The Maze Runner (1/2)
Two and a half weeks later, Cassie found herself in a bit of a quandary: she was missing Sam quite a lot because they hadn't seen much of each other since — since Jake's ceremony. Which . . . was odd because there was no real reason for her to have missed him; they were hardly bosom buddies, after all, though he was easy to talk to and even easier to argue with, which was remarkably stimulating and invariably made her day a little more fun.
What really made things peculiar was that she'd only been on one date with Ryan since the real estate party they'd gone to last weekend, though there had been quite a few 'drive-bys' to her shop, so to speak, as well as a veritable plethora of text messages and several phone calls (most of which came in after she was home from work, and kept her in the house to talk to him, which was new) . . . but she wasn't missing him the way she did Sam.
She and her neighbor were slowly beginning to build a foundation of trust and even had the tentative promise of friendship that neither of them had foreseen, which she supposed made sense, given their somewhat opposing personality types (even if they had a lot more in common than either of them was willing to admit). And that wasn't taking into account their differing — and occasionally strident — opinions on that whole 'traditional Western medicine' vs 'Eastern herbalist and alternate remedies' issue. That was probably a debate they were going to have for all of eternity.
She was really looking forward to that.
What?
She wished she knew what was wrong with her, because her neighbor/maybe-friend should not be taking up more headspace than her boyfriend.
Speaking of, and to her relief, that party hadn't been nearly as bad as she'd feared, despite the inevitable awkwardness that ensued when Annie and Mark had caught sight of her walking in with Ryan. Thankfully, neither pair felt the need (or had the bad luck) to interact with the other and Ryan had managed to keep his composure when Annie was presented with the top sales award.
What had unsettled her was the fact that no one asked if she and Ryan were a couple, even though there were more than a few knowing looks, and she wasn't quite sure how she felt about that. On the one hand, it had been nice to avoid the tiresome round of questions, as well as the poking and prodding that juicy new gossip invariably stirred up (before she met Ryan, Cassie would never have guessed how insular the world of real estate was — and their gossip network would put Martha in the hospital with a terminal case of envy).
On the other hand, if she really was serious about moving forward in her relationship with Ryan, letting people know they were dating was going to have to happen.
Hmm. Maybe they could give it a try at the ball this weekend? Not actively making an announcement, just . . . not denying it either.
She sighed a little despondently, hating that she was so indecisive. It was a highly unusual state for her, but she was just so unsure about this whole thing with Ryan, even after nearly two months, and she didn't have anyone to turn to for advice. Or even just to listen.
Except . . . Sam might be a good sounding board. He was surprisingly level-headed, all things considered, and had a unique talent for cutting through the layers of confusion to expose the base issue — even if that skill occasionally annoyed her because it meant that he had gotten there when she hadn't, only by using logic alone instead of the feelings and emotions she used to guide her to the best solution. His smug air when that happened didn't help, though he'd never actually said anything (well, not in her hearing, at least).
As if conjured by her thoughts, he suddenly — um, stalked? Yes, that was stalking — out his front door, scowling as he looked around in irritation.
Cassie couldn't help the smile that came to her lips as she watched Sam make his way across their shared driveway, calling for Nick. The sight of him settled something in her that she hadn't even realized was feeling restless and she mentally frowned.
Okay, this was officially strange. Especially since, as she'd realized earlier, she hadn't seen Ryan much either, and yet she didn't feel his absence nearly as deeply as she had Sam's.
And she did not understand why.
Well, that wasn't something she could think about right now so she stepped forward to get Sam's attention and let him know that Nick was at Grey House, doing his teenage best to eat her out of house and home. His frustrated, resigned sigh and dull recitation of Nick's status of being in trouble made her heart clench in sympathy and she wished for a second that she could touch him, maybe squeeze his hand in support. She had watched in the weeks since they'd moved to Middleton as Sam tried desperately to be a good father — and he was. Just from the little she'd seen, Cassie knew that he was a fantastic dad. But Nick . . . he loved his father deeply, but he was angry and resentful and he was fighting everything (his father, the move, his father, losing his entire previous life, the weather, his father . . . if he could be angry at it, he was) with everything he had, because he truly didn't know what else to do. Cassie badly wanted to help, but this was a situation where her hands were tied, so unless and until Sam came to her, she could do nothing but watch and pray that they were able to work things out.
"Oh, he didn't tell me that," she told Sam in response to his news about Nick not supposed to leave his home, wanting him to know that she wasn't trying to undermine him. Not that she was truly concerned that he might think that, actually, but he was upset and her primary instinct was to soothe and reassure him.
Which, again, was odd. Why did Sam evoke those feelings when Ryan didn't?
"He's grounded," Sam added, his pain spiking a little higher and making her heart ache with empathy as it washed over her.
And it was funny, Cassie thought. When she'd first met him, she had a very hard time reading him, even with her gifts. Now, she almost wished they could go back to that, because his pain and anger didn't seem to be getting any better, but it was the loneliness that was threatening to pull him under.
"Didn't mention that either," she said drolly, hoping to cheer him up at least a little. "But I sensed he was hiding something."
Her attempt at cheer fell flat on its face and chipped a tooth on the driveway. "Yeah," Sam said bitterly. "What you call 'hiding', I call 'lying'."
Wow. He was . . . really not happy.
"I'll send him home," she promised, hurting for him when he just shook his head.
"Nah, it's okay," Sam lied. She knew that because she could feel him not wanting her to see his pain. "It's not like he's roaming the streets. He's got adult supervision." There was a beat of strained silence before he continued, "From an adult he actually likes."
She couldn't stay quiet at that and gently replied, "Oh, he likes you."
A soft, disbelieving snort was his first reaction, followed by a dry attempt at masking his unhappiness while trying to convince himself that he was a good father. And the urge to comfort him, with a hug or even just a squeeze of his hand, surged again.
What was wrong with her?
Why did Sam Radford affect her so strongly?
So naturally, that was when that she really noticed what he was wearing and found herself liking the way it looked on him (a thought she immediately pushed away) and also disproportionately happy that he was starting to integrate with the town and its people on his own. It would help a lot, she knew; one of the main reasons he was struggling so much was because he didn't seem to have any kind of support system and had almost completely isolated himself from non-professional human contact.
It was therefore sad that she was utterly unsurprised to find that he wasn't planning to run in the race or join his fellow citizens at the ball afterwards, but it was heartening to see that he was coming to know her well enough to read her expressions, although in this instance, she had to admit that she hadn't been trying to be inscrutable. He even made a nearly-serious query about what she was thinking ('nearly' being the operative word here, because she knew that he knew what she was thinking). His not-at-all hidden sarcastic rebuff only amused her, though it was tinged with a hint of wistfulness; it would be nice to see him actually relax and enjoy himself, and start getting to know that Sam.
She could somewhat understand his attitude; as entrenched in New York City's life and patterns as he'd been — and still was — he simply didn't understand the intricacies of small-town living. But she didn't try to push him, not in this. He had to discover those patterns and rhythms himself, learn how to adapt them to his life, and any outside pressure or influence would only create more issues that he just didn't need.
Teasing him about trying meditation instead of running, on the other hand, was both safe and entertaining.
The thing was, Cassie knew perfectly well that Sam Radford was not built for meditation. Oh, sure, the occasional session would be good for helping him learn to better balance his stress levels (see: Nick), but Sam was just too mentally and physically restless (well, not restless so much as . . . hyperactive) for meditation to be an effective long-term solution. Thus, both his automatic rejection of her suggestion and his unflattering comparison (broken glass? Wow.) were amusing, although she was a bit discouraged to still see such adamant resistance to anything that he classed as 'non-traditional.'
