Sam's Instalove and Second Love

May 13, 1989 / January 11, 1993.

***

“Ra'Shelle! Congratulations! I am so proud of you!” I scream.

At five-eleven, Ra'Shelle is tall for a woman; but I’m taller, even in flats. I wrap my arms around her and pick her up off the ground.

“Sam?” she chuckles. “What are you doing here?”

“I came to see you graduate obviously.” I set her back down. “How does it feel?”

“Damn good. Really damn good.”

I touch Colin’s shoulder. “You too?”

“I’m ready to take a long nap,” he says, unzipping his graduation gown.

“Tom talk to you about Jonas yet?” Ra'Shelle asks.

“Girl, don’t even start that shop talk on me. It’s your frickin’ graduation!”

She laughs. “Okay. You’re right. You’re right.”

A man my age strolls up to Ra'Shelle. His sepia skin is several shades lighter than my ochre tone. His dark eyes, and close fade nearly take my breath away. I’ve never had a reaction like this to a guy, but there’s something about him.

“Congratulations, Colin,” he says in a low, sexy voice that makes me weak. “Fantastic speech, Ra'Shelle.”

“Thanks, man,” Colin responds.

“Couldn’t have done it without you,” Ra'Shelle adds.

“Psh,” he says with a shrug. “I didn’t do anything.”

“Psh,” Ra'Shelle mocks. “If it weren’t for you, I’d still be stuck in World Civ.”

He laughs and flashes an incredible smile. Who even is this guy?

“Sam,” Ra'Shelle says, “this is Layne DuMar. He was a TA when Colin and I started, but now he’s a bigwig history professor.”

“Not a bigwig,” Layne says, extending his hand. “Although I do know enough history to teach a class on the actual term.”

“Layne,” Ra'Shelle adds, “this is Sam Lawrence. She’s Regional VP at my work, Ledger Fashion Industries.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Layne says, shaking my hand.

His touch makes me nearly lose my balance.

Ra'Shelle knowingly smiles at me. The woman has the observational skills of a hawk. “Sam opened LFI’s office in Minneapolis.”

“Unfortunately, I live there now,” I say.

“Unfortunately?” Layne asks.

“It’s too cold,” I say, shaking my head.

He chuckles. “Perhaps you should move back.”

“Perhaps I should.”

Ra'Shelle places her hand on my shoulder. “Layne, I’m sure Sam has never had a tour. Care to show her around my alma mater?”

“I’d love to,” he says.

“He’s amazing,” Ra'Shelle whispers. “You’re in good hands.”

I follow him as we casually stroll through campus, and he points at buildings and tells me about them. I swear I could listen to this man talk about anything. “Tell me about yourself,” I finally say.

“Not much to tell. I’m a history professor, and I spend an absurd amount of money on Chinese takeout. You?”

“I…” I’m having trouble thinking of a single fact about myself. “Since I moved to Minneapolis, I’ve started knitting.”

“Scarves for the cold?” he asks with a half-smile.

“You already know me so well.”

“When are you flying back?”

“Monday.”

“That doesn’t leave us much time. Maybe instead of showing you brick buildings, I should take you to dinner.”

“I’d love that.”

He stops walking, turns to me, and searches my eyes. “Do you believe in love at first sight?”

Chills run through me. “Do you?”

“I didn’t,” he says, “until I met you.”

“Do you say that to all the women?”

He shakes his head. “Just you.”

When our lips touch, my knees buckle, and he has to catch me with his arm around my waist.

I wrap my arms around his neck, and the world fades away.

And in that instant, I know one thing: This will be one helluva romance.

***

Thirty-two weeks.

For thirty-two weeks, I’ve watched his heartbeat, listened to the respirators, stared at his closed eyes.

For thirty-two weeks, I’ve heard him congratulate me on my promotion every time I pull into my parking space, and all I want is to hear his voice outside of my head.

For thirty-two weeks, I’ve sat in a courtroom being accused of being a gold-digging whore, no one caring that I didn’t know anything about the money.

For thirty-two weeks, I’ve given my financial documents and dignity to the parents of my fiancé and listened to their lawyer criticize me for spending money on food delivery to the hospital.

For thirty-two weeks, I’ve never bought groceries.

For thirty-two weeks, I’ve listened to people tell me to get some sleep, that I’m losing weight, that I look exhausted.

For thirty-two weeks, I’ve been fighting my base instincts not to revert back to my adolescence, not to give into addiction.

I’ve kept myself in check. I’ve tried to maintain the cool, fearless Sam. The quick-witted, cheerful Sam. But with each day that he stays in bed, I watch her slowly die.

His best friend, Paul, got Ra'Shelle’s best friend, Joan, pregnant, and now we’re all tangled in a weird web that I wish I could leave. Nine months ago, I didn’t even know Joan, and now she’s here nearly every day. She and Paul talk about baby stuff, and I’d like to be the bigger person, but their happiness makes me queasy. Why can’t they just let me wallow in my misery?

I shouldn’t envy them. Nine months ago, I was happy too. I was engaged to a handsome, down-to-earth college professor with a witty sense of humor and a contagious smile. He didn’t expect me to be anything other than who I am. We were fools in love, and at the end of the semester, he would have been in Minneapolis with me.

