Sam stayed out in his garden for a long time after his father left, long after twilight had faded into dusk and finally deepened into starlit night. He cried until he could cry no more, until his throat hurt and his eyes stung and his head throbbed. Still, he could not believe what his father had told him.
It wasn't true. It couldn't be! Frodo…Frodo was so…well, *nice*! He was the nicest hobbit Sam had ever met. He wouldn't…he just *couldn't* be the way his Gaffer had said. Even if they *were* only gardeners. That wouldn't matter to Frodo, would it? It hadn't seemed to.
Sam sniffled, shifting to sit more comfortably among the violets and snap-dragons. He fingered their delicate petals gently, letting his thoughts wander over the events of the day. He and Frodo had had such a marvelous time…*surely* Frodo wasn't going to just *abandon* him…
…was he?
Sam frowned again, swallowing around the persistent lump in his throat.
No. He wasn't. He said he'd like to be Sam's friend. He'd said it. He must've meant it. He *must* have…
Sam released a shuddering sigh as he gazed absently at the flowers he'd taken such care to grow.
Frodo was coming tomorrow. He'd said he was, and so Sam was going to believe it. He would keep believing it, too.
Sam sighed again, absently brushing away the new tears that were beginning to prick the corners of his eyes.
It wasn't only the business about Frodo that had hurt. Sam's Gaffer had made him feel like they were…*inferior*, somehow, to other hobbits. Thinking back, Sam realized he had noticed a…well, a sort of formal distance at which his Gaffer held himself when he was around Mr. Bilbo, or any of the other 'Mr.'s they encountered. Sam had always believed it to be a form of civility—his Gaffer was so bent on manners and respect, after all—and he'd never thought anything of it, before now.
But even if they were somehow a lower—what had his Gaffer called it? station—than Mr. Bilbo and Frodo, surely that didn't mean they couldn't all be friends…did it? After all, when it came right down to it, there weren't many differences between them. True, Mr. Bilbo wore fancy clothes and lived in a nicer hole than Sam could ever dream of living in, and he was certainly more learned than any hobbit Sam had ever known…but did all of that really *matter*, when it came right down to it?
Frodo hadn't seemed to think so.
"He'll come," Sam whispered, wiping away his tears with resolve. "He said he would, and he will, that's all there is to it."
He stood and brushed his pants off, then marched into the hole, his chin set stubbornly. He didn't have any reason to think Frodo wouldn't be there in the morning, and he wouldn't believe what his gaffer had told him about them not bein' able to be friends until he heard it from Frodo himself. Until then, there was no need to get worked up about it…everything would turn out fine. It *would*.
After Sam had washed himself, changed into his nightshirt and crawled under his covers, his Gaffer came in to say goodnight. Sam rolled over, keeping his back to his father, pretending to be asleep. He didn't feel quite like facing him just yet; he was afraid he'd start crying again, and he didn't want to. He'd done enough of that this evening. He'd heard his father sigh from the doorway, and just before he'd left the room again he heard the faintest of whispers:
"I'm so sorry, dear Samwise."
As his father pulled the door shut with a soft *snick*, Sam breathed again, a few tears leaking down his face.
Oh, how he hoped beyond hope that just this time, his father could be wrong…
* * *