However, she was pleasantly surprised when he revealed that he was comfortable enough to tease her back, giving her a bad pun about running and then letting that small, boyish grin she liked so much curve his lips as he jogged off, leaving her smiling affectionately after him; she would most definitely be lying if she didn't admit just how much she was coming to enjoy their back-and-forth exchanges. They still tended to take place over medical things, but the last time they'd met at the mailbox, a highly spirited debate had ensued about whether The Far Side or Dilbert was better (clearly, he was right about it being The Far Side, but she was starting to relish his passion as he defended his position, and Dilbert did run a close second).
And she found herself wondering if Ryan liked either of those comics. She should know that.
Which led her to wonder what kind of comedy Ryan enjoyed, if he was a Woody Allen fan or appreciated the full range of Mel Brooks' genius. Or did he prefer someone else entirely? Did he even like comedies?
And that made her curious about what Sam's favorite Mel Brooks movie was; he would either own of a copy of Young Frankenstein in every single iteration available, from VHS to the deluxe, extended edition director's cut, or decry it as the most evil movie ever made, and she suddenly wanted to know which.
No! Not Sam. Ryan. What was Ryan's favorite comedy? She needed to know things like that about her boyfriend.
Maybe she should make a list? After all, these were things that couples were supposed to know about each other.
It didn't occur to her that she hadn't had to do that with Jake.
And she never thought to wonder how she already knew that Sam liked Mel Brooks.
{{**}}
As Sam jogged away from her and that . . . irritatingly enjoyable exchange, he mused on the realization that his increasing fondness for Cassie Nightingale was becoming a problem.
Especially when he considered the unexpected — and not entirely welcome — feelings of protectiveness that had surged up so strongly during Jake Russell's dedication ceremony; his unease with this development was compounded by the fact that he still didn't know her all that well. Which wasn't for a lack of trying, actually; she might drive him crazy, but she also fascinated him. Those times they'd run into each other at the mailbox (all of them spontaneous, thank you) had always been entertaining, especially since they had established the beginnings of respect — and a friendly mockery about medical matters that would likely last until the end of time.
And then, the last time he'd seen her for more than a quick 'hi, neighbor', six days ago, they had somehow gotten into a ridiculously passionate discussion about whether The Far Side was better than Dilbert (which, duh, of course it was), but watching and listening to Cassie try to explain why Corporate Snark was better than All-Purpose Snark had been hilarious. He'd won that one, but it had been close . . . and dangerously fun.
So, yeah, his growing affection for Cassie was quickly approaching 'trouble', particularly when he factored in her probable relationship with Ryan Elliott.
And that was something that was driving him up the wall, because he could not figure out what was really going on there. The night he'd seen them together, with Cassie wrapped in Ryan's arms and sobbing her heart out, he'd been certain they were dating. He hadn't known her all that well, sure, but even then, he could tell that she wasn't the type of person who showed that kind of emotional weakness to . . . well, anyone. It was trait he recognized in himself.
But . . . she had been crying in Ryan's arms. And something about their embrace looked . . . natural? Comfortable? No, that wasn't it. It was . . . it had looked like he'd held her that way before.
And Sam hated that. Not because he wanted her for himself — God, no! — but because he was, at his core, a healer, in every sense of the word. And for him, emotional healing had also made him a protector. He did not know how or when it had happened, and God alone knew why, but Cassie Nightingale had roused every single protective healing instinct he possessed (oh, great, now he was repeating himself to himself; the woman was actually going to tie him in a knot, he just knew it) and not being able to act on those instincts was making him a little crazy. It wasn't just Cassie, either; this didn't happen often, but when it did, it was an 'all or nothing' situation for him, and he'd never had to deal with 'nothing' before. Needless to say, he wasn't handling it well.
And the entire mess was made even more complicated by his . . . God, he didn't even know how to put it. All Sam knew was that every time he interacted with Ryan, he got the sense of . . . oh, what was the word he wanted? It wasn't duplicity, and definitely not danger, but . . . proprietary, maybe? Yeah, that was it. Ryan was very possessive toward Cassie, but not in the way Sam was coming to feel. For him, it was the strange (and infuriating) desire to protect her from the heavy crap life tended to smack you with when you were already down.
Or from getting a papercut.
But Ryan . . .
Just from observing the two of them, Sam had seen some concerning signs: Ryan's obvious dislike of her being around other men, his constant hovering when anyone else was in the near vicinity, almost like he was staking his claim, and his perpetual need for affirmation of her feelings about him.
Then again, Cassie Nightingale was not a pushover by any stretch of the imagination, and his mind boggled at the thought of her allowing herself to be bulldozed this way if it wasn't something she wanted.
But . . . they didn't show a single sign of being an actual couple: no kisses, no handholding, no casual touching. There was nothing, in fact, except for Ryan's extremely obvious hopes for a romantic relationship to blossom, if there wasn't already one there.
On the other hand (and he was up to four hands now. Oh, yeah: Cassie definitely spelled Trouble for him . . . but walking away never presented itself as an option.), Ryan was the only man he ever saw her around (Derek Sanders . . . well, enough said).
Hence, his confusion.
And he was bothered enough by his own reaction that he had planned to just outright ask her, only . . . the woman who had always been around — even if it was only for an actual, literal minute — when he seemed to need an obscure reference that would point him where he needed to go (peppered with the most improbable quotes by authors no normal person would have the slightest reason to know, and no, he had never claimed 'normal' as one of his sins) seemed to have turned into June Cleaver: always in the kitchen, usually baking, and frequently on her cell phone (to update the Cleavers for modern day, because why not?), keeping her forays into the outside world seemingly confined to leaving for work or going somewhere with Ryan.
And Sam couldn't shake his suspicion that Ryan had seen him that night after the ceremony and come to the wrong (and yet somehow still correct) conclusion, and this was his way of getting Sam to back off.
Which put him in a bit of a quandary. He couldn't just barge into her house and demand answers, but the more he thought about the situation, the less he liked it.
Only . . . just now, she had been friendly and playful. Hell, if she had been any other woman on earth (and he meant that literally), he'd even say she was flirting a little with him. And that wasn't something a woman who was afraid of a man would do.
Or a woman with a boyfriend.
ARGH!
Was it actually possible for Cassie Nightingale to NOT give him a headache for just one day?!
Great. Now he was annoyed. Heaving a mental sigh, Sam was just about to step his pace up from 'jog' to 'I'm running from the cops' in an attempt to pound out his aggravation when who should he run into but Stephanie?
Which was the last thing he needed, but her sheer tenacity had piqued his interest. He still wasn't ready to give in and start dating her, but her attentions had persevered long past everyone else's and he would admit that his ego found it flattering. And he needed a distraction from Cassie. So he let her flirt with him and gave her 'slightly-clueless Sam', which worked surprisingly well to sidetrack him, leading him to keep his pace slow enough that she could stay with him and thus allow himself to get lost for a bit in the banality of light flirtation.
And if he found himself having to brush aside thoughts of what Cassie would think about the comedy duo of Abbot and Costello, well — the woman liked Dilbert, for heaven's sake. Clearly, her sense of humor was a little strange. So would she enjoy Mel Brooks' History of the World? Or would she think it was too pretentious?