Just a few more days, and he would have been with me.

I told people it wasn’t a whirlwind romance. It was just romance. I know who I am. He knows who he is. Somehow, we found one another. It was serendipity. I don’t give a damn about fairy tales, but this one almost was one.

It still could be, if he would just wake up.

**

I close the notebook and place the pencil on top of it. I try to eat a burrito that Paul had brought a few hours ago, but I toss it in the trash after two bites.

I hold his hand and listen to the rhythmic machines. “So, today, I had to have lunch with Jill. All those damn cats. She just got a new one because Fuzzy died. She’s so artistic, but her creativity definitely doesn’t extend itself to cat names. Fuzzy was like 16 or 19 or 23. He was old for a cat, but obviously that doesn’t help with the grieving. So she adopted Poofy. I’m surprised she’s never had a Poofy before. Oh well, her life I guess. You know what she brought?… Mashed potatoes. I know! With hot sauce and pepper of course. Her taste buds are so weird. When I met her, I thought she was pregnant, but it’s been years now, and there has been no baby. She’s just a strange, interesting person.”

I sigh and stroke his fingers with my thumb. “I guess that’s all I have for the day. The rest is too depressing. Let’s read, shall we?” I take his favorite book, 'Flowers for Algernon,' from the table and turn the worn pages to 278, where I’d stopped last night. “Downhill. Thoughts of suicide to stop it all now while I am still in control and aware of the world around me…” I read for several hours until my eyes refuse to stay open.

I gently hold his fingers and place my head on his bed. “I love you, Layne. Wake me if you need me.”

May 13, 1989: PART II / January 12 to January 13, 1993.

***

We don’t even part long enough to prepare for a date night. There is no “I’ll pick you up at seven” or “I’ll meet you there.” We don’t even want to spend that much time apart.

Instead, he drives us to Amore Mio, a fancy Italian restaurant two miles from the university. The lunch rush is over, and dinner hasn’t begun, so we have the entire restaurant to ourselves.

I expect the wait staff to be annoyed. They could be putting their feet up for a few minutes and decompressing after the rush, rather than waiting on us.

I shouldn’t have worried. A young man in a crisp white shirt and slate tie grins at Layne. “Mr. DuMar, welcome back. Who is your lovely date?”

“Antonio, this is Sam.”

“It’s wonderful to meet you. Mr. Sugar rarely has anyone with him. Your normal table?”

“That would be great.”

Antonio grabs menus and shows us to our seats as if we needed a guide through the crowd. It’s adorable.

Layne pulls out my chair before sitting across from me, and he doesn’t bother opening his menu. Instead, he’s leaning against the pristine tablecloth, staring at me.

“It’s not polite to stare,” I say playfully.

“I can’t help it. You’re gorgeous.”

“What are you ordering?”

“Mezzelune.”

“What should I order?” I ask, closing my menu.

“Risotto.”

“I love risotto!” I say, gently swatting his hand.

“Maybe I already knew that,” he says, placing his thumb on top of my fingers.

Sparks.

The waiter brings over a bottle of white wine and pours us each a glass. Layne orders for us. Smoked parmigiano reggiano mezze lune for him, risotto alla Milanese for me.

“How do you like teaching?” I ask.

“I love it,” he says, stroking my hand. “I’ve always known I wanted to teach. I wasn’t sure which grade for a while, but I find teaching college students extremely rewarding. What about you? Do you like your job?”

“I love my boss, and I love the company. That’s what’s most important to me. Although the paperwork can get a bit dull at times, I like what I do, but I’m not sure that I would take the same job anywhere else. I was one of Tom’s first hires, just days after I graduated college, and I can’t imagine working for anyone else.”

“Sounds like you really lucked out,” he says. “Dr. Addison, my boss, he’s… a little rough around the edges. A little pretentious. A little humility can go a long way.”

I can’t take it all the way over here. The table feels like a continent between us.

I scoot my chair back and move to the one closer to him. “Better,” I say.

“I’ve missed you,” he laughs.

His laugh is intoxicating, contagious.

“What do you want to do after this?” I ask.

“It’s nice out. I was thinking about taking a stroll around the lake or bird-watching in the park. Some place where I can hold your hand and enjoy the world with you.”

“Are you always this cheesy?”

“You know the crazy thing? I’m really not. I’m articulate, funny, and laid-back. You’re not getting to see the real me because I’m so lovestruck.”

“Well, I want to get to know the real you, so should I tell you things that remove the lockstruckness? Is that a word? That’s not a word, is it, Professor?”

“Definitely not.”

“There’s your first thing. I won’t have your academic vocabulary. I also own too many outfits because I’m constantly hitting up the good sales. I’m an only child, so I’m not sure I ever really learned how to share. I never make my bed. When I was seven, I ate the last piece of my birthday cake, even though I was supposed to be saving it for my cousin.”

He raises his eyebrows. “You thought that those things would be enough to take away this feeling? Didn’t even make a dent, Sam!”

