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“What’s your name?”
“I’m Joe.” The stranger gave her a nod, followed by a cautious smile. “Joe Hannen.”
11.
It’s past ten when I wake up. Jeff’s side of the bed has long been empty, the sheets there cool under my palm. In the hallway, I pause by the guest room. Although the door is open, I know Sam is still around. Her knapsack remains in the corner and the Wild Turkey still sits on the nightstand, only an inch of amber liquid remaining.
Noise bursts from the kitchen—drawers closing, pans banging. I find Sam there, a white apron tossed over a Sex Pistols T-shirt and a pair of black jeans.
My head hurts, less the product of Wild Turkey than the surreal circumstances in which it was consumed. Although the events of last night are hazy, I have no trouble recalling Sam’s repeated attempts to get me to say His name. I’m annoyed at both her and the memory.
Sam knows this. I can tell from the apologetic way she smiles when she sees me. From the mug filled with coffee she all but shoves into my hands. From the blueberry-scented warmth that drifts from the oven.
“You’re baking?”
Sam nods. “Lemon-blueberry muffins. I found the recipe on your blog.”
“Should I be impressed?”
“Probably not,” Sam says. “Although I was hoping you’d be.”
Secretly, I am. No one has baked anything for me since my father died. Not even Jeff. Yet here’s Sam, eyeing the oven timer as it counts down to zero. I’m reluctantly touched.
She removes the muffins from the oven, not giving them nearlyenough time to cool before flipping the pan. Muffins drop onto the counter in a spray of crumbs and blueberry sludge.
“How’d I do, Coach?” Sam asks, giving me a hopeful look.
I take a judgmental nibble. They’re slightly dry, which tells me she skimped on the butter. There’s also a severe lack of sugar, which suppresses the fruit. Rather than either lemon or blueberry, the muffin is the flavor of paste. I take a sip of coffee. It’s too strong. The bitter taste on my tongue bleeds into my words.
“We need to talk about last night—”
“I was a bitch,” Sam says. “You’re being all nice and I—”
“I don’t talk about Pine Cottage, Sam. It’s off limits, okay? I’m focused on the future. You should be too.”
“Got it,” Sam says. “And I’d like to make it up to you somehow. If you let me stay longer, of course.”
She takes a deep breath, waiting for me to give her an answer. It might be an act. Part of me thinks she’s certain I’ll tell her she can stay. Just like she was certain I wouldn’t let her trudge away with her knapsack last night. Only, I’m not certain about anything.
“It’ll only be for another day or two,” she says after I say nothing.
I take another sip of coffee, more for the caffeine than the taste. “Why are you really here?”
“Isn’t wanting to meet you enough?”
“It should be,” I say. “But it’s not your only reason. All these questions. All this prodding.”
Sam picks up a lumpy muffin, puts it down, checks her fingernails for crumbs. “You really want to know?”
“If you’re going to continue to stay here, I need to know.”
“Right. Truth-telling time. No bullshit.” Sam takes a deep breath, sucking in air like a kid about to slip underwater. “I came because I wanted to see if you’re as angry as I am.”
“Angry about what Lisa did?”
“No,” Sam says. “Angry about being a Final Girl.”
“I’m not.”