(Don't even get him started on Young Frankenstein; he'd enjoyed it the first few times he'd seen it, but had been driven to hatred not even three months after graduating med school.)
No. No, he didn't have the right to ask those questions. Even if she wasn't with Ryan, she and Sam weren't going to be together like that (kill each other in four days, remember?). So he needed to put this fascination with her away and start focusing on the other people around him.
Like Stephanie.
But not just yet. He still didn't know if he was ready to try dating again, and he wouldn't do that to her unless and until he was prepared to make a genuine effort. So with a friendly — and mostly sincere — apology, he peeled away from her and sprinted up the street, making sure this time that he was running too fast for her to catch — or keep — up.
Hmm. What an apt metaphor for his life.
{{**}}
As it usually did, running cleared his head and Sam was in a decent mood when he got to the office.
So naturally, Ryan was waiting for him.
He was dryly amused by the other man's instant self-diagnosis about his knee (and one could definitely see Cassie's influence there), but the not-remotely-subtle shift to a pissing contest — ah, no, this was a cockfight — did not achieve the desired results. See, Ryan was used to small-town machismo, where there was one top dog (him), a few distant seconds, and a long line of third-stringers. He'd been successfully warning them off of Cassie Nightingale for quite some time now and Sam was, to Ryan's eyes, a potential threat, despite Sam's lack of romantic interest in her.
Hence the aforementioned cockfight, badly disguised as curiosity about competition for the race.
To which Sam . . . well, boys were amusing, but Sam Radford was a grown man who knew full well his capabilities and his limits, and in his mind, Ryan wasn't worth the effort. And since Sam didn't care about anyone else's (Cassie's) opinion, he simply had no interest in running in this race. He didn't need to meet people, he didn't want to meet people . . . hell, after these last two weeks, he was starting to see the advantages to becoming a hermit. And again, he had no interest in dating Cassie Nightingale.
Even if that weren't the case, it wouldn't make a difference, at least not for Ryan. Sam thrived under pressure and deadlines. He hadn't finished medical school in three years because he'd been bored, after all, and racing had been one of the best ways for him to hone his competitive edge so he could attain that goal. And that wasn't taking into account his career as the head of one of the busiest ERs in America, let alone his achievement of becoming one of the top trauma surgeons in the country. Ryan Elliott had no clue about the bear he was poking, and couldn't have begun to understand how off the mark he was about Sam's intentions toward Cassie (to be fair, Sam didn't quite understand his intentions, either, so he couldn't really blame Ryan for not getting it).
But.
Sam wasn't inclined to tell him any of that. Yes, beating the little snot in the race would be highly satisfying (and extremely amusing), but it wasn't something he needed to do, or had any real interest in. And since that was, so far as Sam could tell, the primary reason for this little tête-à-tête, he simply decided that none of this was worth his time. Unlike Ryan, Sam knew who he was and, for the most part, liked himself. He wasn't one for self-doubt as a rule and he didn't need to prove anything to himself. Or anyone else.
Still, after a few decreasingly subtle jabs, he decided to indulge in just a little bit of posturing — okay, fine, he was showing off — by letting Ryan know that he, Sam, wasn't going to be provoked that easily, and the reason why (the startled respect he got when he revealed that he had run in two of the most demanding marathons in the country in one year was . . . oh, all right, that was fun). And even now, as competitively out-of-shape as he was, Sam knew he could beat the other man with little trouble.
In any medium.
He did have to admit to a reluctant admiration on realizing that Ryan appeared unfazed by Sam's rebuttal to his unsubtle prodding, though it was clear the other man thought he'd won that round. Again, Sam wasn't remotely motivated to dissuade him of this; quite frankly, he had too many other things to worry about. Hiring a receptionist, for one, and his troubled, troublesome son for another.
So he got Ryan out of his exam room as quickly as he could (and if he mock-threatened him a little before laughing it off, well — yeah, he had. He didn't like the twerp and this unnecessary game of one-upmanship had not improved his opinion.). Once he was alone, he blew out a deep sigh and took the few minutes before his next patient to brood about Nick.
And wished that he could talk to Cassie.
Hang on. Why couldn't he? It wasn't like Ryan owned her. And if she didn't have time or want to talk, she would tell him that.
Yeah. Yeah, he'd head over to Grey House this evening and see what riddles she would present to him that might help him with Nick, before he killed his son out of sheer desperation and a complete lack of any other viable option he hadn't already tried and failed at.
But he wouldn't ask her about Ryan.
She had respected him enough to leave his last relationship alone, so he would do her the same courtesy. Maybe (hopefully) they could finally start opening up to each other on personal matters, because he hadn't been challenged this much in years, on any level (Linda didn't count; she would challenge a dead man to a debate just to feel like she'd won), and he was surprisingly okay with the dynamic that was trying to develop between them. And as they learned more about each other, maybe . . .
Yeah.
He was okay with 'maybe.'
For now.
{{**}}
Cassie Nightingale actually felt sorry for Sam Radford.
And that was a thought she never thought she'd think.
But Stephanie's determination to snare him was . . . impressive. Also, a little frightening.
And Sam Radford was many things, but stupid didn't make the list, so there was no way he was unaware of her interest.
The fact that he wasn't leading her on was . . . good, though. Cassie still had no idea what had happened in his last relationship, but the fact that the man was wearing the emotional equivalent of a Kevlar vest made out of a cactus was a huge clue that Things Hadn't Ended Well.
And this was something that Stephanie didn't want to see, so she chose to ignore it and was simply trying to bulldoze her way over the prickly spines. Cassie could have told her this wouldn't work, but again, there was no point. She adored Stephanie, truly, but the other woman's single-minded pursuit of not being . . . well, single . . . had utterly blinded her to anything that might impede that goal.
In this case, facts.
So all Cassie could do was watch and brace herself for the inevitable fallout, and hope that Sam would accept what comfort she could offer, because the odds were high that this . . . relationship . . . was probably going to end badly. Or at least awkwardly, which was actually worse, all things considered (oh, this was going to be a headache for everyone involved, she could already tell. And now she was back to feeling sorry for Sam.).
Thankfully, her attention was diverted by the grieving man searching for something he didn't know he'd lost and the troubled, frightened young woman who didn't know what she was really running from.
The combination of these disquieting and converging situations caused that ancient Chinese proverb to spring to her mind: 'May you live in interesting times.'
And she'd loved her time in China. She had.
But right now? That sentiment could just fall off a cliff.
{{**}}
"I cheated on you."
Only Ryan, Cassie thought affectionately, could say that with no fear of reprisal or even of being believed.
"I went to see Sam."
Of course he had.
Cassie held back a sigh; she'd been expecting this for — well, ever since Sam and Nick had moved to Middleton, actually. So it was no surprise to hear that Ryan could no longer stop himself from checking out competition he didn't have (in this, she was sure: Sam Radford would rather walk on broken glass than participate in the town's fun run and ball). While he was at it, Ryan had also likely let the other man know that she wasn't available either (and again, there was no competition; she and Sam were like oil and water, only . . . worse).
She couldn't help but think that she was supposed to feel flattered by his posses—protectiveness. Her sweet boyfriend, keeping her safe from unwanted attention (even if it wasn't unwelcome).
Only she wasn't. Irritated, yes, and a little frustrated. Flattered? Not so much, seeing that she was a grown woman who could take care of herself. The male ego, fragile though it could be, was also one of the most aggravating things on the planet.
