the back porch had usually been fairly empty, save for the random smoker. It had become something of an escape for me when I'd felt uncomfortable—so pretty damn often—until recently.

I'm about to march around the house to my car when I remember I didn't even drive. Trying to function on little more than a couple hours of sleep a night is starting to really mess with my head.

Great
. As if I didn't already have the advantage when it comes to crazy.

It's pathetic, but I have to give myself a silent pep talk before I can push myself back inside the house to ask Carl to drive me. Drunken Marshall slurs some borderline suggestive nonsense about my jeans as I pass, and my muscles inexorably tense. I have to mentally remind myself that I am safe here, in this crowded house, with a few friends and many more acquaintances.

I push open the door to the kitchen where I'd left Carl, and like the world is playing a never-ending joke on me, I walk right into Sam. Literally.

I jump back, apologizing. I don't know why it feels like I've done something wrong, and by the look on his face, neither does he. Dave is with him, keys in hand.

"Thought you were leaving," Sam murmurs.

"Um. Yeah, I—"

"I wanted to catch you before you did."

Oh?
I stare up at him, my stomach flipping with nerves over what he might have to say, and somehow a million possibilities dart through my mind instantaneously. Though I'm not sure if any of those possibilities is something he'd say in front of Dave.

"You were kind of a bitch to Chelsea."

Okay, definitely not that.

His tone isn't accusing, more like matter of fact. And I suppose it
is
a matter of fact.

"So?" I ask. What is his point? I'm suddenly extremely annoyed.
This
is what he chased me out here to say?

Sam sighs defeatedly, running his hand through his hair. He cut it recently. Not short. Just enough to get it out of his eyes. But the last thing I need is a less encumbered view of his eyes.

"She's sorry. You know? I'm not excusing what she did. It was fucked up, but she knows that, and that's why she apologized," he says. "I'm not saying you need to be her best friend, but maybe just cut her a break?"

Suddenly everything feels irrevocably changed. Sam is taking up for Chelsea and I'm the one who's the bitch, and she's his lifelong friend, and I am an outsider. I swallow the heart-sized lump in my throat and the perpetual ache in my chest intensifies even more. I bite my lip so hard I think it might bleed.