Title comes from the word "sam" which means 'alone' in Polish.
Afterwards, she falls asleep, curling away from him on the narrow bed, and he supposes he should've known it wouldn't be any different. He'd heard the thousands of rumours about her floating around the school, and he's not stupid enough to have imagined it would be any different with him. But it hurts, all the same, like the sudden sting of a small, unexpected paper-cut. That's all she is, all she should be, in the landscape of his life, barely a sprinkle of blood to mar the pathway through. Someday, she won't matter to him at all. Someday his life will be played with a completely new cast of people who won't know him at all. A loop of dull history on constant repeat.
But that day is not today, because he's lying in bed with the girl who was almost the head cheerleader when he'd first come here, and now he's the quarterback and isn't that how clichés are meant to go, anyway?
Except that way she'd be blonde and he'd be taller, and Finn Hudson wouldn't hate him for something that wasn't his fault.
He doesn't actually want her to be blonde though. She'd be like Quinn Fabray then, wrapped in the 'perfect angel' disguise, and he's never gone for those girls that hid behind innocent appearances but were so far from it on the inside. Come to think of it, he's never been with any blondes. Too similar, too much like fucking a fainter, slighter, more feminine reflection for his taste, too much like the faded photographs of his mother, back when she had been young and still beautiful, and his parents had been so in love. It's funny how nothing lasts, not even moments like these, which should've been meaningless anyway.
It should have been so, shouldn't it, but even so, somehow it wasn't. Because he could still feel the faint, warm imprint of where her skin had touched his, scalding hot and irresistible. She's still lying there, and fuck, that doesn't help at all, because he can smell caramel and hazelnuts from her long, dark hair, hair that had fallen onto his face just ten minutes ago, when she's flipped him over on the bed with one swift motion, like some kind of sex predator and rode him hard and fast, until he came, head hitting the headboard as he moaned out her name. Her skin smelt of the dark coffee his grandmother used to drink after dinner, and of cinnamon, deep and dark on his tongue like a once longed-for childhood snack. She wasn't pretty, in the conventional sense at least, but he'd never been too fond of the conventional girls. They were always too light, too meek, too caught up in stereotypes and their image, and having a boyfriend to parade around on their arm like the newest designer handbag they'd just brought at the mall.
It had been disturbingly easy to get her into bed though, he thinks. All it had taken was a few words exchanged in heated whispers at the back in one of the glee rehearsals, adamantly ignoring whatever the hell Rachel Berry was ranting about this week, an invitation over to her house that was half command, followed by a comment that her parents were away that hinted at pleasure in the darkest form of foreplay. And he'd gone over, and ended up slammed against the immaculately painted, so innocently floral wall with his pants down, gasping at the feel of her long fingers stroking him, before he'd even had time to say "hey."
Most guys like the easy girls, he knows, but he'd always been more of the chasing kind of guy, because normally random hook-ups aren't exactly his style. And he can't quite help but wonder, even as he pushes inside of her, her Cheerio's skirt hitched up even higher up than usual and the smooth material rubbing against his thighs, her soaked-through thong disregarded somewhere to the side; how many guys have done this with her before him. How many will do be there after, once she's disregarded him like yesterday's song, like they say she did to all of them but Puck, who'd simply gotten lucky, only to lose her over something as insignificant as one month's bad credit score.
She's still turned away from him, the thin sheet covering until just over the top of her thighs, to hint at the ass he knows is magnificent, so that he can see the smooth back, and the swell of her left breast, which he'd sucked on as she looked down at him like the ice-proud princess of some forgotten fairytale with an unwritten ending. H can see the way her hip almost juts out, and knows that if that crazy Coach Sylvester made her girls' dieting even a tad more severe Santana's bones would start to stick out. But right now she's just about the epitome of perfectly slim. Hell, she's just about the epitome of perfect, period.
She rolls over to stare at him, eyes like hard flints of Venetian glass, and in that moment Sam knows yet again, that he was nothing more than her toy, to be picked up once and immediately discarded, all for her entertainment.
"What the fuck are you still doing here?" she mutters, and rolls her eyes. He sighs, and gets up to leave, picking up his pants from where they'd fallen and tugging them on carelessly. She watches him from the bed, but her face is expressionless and he doesn't know what he's supposed to be doing. The only two girls he'd slept with before were ones he'd been dating at the time, so he has no idea about the student politics of one-night stands. Do they ignore each other in the hallways the day after; is he supposed to pretend it never happened at all, like t didn't matter. It didn't matter to her, after all. It shouldn't have mattered to him.
"Go away," she says, and reaches over to her bag to pull her phone out, long crimson nails tapping out a swift text. He leaves her there on her bed, naked and texting away, probably to Brittany, feeling like he'd left a part of himself in there as well.
Because in some way he had.
He shuts the door behind him as he walks out, hidden secrets and deep regrets locked away in total secrecy but rather dubious safety.