But he didn't need to know her actual opinion of Macho Posturing, so she quickly and truthfully informed him that there was no competition, at least not between her and Sam. His immediate question about her medical methods had her mentally rolling her eyes even as she — with only a little sarcasm, thank you — advised him to actually listen to his body, which never hurt until he pushed it too hard and too far.
That always strained things.
Well. That was an uncomfortable metaphor.
Unaware of her thoughts, he continued to prove her point with a rather pitiful, "I can't help it. I'm a guy; I always want to win."
No kidding.
She was unable to control her expression quickly enough and he looked sheepish in response. "You know what I mean," he deflected, though without any real conviction.
Oh, yes, she knew exactly what he meant.
But for some reason, it wasn't cute or charming the way it had been in the past.
"Don't you think you can ease off a little, now that you know Sam isn't running?" she shot back, only just managing to keep the irritation out of her voice.
When he had the honest nerve to look surprised at her words, her jaw tried to drop, and it was only her formidable self-control that prevented it.
Especially when he followed that up with, "I'm not competing against Sam."
And expected her to believe him.
It took everything she had to keep her emotions under enough control to give him a mildly incredulous gaze in response, along with a highly dubious, "If you say so," instead of the scathing set-down she was itching to unload on him.
Really. Who did he think he was fooling?
And why was she so offended on Sam's behalf instead of her own?
{{**}}
Running into Martha Tinsdale (almost literally) wasn't the highlight of Sam's morning. That was one aspect of New York he truly missed: people left you the hell alone to do your thing. Here in Middleton, everyone wanted to talk to you or bother you or just make sure you knew they were there.
Her immediate assumption that he was training for the race wasn't unreasonable, though it was exasperating. Did these people really have nothing better to do than hound a poor, innocent doctor who enjoyed jogging? He'd honestly thought that was just something Cassie liked to do to torment him.
"I'm not. Running," he informed her, vainly hoping that she would accept this and just leave him be.
He knew better, mind. But a man can always hope.
"Well," she huffed with a disapproving look. "I can lead you to water but it is you who must drink. Or run, as the case may be." This was concluded with a flap of her hand in his direction that would have made him smile if he hadn't been so afraid of encouraging her. Martha Tinsdale was definitely a force of nature.
But one who didn't have a strong relationship with logic.
So he tried to turn that back on her in an attempt to escape this conversation.
"What about you?" he shot back. "Are you running?"
A mildly incredulous look greeted his question.
"Me?" she scoffed. "Heavens, no. My fellow citizens and constituents don't want to see their esteemed mayor running down the middle of the street, all sweaty."
Fair point.
"No," she continued. "I officiate. And I hand out the medals."
Well, that made sense.
"Oh," he said, because what other response was there?
"'Oh'?" she repeated a little snidely. "'Oh'? And what is 'oh' supposed to mean?"
Okay, what just happened? He was agreeing with her and she was using air quotes. God, it was like arguing with Cassie, only a lot less fun.
"Nothing," he assured her, shaking his head firmly and hating that he hadn't had the brains to pretend he hadn't seen her waving him over.
"I could run, should I choose to do so," she informed him huffily, trying to stare him down despite being nearly a foot shorter than he was.
"I . . . didn't say you couldn't," he denied, suddenly very afraid. He felt like he was drowning in quicksand and — this was Martha, right? He wasn't unknowingly talking to Cassie in disguise?
"Well, I think you did," she snapped, eyes flashing, as she pulled off a glove and dropped it in the street (and it was terrifying that they BOTH knew what that meant). "And I accept your 'shal-lange."
"I — I didn't 'shal-lange' you," he stuttered, so overwhelmed that he found himself using her ridiculous verbiage.
No, seriously. What the hell had just happened?
Before he could even try to recover his equilibrium, she steamrolled over him so effortlessly, it was . . . disturbing, actually. And just a little impressive.
"Oh, no, no, no, you can't take it back now," she informed him. "I will see you on Race Day, Doctor Radford."
Well. That was a decree.
Then, believing she had gotten the last word, she turned to stalk off.
And Sam, utterly bewildered, befuddled, and bemused, blinked after her before scooping her glove off the ground and silently holding it out for her, somehow managing to keep a neutral expression when she snatched it out of his hand while also silently questioning both his paternity and his pedigree.
Once she had turned back around and headed to her car, the humor in the situation struck him and he was unable to fight his smile as he started jogging home.
He wished he could tell Cassie about this; she'd get a kick out it.
But if he did, she'd torment him with it for the rest of his life.
{{**}}
When he got home that evening, he was greeted by a pan containing several thick turkey sandwiches and a dozen chocolate oatmeal cookies (did he want to know how she'd discovered this was his favorite flavor?), along with a note that said It looked like you were going to be late so I fed Nick before he withered away. Hope you like them! Cassie P.S. I saved the cookies until he left.
Huh.
Having someone watch out for him like this was . . . nice.
Unusual, sure. But nice.
And man, those sandwiches were good. So good, in fact, that they were making him rethink his decision to go grocery shopping on Friday; if he didn't have food of his own, she might bring him more.
Wow. Okay, seriously: what was wrong with him today? He'd let Martha Tinsdale steamroll him and now he was waxing rhapsodic about turkey sandwiches, for heaven's sake. Maybe he was coming down with the flu?
Or had picked up a brain-eating amoeba from somewhere.
Well, whichever, he wanted to see Cassie and this was an excellent reason, so he gave the pan a quick wash and headed over to Grey House, smiling when he saw Grace doing homework at the kitchen island. She was trying to make friends with Nick and that was good to see. If nothing else, she'd be a positive influence on his son.
"Hey," she greeted him cheerfully, coming to meet him as he came in the back door.
"Hey, Grace," he replied with a soft smile.
"Uh, Mom's getting ready upstairs," she told him before he could say anything else, and then promptly asked, "Want me to get her?"
"Getting ready?" he repeated, caught off-guard.
"Uh, yeah," Grace answered. "She's meeting Ryan for dinner."
He completely missed the less-than-enthusiastic tone to her voice when she gave him this information because he was too focused on his own not-happy reaction.
"Oh, really?"
Why did that bother him so much?
"I can get her," Grace offered again, giving him a small smile.
Yes.
"No, no," he replied, giving her the pan and a wry grin. "I just wanted to bring this back. Tell her it was delicious and . . . sweet . . . of her to take pity on us. Culinarily speaking."
But he wanted to tell her that himself.
What was wrong with him?!
Grace took the dish and gave him a look that was a little too knowing for a girl her age before nodding. "I will tell her," she assured him. "Thanks."
Oh, speaking of—
"Actually, I should probably thank you," he said, startling her. "Um, Nick's helping Anthony work out to get ready for the run. He said it was your idea."
Which had astonished him when he'd first heard about it and Grace's part had been the deciding factor in Sam allowing it, but it had been an excellent development. Sure, it was mostly an excuse to get out of the house, but still: his son was voluntarily spending time with a fellow classmate, so Sam would count that as progress.
If he could only do the same with Cassie.
Who was getting ready for a date with Ryan.
And that should not bother him.
"Me?" she asked, sounding puzzled, sitting down and drawing his attention back to her.
"I know he's doing it mostly to get out of being grounded and to get out of the house at night," he explained (and why was he explaining himself to a 14-year-old girl?).
"At night," she repeated, her eyes widening.
"'Cause Anthony has band after school," he confirmed, starting to wonder how much she knew about the boy outside of class.
"He does?" she said, clearly surprised, and confirming his suspicion that they weren't very close.
"So the only time Nick can train him is at night after dinner."