I click my tongue. “What about the fact that I live well over a thousand miles away?” Strangely, saying that aloud makes me sad, deeply sad.

He shakes his head. “Doesn’t matter. Planes and phones both exist now. We can make it work.”

“Is that… Did you just propose a relationship?”

“I think I did.” He chuckles. “And while I’m putting it all on the table, I want it to be exclusive. I want only you.”

“You don’t even know me,” I say.

“I feel like I’ve known you my entire life. Besides,” he says with a slight shrug, “I already knew you liked risotto.”

“I’d like to mock you,” I say, “but I feel it too.”

He kisses my knuckles. “So you’ll give us a shot? Try a long-distance relationship?”

I lean against the table and kiss him. “Why the hell not?

/***/

I’m in the bathroom, changing into my navy suit, when Paul arrives with coffee, just like he does every morning.

“Hey, buddy,” I hear him say. “I have to admit I envy your sleep. With Sam, the court case, and the baby, I’m pretty restless these days. Did Sam read to you last night? I bet. Well, I have some calls to make and papers to type, but I’ll be here if you decide you want to talk.”

I open the bathroom door, throw my pajamas into a canvas bag, and pick up my purse.

He hands her a styrofoam cup of coffee. “Sam, you should eat something.”

“I don’t want to be late,” I tell him. “Thanks for the coffee.” And I duck out before he can hug me.

***

I turn on the car radio to hear a sad blues saxophone breaking the silence. “I’m sorry, Layne. I’m trying.”

The buildings pass in a daze until I pull into my parking space. “I’d give anything not to be in Minneapolis with you instead of pulling into this space every morning. Anything.”

I attempt to smile, but it’s gone before I reach the double doors. The efficient, upbeat Sam that my coworkers had grown to love is covered in filth, and no amount of forged emotion can wash it away.

I wave at the people I pass and climb the stairs to the third floor. I no longer take the elevator to avoid being stuck in a metal box with pitying people.

I sit in the leather chair behind my mahogany desk and turn on my computer. I buzz Hilda, and she gives me a quick overview of the itinerary: phone conference at two, meeting at four, imported shipment tomorrow, meeting with Tom on Thursday at two. I nod along, listening as much as I’m able. I have new phone messages from Carrie, Sylvia, Jordan, and Veronica.

“Veronica called?”

“Yes, ma’am. Just a few minutes ago.”

“Thank you, Hilda.”

Hilda leaves, and I dial my lawyer.

“It’s Sam. What’s going on?”

“How do you feel?” Veronica asks, sympathy oozing through the phone.

“Very tired.”

“Yesterday was pretty bad, but don’t give up. I think Tavin berated you so terribly because he’s out of ideas. He’s trying to win by brute force. Judge Knox was not impressed with his tactics. We go back to court at 9:00 on Thursday. Tavin has to present hard evidence that you were in it for the money, or Knox will make his ruling.”

“I have a meeting with my boss that afternoon. Do I need to reschedule?”

“I wouldn’t. I think this will be short and painless… well, relatively speaking.”

“If we win, can they appeal?”

“Yes, but by then, you’ll have already made your decisions. Don’t do anything drastic for the next forty-seven hours. After that, we’ll talk.”

“I’ll see you Thursday morning.”

We disconnect, and I go through my routine: return the calls, respond to the emails, call the vendors, and prepare for the meetings.

And try not to count the seconds until I can leave.

***

The next day is more of the same. I go through the motions of the day, and I’m beyond frustrated with the world by the time I return to the hospital. I stay in my car for ten minutes, taking deep breaths, readying myself for conversations with Paul and the medical staff.

Finally, I head inside, and I find Paul removing the lids from Tupperware containers. “Hey,” he says, “you’re just in time for dinner. Tonight, it’s breakfast.”

I think he’s trying to be funny, but I’m too tired to laugh. “Thanks.”

He hands me a container of scrambled eggs, hashbrowns, and sausage. Thirty-three weeks ago, I was a vegetarian. But now… why bother?

“Veronica thinks the Du Mars will appeal, but I’ll have already made decisions by then.”

He wipes his mouth. “That’s true. I guess we’ll know which part they’re fighting for.”

“I think we already know that,” I say cynically. I bite into my sausage. “You know I intentionally haven’t asked you.”

“You mean if I knew about the money?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you want me to tell you?”

“Not tonight. Tomorrow, I may have some questions.”

“I’ll answer them.”

I don’t bother saying anything else. There’s really nothing left to say.

***

After I change into pajamas, I hold Layne’s hand. “What would you do?” I ask him. “If you were me, what would you do? I know you’re a fighter. You were always a fighter. Hell, I used to be too, but I’m just not that person anymore. Sometimes I wonder if I’ll ever be that person again.”

I pat his hand and blink back tears. “I want you to know that whatever happens tomorrow, I’ll always love you. The time we spent together was nothing but bliss. If I had it to do all over again, I would in an instant.”

Tonight, I don’t pick up the book. I simply stroke his hand and listen to the harmonizing machines. “Do you remember what it was like before, love? Before this nightmare? Let me remind you of our blissful dating life that made us the envy of all of our friends.”