She nodded quickly. "That makes sense," she agreed.
"So, anyway," he finished, suddenly feeling awkward. "Thanks for planting the idea. He's a good kid," he . . . well, blurted out, wanting someone to know that he wasn't raising a juvenile delinquent.
"Yeah," Grace said quietly, looking away.
His cell phone rang before he could really wonder about that and he wished he could be surprised that it was Stephanie.
With another hurt knee?
Huh.
Well, he knew that she didn't normally run, so the odds were good that she had actually hurt herself and a house call was necessary. And if she hadn't, well . . . he still wasn't going to end up in bed with her, but either way, at least he had something to do tonight.
And it would take his mind off Cassie Nightingale.
{{**}}
"Are you ever going to let me pay?" Ryan asked in exasperation when Cassie plucked up the bill before he could.
"No," she replied with a smile. "I believe in a totally equal relationship, and part of that is paying for dinner."
Which — and this realization hit her like a bolt of lightning — was yet another way to keep him from getting too close.
Hmm.
He studied her for a few seconds before nodding silently, accepting this as simply one of her quirks.
That silent understanding made her throat tighten with a lot of feelings she didn't want to deal with right now . . . but it also solidified her decision to start letting him in. The next time they went out, she would let Ryan pay.
Having settled that with herself — and, having been thinking all day about the best way to go about this — Cassie decided to just dive in. She needed Ryan to grow up a little and talk to Sam. Every gift and ability she possessed told her that, as odd as it was, her boyfriend was the only way her neighbor/maybe-friend would enter the race and finally start to integrate himself into Middleton. And if having a serious sports competitor forced Ryan to up his game? Well, it certainly couldn't hurt, now could it?
"It's not easy being alone," she said apropos of nothing, mildly amused at the befuddled expression he got while trying to figure out where that had come from.
"Meaning?" he finally said, eyebrows raised in query.
"No, it — it's nice you and I have each other," she explained, and was promptly cut off.
"Yes! Yes," he eagerly agreed, reaching for her hands, only to pause and give her a suspicious look. "What are you trying to say?" he asked, knowing perfectly well that something was going on.
"I'm not," she denied, leaning back and looking innocent.
"Yes, yes, you are," he shot back, pointing accusingly at her. "You're doing that thing that you do when you say it without actually saying it."
Sipping her tea, Cassie said nothing, merely kept her eyes on his.
"What you are trying to say?" he asked again, a little more warily this time.
Then he got it. She saw the lightbulb go on.
"Is this about Sam?" he said rhetorically, and she gave him a gentle smile.
"Because Sam is not alone. He's got his kid, right?" Ryan continued a little desperately.
Cassie nodded in agreement but still didn't speak. He had to get there on his own.
"Okay," Ryan said defensively. "So maybe he feels like he's alone because he's new in town, but maybe, just maybe, that's by choice. Because people from the big city, they're like that. They just like to be by themselves, right?"
Now he was grasping at straws and she mentally sighed. She really was worried about Sam, but even more, she genuinely wanted Ryan to get along with him. She and Sam were close neighbors — literally, in their case — and her boyfriend needed to accept that and learn to deal gracefully with it.
"No," she started, trying very hard to keep from lecturing him. "No one chooses to be alone."
"Hermits do," he shot back, trying not to look triumphant at beating her point.
"I'm serious," she insisted, annoyed. Why was he still being such a child about this?
"No, I'm serious," he answered, refusing to give up out of sheer stubbornness now and only aggravating her further. "Hermits, by definition, are loners."
"Sam's not a hermit," she almost snapped, not letting him look away. If he really wanted to be with her, he was going to have to grow up and soon.
He finally saw some of what she was feeling and, realizing that she wasn't joking, turned serious, taking her hands in a gentle grip. "Look," he started softly. "Small town life is just not for everyone."
She nodded at this because it was true, but said nothing. Sam Radford wasn't 'everyone'.
Ryan took her silence as possible agreement and continued to make his point. "All I'm saying is that alone or not, I'm not so sure that Sam is long for Middleton."
And Cassie knew that he wasn't trying to hurt her — he was, in fact, trying to protect her from the disappointment should he be right about Sam — but she couldn't help the feeling of disillusionment that washed over her. Ryan was better than this.
Wasn't he?
"Well," she agreed without actually agreeing. "Not without some help, he's not."
She knew he understood when he searched her eyes for a long minute and then nodded once in acquiescence before ordering a dessert to share.
This was progress.
She and Ryan . . . they were working.
So why did she feel so dissatisfied?
{{**}}
As Sam had expected, Stephanie's 'knee trouble' was 98% her imagination (though whether she was aware of this was anyone's guess, given how aggressively she was pursuing him), so he wrapped it and gave her an ice pack for the minimal swelling that inevitably resulted when someone unused to running overdid it. It was only then that he had a chance to take in her extremely unsubtle scene setting (and mentally shake his head in amusement: wine AND low lighting? And . . . was that music?), and decided to truly consider asking her out. She couldn't be more interested — or obvious — and he did actually like her. She was sweet and pretty and he had seen signs of a good sense of humor, so . . . he should at least think about it. If worse came to worse, they would find out they weren't a good couple and could back out of that without too much difficulty.
And there was always the chance they'd click and be amazing together.
But she was going to have to loosen up a little. He'd already suffered one relationship where there was no teasing or playfulness and he refused to live through that again. Also, just to make things fun, he was a doctor. Nobody realized how inconvenient that could be for romance, because patients didn't give a damn that you hadn't had sex in two weeks. They were having a medical emergency and that meant you were, too. And he was a single father to a broody teenager on top of that, which meant that a lot of the time, any woman he was with would invariably find herself in third place for his attention. It wasn't fair to her, he knew, but that was the reality of his life.
But the only way to find out if Stephanie could handle that was to try.
Cassie could. Her husband had been the chief of police and she had a teenage daughter. Cassie would understand completely.
No.
No, no, no!
NOT CASSIE.
Stephanie. He was thinking about asking Stephanie out.
Cassie was almost a friend, someone he argued with entirely too much to be healthy.
And . . . she was probably with Ryan.
Argh, this woman! Even when she wasn't there, she still managed to complicate his life.
But he wouldn't have it any other way.
And he didn't have a clue what to do with that.
{{**}}
After a slightly uncomfortable end to her evening with Ryan, where the topics of the upcoming race and Sam Radford were avoided like the plague once Cassie had made her point about both (leaving the conversation somewhat stilted — which, in retrospect, was peculiar. How was it that neither she nor Ryan could find anything else to talk about?), Cassie came home to her extremely unhappy and troubled daughter. On finding out the reason for this, Cassie found herself truly starting to truly worry about Nick Radford, both for his sake and for his habit of putting Grace in bad situations. On the one hand, it was good for her daughter to start learning how to handle life when she encountered a speed bump, so to speak. On the other hand, his mostly self-inflicted downward spiral was starting to noticeably — and negatively — affect other people.
And the choices he was so blithely presenting to Grace were trying to tear her apart, a fact made even more disturbing because she couldn't tell if Nick was doing it deliberately or he was simply that careless.
But, having dealt with this kind of situation herself, Cassie was able to guide her daughter in a new direction, one that she simply didn't possess enough experience to consider. And, later that evening, she watched from the door, unseen, as Grace worked her way to the best solution for everyone (poor Anthony was somewhat bewildered and Cassie sympathized with him; in this instance, it was a strong case of 'like mother, like daughter', but there was no real way to tell him that he was simply the catalyst in breaking a destructive pattern.), though her pride was tinged with sorrow for the necessity.
And her heart was breaking for Sam.
He so desperately wanted to trust his son, to believe that he was settling in and making friends, possibly even starting to mature a little. And every time he did, Nick threw a live grenade at him, because he was simply too consumed with his own anger to see the destruction he was wreaking on himself, his dad, and the ever-fraying relationship between them. Nor did he understand just how close to the edge his father was now, in regards to him. It took a lot to push a man like Sam Radford to his limits, but . . . Cassie was truly afraid that he was nearly there. Because the other truth that Nick didn't or couldn't see was that he might be a grenade, but Sam was an atomic bomb. And if he went off . . .
God willing, Sam would finally come over to vent or talk or even just sit and brood for a while, because he badly needed a friend right now, but even more, he needed a safe haven.
And she really wanted to be both for him.
Oh.
That was . . . new. And not something she should be feeling.
Should she?
{{**}}
When Anthony innocently demolished his hopes about Nick, Sam went numb with realization.
But only for a minute. And then he bypassed everything and went straight to enraged.
So enraged, in fact, that he was beyond grateful that his son wasn't there, because he was genuinely afraid he would have shaken him until some damn sense finally fell into his arrogant, self-destructive, selfish brain.
Because Nick was so many things, but stupid wasn't one of them. And yet, he was going out of his way to do stupid, foolish things. And yeah, most of it was designed to piss his father off — which, okay, fine, Sam could deal with that, so long as it was confined to him — but Nick's flat refusal to understand just how deeply his self-centered idiocy was infecting not only his life, but that of everyone around him, was something that Sam simply could no longer tolerate. If Nick really wanted to destroy himself, there was no stopping him. Sam would tear himself to pieces trying to prevent it, but it was ultimately his son's choice.
But taking everyone else with him?
No. No, Sam would not allow that. Especially not with Grace.
Unfortunately, he was at an utter loss as to how to go about it. The despair he'd felt the night of Jake Russell's dedication ceremony came flooding back, only now it was a thousand times worse, because Sam was losing this battle his son was waging, and while he might have been able to eventually accept that for himself, he had to find some way to shield everyone in the blast radius first.
He spent the next hour sitting in the dark, veering between blind anger and a bone-deep hopelessness while he waited for Nick to come home. He just . . . he was at the end of his rope and hated himself for that, because all he wanted was for his child to be happy and healthy and have an amazing life.
But every time he thought they were on that path, Nick threw a ticking bomb under his feet and then blamed him for setting it off.
The fight to get himself under control was extremely unpleasant, but his turbulent emotions had finally stabilized to a low, simmering anger by the time Nick sneaked in the door, a triumphant smile curving his lips at getting away with it.
Sam . . . took a very dark pleasure in crushing that triumph.
He didn't ask where Nick had been or what he had been doing. Why bother? He would either get silence or a lie and he saw no reason to subject himself to that. Neither did he ground his son immediately, because that had proven to be useless as punishment, though he did order him straight to his room. He had given serious thought to standing in the open door until the brat actually went to bed and fell asleep, but Nick was stubborn enough to stay awake all night just to defy him and Sam was simply too furious for that.
Furious, despairing, hopeless, terrified . . . he was running a gauntlet of emotions he had no hope of corralling on his own and he needed help.
He needed Cassie.
But she was out. With Ryan.
He was unable to prevent a full-body flinch at the thought, squeezing his eyes shut in an attempt to block out the image of Ryan holding her so intimately, before blowing out a harsh breath and glancing at his watch.
Whoa. It was after ten, so . . . maybe she was home?
Please let her be home.
Well, he would knock. She would answer or not and then he'd know.
When she came to the door, he almost collapsed in sheer relief. He felt like he was drowning right now and she was his life vest.
Which was not a thought he needed to have.
Especially if Ryan was with her.
"Hey," she greeted him softly, her eyes gentle and curious.
"Hey," he replied just as quietly. "I saw you were up."
It was almost a question, and one she answered without hesitation.
"I am. So are you."
There was a beat of silence while they looked at each other, and then she opened the door all the way.
He couldn't prevent his relieved smile as he stepped through it, only to stop as he remembered the possible additional complication to his already sucktastic evening (oh, great, now Nick's vocabulary was infecting his. Well, why not?).
"I don't want to interrupt," he told her, genuinely meaning it. He might dislike Ryan, but the man was Cassie's friend (and maybe more, but again, this was not the time) and Sam didn't want to cause trouble for her.
She looked puzzled as she closed the door and faced him. "Interrupt?"
Sam braced himself for the answer as he asked, "Is Ryan here?"
And now she looked slightly surprised. "No, he isn't."
Oh, thank God.
Sam only just held back a sigh of relief and managed a small smile as he said, "Oh, okay."
And she was back to puzzled, though it only lasted a few seconds before she invited him inside.
Like a moth to a flame, he went.
{{**}}
Sam had come to her.
Thank heavens. Not being able to help him was eating her up and to see that he finally trusted her enough to ask was a gift. For both of them.
"Have a seat," she offered, smiling a little as they entered the kitchen and he promptly flopped down on the stool. He was almost vibrating with tension, but she could read him well enough to sense that some gentle teasing wouldn't go amiss. "I promise not to make you meditate."
"I'm not drinking any tea, either," he shot back, pointing at her with a mock-scowl that didn't hide the relief in his eyes.
Her smile widened involuntarily at the sign that he was already getting back to a more even keel.
"Okay," she agreed. "Well, ground rules are settled."
They both laughed softly at this before she continued, "I don't have any coffee. But—"
"How about pie?" he interrupted, looking . . . well, pitiful.
"Ooh," she murmured, a little surprised and a lot disturbed at how open he was. This was not like Sam. "That bad, huh?"
"Yeah," he agreed heavily. "And you got any ice cream?"
He sounded so hopeful that she actually felt guilty for not having what he wanted.
"Vegan. It's made with nut butter," she confessed, hoping that this information would somehow make it okay for him.
Yeah, no such luck. His head actually lolled back on his neck and he sighed in thwarted longing. Shakespeare would be impressed.
"Ugh!" he groaned before emphatically informing her, "If it's not made with cream, it can't be ice cream."
It took considerable effort for her to hold back her laugh and her rejoinder of, "Try it," held more humor than she'd intended.
"I'm allergic to anything not made with animal products," he retorted before he rested his elbows on the counter and buried his face in his hands. She managed not to look back at him as she got him a slice, wanting to give him some privacy as he tried to wrestle his emotions back under control.
"Ugh," he finally groaned again, lifting his head and looking blindly off to the side. "I don't know what to do! Nick's got me on the mat and the referee is counting down."
His defeated frustration was a tangible thing and Cassie winced, glad that he couldn't see her face, especially when he immediately followed that with a despondent, "I hate to admit it, but he's winning."
It was a confession filled with so much guilt and failure that she actually cringed, aching for his pain, even though she was fairly sure she could help him see a different potential path.
"Winning, but not won," she replied firmly, pushing her feelings aside to better focus on his, setting his pie down, and meeting that tormented gaze. "It's not over yet."
"No, not yet," he . . . well, he wasn't really agreeing with her, because for him it was a matter of semantics. In Sam's mind, it wasn't over only because he hadn't formally conceded.
But that was exactly why he'd sought her out, so she met his eyes again and offered him a ray of hope.
"Sounds like you need a new game plan."
Watching his spirit brighten with a new possibility was . . . dangerous. She had always loved helping people, had found her center and her purpose in it, but Sam . . . helping him was a new kind of high and it would be so, so easy to get addicted to hi—IT! Get addicted to it.
But when he gave her a warm smile, his eyes glowing with optimism and a deep, profound gratitude, she knew she was hooked.
And very afraid that there was no going back.
{{**}}
All things considered, Cassie felt no guilt whatsoever at pawning Martha back to Sam so he could handle the slightly-ridiculous notion that a woman who had never run a day in her life (true confession) could somehow get in good enough shape in three days for a run lasting more than six miles.
Keeping a straight face had rarely been so difficult, even for her.
And if dealing with Martha helped distract Sam from Nick, well . . . so much the better.
But mostly she did it because, in addition to being the only doctor in town, he was one of the few people who could handle Martha Tinsdale with any kind of equanimity.
And, frankly, he was just fun to tweak.
{{**}}
Stephanie's smug triumph at wearing Sam down had Cassie mentally sighing in resignation. How was it that a woman as intelligent and astute as Stephanie Borden didn't understand that if you had to wear someone down, it was a pretty good indicator that things weren't going to last?
And that axiom was true throughout every aspect of life.
But she was determined to win Sam and Cassie was tired of being the third-party listener/observer to this little hunt, so she made the executive decision to interfere for one of the few times in her adult life, gave her friend a knowing look, and waited. Sure enough, it took only a few seconds before the other woman took the bait. "What?" she demanded.
With some relief — and once again feeling sorry for Sam — Cassie offered the only advice that Stephanie might — might — heed.
"Well, just be careful not to chase too hard. He might pick up the pace and outrun you."
It was like watching a light bulb go on and Cassie took a sip of her latte so she could hide her expression. Really, Stephanie? Wow.
And then Sam walked up, right on cue. Had she been anyone else, she would have choked at the truly exceptional timing. Especially when he slowed as he approached the counter, his eyes narrowing at the sight of them.
"Ladies," he drawled as he came up next to Cassie, looking between them with something that looked a lot like suspicion.
Or trepidation.
"Hello, Sam!" Cassie greeted him cheerfully, before deciding to give in to Stephanie's silent plea and leave them alone. It was a little cruel, perhaps, but she really didn't want to be there for the resultant . . . well, whatever was about to happen. "I should probably get back to my shop."
Not being stupid, Sam immediately objected even though he wasn't sure what he'd just walked in on. "Don't leave on my account," he protested, meeting her eyes. There was something intense in his look that made her . . . well, it should have made her feel uncomfortable and she suddenly needed to be gone. Now.
"Oh, never," she assured him brightly before looking at her friend. "Stephanie."
And if she actually hurried to get out the door . . .
She did. Because she didn't want to leave him with Stephanie.
And she should, because she wasn't remotely interested in Sam Radford. And she had a boyfriend.
So why did she feel this way?
And how could she make it stop?
{{**}}
Sam had no idea what Cassie had said to Stephanie, but the end result seemed to be a cessation of her relentless pursuit of him (which, flattering though it was, was also becoming . . . well, embarrassing. For a lot of reasons.).
For that alone, he could kiss her.
And by 'kiss her', he meant 'do her housework for a week'.
Really.
But the fact that Stephanie had enough sense to heed this advice was another check in the 'asking her out' column, so he hid his relief at hearing she was going to stop semi-stalking him during his runs and told her he would miss her at the office, which was a half-truth at best, but it would make Stephanie feel better and — God willing — keep her away for a bit. They could both do with the breathing room, especially if he decided to try dating her.
And if he found himself wanting to take Cassie to dinner for her help with this, well . . . yes. Yes, he did.
And no, he had no ulterior motives, thank you.
None whatsoever.
He wasn't interested in her like that, remember?
{{**}}
When he stepped into the exam room only to see Ryan Elliott (he really needed to start looking over the patient's chart before he got through the door), Sam honestly didn't know if he was going to laugh, cry, examine him, or just punch the bastard. And he wasn't exaggerating. He had no clue what he was going to do until he actually touched the other man's knee and the doctor in him came to the surface.
Examine him it was. Okay, then.
After a few minutes of strained silence while he manipulated Ryan's knee, Sam somewhat gruffly informed him that he was cleared to run so long as he took it easy, fully expecting that to the be the end of it, and began to turn away so he could notate the chart and get Ryan out of his office.
Naturally, that wasn't how it went down.
When Ryan sat on the table for a minute without speaking or making any attempt to move, Sam mentally rolled his eyes and started scribbling his notes. He had no interest in anything the other man might say, but his manners had finally kicked in, so he allowed the silence.
"You know," Ryan eventually said, looking and sounding like a character from a Dickens novel: resigned, unhappy, embarrassed, and all-around miserable. "You should do the race."
And why that surprised Sam, he could not have said under threat of torture, especially considering Cassie's probable influence here.
"Really?" he asked, his tone more than a little cutting because he was sick unto death of this stupid race. "Why?"
Ryan sighed and then, in a voice that actually held some sincerity, said, "Because small towns live and die by relationships. And the run is a good way to start making more friends in town."
Sam simply could not stop the incredulous look that came to his face on hearing this . . . drivel . . . from Ryan Elliott, of all people. Hadn't they already settled this, with Sam making an irrefutable point?
"Is this you trying to help me?" he asked, his voice as skeptical as his expression.
To his credit, Ryan held his ground. "Maybe," he replied evenly.
"Ha!" Sam scoffed, going back to his chart.
"Or maybe I just like the competition," Ryan added with a soft, knowing laugh. Before Sam could even process that, he smugly added, "I don't want to see you fold up, head back to New York."
. . . okay.
That had a fifty-fifty shot of being a true statement.
It also had a 100% shot at both annoying Sam and piquing his competitive side, though he somehow managed to keep from actually rolling his eyes at the blatant display of machismo, even when the twerp — who clearly hadn't learned to stop when he was ahead — kept talking as he stood up. "'Cause in my book, being the best is defined as beating the best."
And Sam, knowing full well that he was being baited, nonetheless finally gave in.
"You haven't beaten me," he said in a voice ringing with certainty in his own abilities.
"Not yet," Ryan shot back, utterly confident (something that Sam did, reluctantly, admire). "See you on race day."
This parting shot was tossed over his shoulder as he left and Sam was finally able to roll his eyes and huff out a soft laugh.
Well, Cassie had wanted him to participate in this and start letting people talk to him instead of about him, so she couldn't complain that she was getting her wish.
It would be interesting to see if that sentiment still held after he won.
Hmm. Something to look forward to.
{{**}}
When Martha Tinsdale summoned him to her office the day before the race, he debated with himself for a solid twenty minutes about whether or not he was actually going to go. The woman alarmed him on several levels, but she was also warmhearted and her city was her first priority (a little too much, sometimes, which was one of the reasons she alarmed him). But her note (note? No, this was a summons. On official city letterhead. Sealed.) mentioned something about needing a checkup, so he finally blew out a heavy sigh, mentally girded his loins, and headed downtown.
The things he did for these people . . .
When she told him that Cassie had recommended he look her over before the race, he very nearly laughed at the realization that she was seeking a graceful — and believable — exit strategy because she finally understood her physical inability to run. Well, at least in this race; next year's was an option if she really was interested. But he wasn't nearly stupid enough to mention that to her, so he simply knelt down to give her a quick exam. And again, he had to fight to keep a straight face when, after the discovery of some fairly noticeable scar tissue led him to tell her that he couldn't recommend that she run, she was genuinely surprised. And — offended?
At least there weren't any air quotes this time.
Telling her she likely had plantar fasciitis was — God, he hated to say it, but it was beyond convenient, even though it was about to raise his blood pressure. She now had a legitimate medical reason for skipping any and all future events involving running; he had just saddled himself with a lifelong case of trouble.
Was it too late to take it back?
When she majestically accepted his diagnosis and then handed him her shoe to put back on while informing him that she could have still run, Sam literally had to bite his tongue to keep the laughter in check and managed, somehow, to agree with her. This led to her earnestly promising to 'follow doctor's orders,' which finally provoked his sarcasm past the point of being able to stay quiet.
"Thank you," he said dryly, knowing his inflection would be lost on her.
"No," she replied, still as regal as a queen. "Thank you."
As he left, shaking his head in amusement, he finally felt that just maybe, moving here had been the right decision.
No, Middleton wasn't New York.
And thank God for that.
{{**}}
His good humor lasted until he got home, but having opened up to Cassie and gotten some genuinely good advice — or, well, a different option to try, at least — he was no longer floundering in a tumult of negative emotions. He wasn't happy by any stretch of the imagination, but as he began packing up Nick's room, starting with the electronics (when he checked the kid's phone, he absently noted that Nick and Linda were texting, which was a little odd, as she hadn't contacted her son in several months, but it seemed like she was making an effort), neither was he sinking down into that black rage. This was something he hadn't tried yet and while he knew better than to expect a miracle, he did hold out hope that it would finally be a turning point.
For both of them.
The problem, he had come to realize, was that Nick had no respect for anything. Not his father, not his life, not any kind of rule . . . nothing. And Sam couldn't force him to. But what he could — and was going to — do was stop letting his son benefit from that attitude. He didn't appreciate the work Sam did to keep him fed, housed, clothed, and well-supplied with toys? Okay. Then the toys and a lot of the clothes would vanish. If nothing else, the lack of electronic distractions would force Nick to pay attention to the outside world out of sheer boredom, and if Sam was lucky, it would cause a new connection to form in that stubborn mind.
Having completed the task, he was pouring himself a cup of coffee when Dramatic Teenage Angst™ came storming in the kitchen.
The resultant discourse on the way life was now, at least for Nick, was ugly, because he knew full-well that he was doing was wrong; he just didn't care. And so far, nothing Sam had said or done had made so much as a dent in that obstinacy. The blatant disrespect in his son's voice was hard to swallow, but Sam had finally found a calm center and so was able to keep his temper in check. Thus, when Nick heaved the Sigh of Great Suffering for enduring Dad's unfairness, it didn't provoke him the way it always had before.
"Okay, enough. I'm sorry. Sorry I lied," he — well, lied, in a poor attempt to placate his father, and Sam abruptly found that he was done. Part of his issue was that he kept letting Nick run the show. And if he was going to employ a new game plan, then he also needed to run some new plays.
So he took control of the situation.
"No," he shot back as he stalked to the couch and pivoted to face his shocked offspring. "Not nearly enough, but I'm getting there."
Well, look at that. Nick actually didn't have a comeback for a change.
"You break the rules, do something bad, we talk," he continued, unable to hold back all of his frustration at this, because it was infuriating and his inability to stop it had only made things worse. "You don't really listen, and then we repeat the whole process over and over again."
Sarcasm had joined the conversation now, because Sam had reached his limit.
And Nick still refused to get it.
"You're not making any sense," he said, as though he was the parent and Sam the unreasonable child. It would have enraged him even yesterday, but Sam was finally past that. Even if Nick kept up his denial of reality, Sam was done playing his game.
And he told him so, straight up.
"You and I need a game changer," he stated, his tone a little more imploring than he wanted. But he could not do this alone.
"What game?" Nick clapped back, so genuinely confused that it hurt to see. He'd been running the show for so long that he was completely out of his depth now, which was . . . heartening to observe.
Particularly because it was time for him to hear a few home truths.
"The game that you've been winning and I've been losing ever since the divorce," Sam replied, knowing perfectly well how sensitive this topic was and thus knowing exactly how well that was going to go over.
And he was right; Nick went straight back to his playbook. "Just give me my stuff," he said in a world-weary voice that really should have been funny in a 14-year old boy.
"Yeah, that's not going to happen," he scoffed back, watching with a little satisfaction and a lot of sadness when Nick just rolled his eyes. "I'm gonna run the 10K," he continued, his gaze boring into his son's. "And I was going to ask you to run it with me."
That actually got him a surprised look, which was . . . new. Progress?
"But I know you haven't run since your mom and I got divorced," he said, and then rushed on before Nick could really react to that, needing to get this out. "And just like not running anymore, every destructive thing you do and continue to do doesn't hurt your mom."
Wait. That got him a nervous shift and eyes that skittered away. Huh.
"Or me," he added, and was gratified (also, startled) when Nick looked straight at him. "It only hurts you," he finished softly, hoping beyond hope that something had finally gotten through that wall of stubborn, self-destructive anger.
And . . . nothing.
With a sigh that verged on being defeated, Sam walked back over to the counter to Nick's side and leaned against it, facing the living room and trying to figure out the best way to say this to help his son understand just how much Sam hated their contentious relationship and lack of any kind of closeness.
"You and I," he started softly, cautiously feeling his way through the minefield, "don't have what I would call 'a solid relationship'. And last night, I couldn't sleep, because I thought if I came down on you one more time, that'd be it," he continued in a quiet voice, a little lost in his own thoughts now. But out of the corner of his eye, he saw Nick glance at him. He wasn't able to let himself be truly optimistic, but — well, it was something. A start, maybe? So he met his son's eyes, desperately wanting him to understand just how hard Samwas trying to fix this. "No relationship at all."
Nick looked away again, but still said nothing, though Sam had the mad (and probably foolish) hope that he might actually, finally be listening.
"I was afraid of losing what little we have," he confessed, because it was true. Cassie had helped him see a possible new path, but that didn't erase the past, and he loved his son dearly but he — they — could not live like this. Still, having another option had kept him from drowning and now he was throwing that life jacket to Nick. Whether he would accept it remained to be seen, and Sam straightened a little as he captured his son's eyes. "But I'm not afraid anymore," he promised, meaning it with every fiber of his being, even as he finally laid out the ugly truth that would break the camel's back, at least for now.
God, he didn't want to do this, but there were literally no other options left. "You've been using that fear against me," he told his son, finally allowing a little steel to enter his voice. Nothing else had worked, though he was cautiously optimistic that some of this was finally getting through that thick head. But even if it wasn't, Sam was committed to this new path. "You've been using a lot of things against me. And that stops today," he stated, refusing to relinquish Nick's gaze. "Right now."
Without a word, Nick walked away, and Sam watched him go. He was . . . he didn't know how he felt. Sad, frustrated, angry, heartsick . . . but also lighter, somehow, and less resentful. He'd finally told Nick some of the things he should have long before now, and that had helped. Whether it was enough to stop him from completely self-destructing was an open question, and one he suspected was going to take an ungodly amount of time to get the answer to, but for the first time since . . . since his and Linda's separation, Sam finally felt a glimmer of actual hope.
And he owed Cassie Nightingale — well, normally, it would be his first-born child. But somehow, that didn't seem like the best option for this situation.
But he did owe her, so he would run this race for her.
And one day, he might even tell her that.