Freddie raised his head from his hands when he heard the turn of a doorknob and his stomach knotted as he watched Sam come out from the room, head bowed. Her eyes, when she looked at him, were dull in the way he knew to mean that she was trying to hide a strong emotion.
A great attempt, he had to give her that, but a split second of faulty guarding was all it took for Freddie to see that she was emotionally hurting. He knew exactly why that was, and he knew that he had to get himself out of the picture so that she could go back to being the carefree and happy person that had shone through the video, the person that she showed Carly and the one that she couldn't be around Freddie.
He rose from the couch and tugged at his jacket. "So, I should…" He trailed off, tried again. "I had no business saying what I did earlier and you're absolutely right, I should go. I shouldn't be here. I should just… Yeah." He picked up his bag, which was reclining against the wall, and tried mustering up a smile for Sam. He knew that what showed, instead, was a grimace, and he winced.
"Sit down," Sam said, and Freddie obeyed a bit reluctantly. "How long are you staying in town?" She asked when he was fully seated.
He shifted the bag around on his lap, had to think. "Well… Classes start in less than a week, and that's when I'll have to be in New York. For, you know, class."
She nodded and blinked slowly, looking past him. "The couch has your name on it."
Freddie barely contained himself from leaping to his feet. "No, Sam. Really, that's okay."
"You can't sleep in a car and I'm trying to be nice here," she said sharply, and then walked past him to the kitchen, picking up a small mug from the side table as she went. "That's unless you have someone else to shack up with this far from Washington and New York."
Freddie didn't answer because she was right—he didn't have anyone else to stay with and he could hardly navigate himself around this city without getting lost before finding a suitable motel, and so the truck was really his last choice. He sat still as he heard Sam move through the kitchen, dishes clinking and drawers being opened and shut, and then looked up when she emerged, a mug held toward him in an outstretched hand.
Sam rolled her eyes and huffed when he gave her a questioning look. "Milk and sugar, right?"
"Yeah. Thank you." He took a sip of the warm coffee and watched as Sam went to a window, perching herself on the sill.
"There's a burger joint just at the end of the road for when you get hungry because I don't have much to eat here, the bathroom's right down there, can't miss it, and I'll see you in the morning."
Freddie hastily swallowed his mouthful of coffee and asked incredulously, "You're going to bed? Already?" The face on his watch showed the time to be earlier than eight.
She frowned and rubbed her head. "It's just—you came over late and my head hurts, so… So, let me just…"
"Okay, yeah," he said, swiping the back of his hand across his mouth. "Um… Have a good night."
"Later." She shut her door softly behind her, and Freddie stayed up for a short while after, staring into the bottom of his mug.
::: ::: ::: :::
Freddie awakes from the sound of a door closing and he raises his head to look over the back of the couch toward the source of the noise, finds it to his dismay to be the front door. He lets his head fall back to the cushion with a groan, his fingers pinching the bridge of his nose. There are early morning sounds coming through the window—the incessant beeping of a garbage truck, birds twittering, cars starting in the early hours daylight—and Freddie allows himself half an hour of extra sleep before he's groggily rising into a sitting position.
His back is killing him and his mouth feels as if it were stuffed with cotton, and then he looks up and forgets about his discomfort. There is a picture frame standing on the TV set and Freddie spares a thought as to how he had managed to not see it the night before, and then he's standing in front of the TV, frame in hand.
It's a photo of the three of them taken a few weeks before the wedding—before Sam's abrupt departure—if Freddie could remember correctly. In it, Carly is scowling into the camera, arms crossed. Sam is standing beside her with a grimace marring her face and Freddie, on the other side of the small blonde, is trying and failing spectacularly at holding a stern look. His eyes are clearly showing amusement while his lips are pressed into a thin line. All three of them had been exasperated taking this picture for Spencer, standing next to one of his latest sculptures titled, "Kid at Work, No More Play." He had made it specifically for them, this huge dangerous contraption that seemed to have chocolate sauce oozing out of its many crevices, spilling over lit bulbs.
Freddie rubs his eyes and peers closer to the picture, at the spot where Sam is holding onto his jacket sleeve. He remembers the tug, recalls looking down to see her biting a smile, rolling her eyes toward Spencer. He remembers her pulling at his sleeve, propelling him forward and saying, "Come on, Fredelupe, Carlita. Let's kick this dud."
"But I have to take a picture with the sculpture in the middle of you guys," Spencer pleaded, and Carly had given him a sympathetic shrug.
"Dude, I am not letting that anywhere near me," Sam had laughed, her fingers tightening briefly, and when she let go, there had been a shy smile on her face.
Freddie remembers dimly hearing Carly say to her brother, "She has a point," and the older Shay whining after them. And then Carly had left them alone, just for a few minutes, but it was enough. Freddie had Sam pinned against the wall in less than two seconds, his tongue licking into her mouth and her grip tightening in his hair. He remembers the amazing sounds she made and how she had kissed him with the same degree of fervor, battling her tongue against his as they had both become consumed by lust. Sam, he recalls, had undone half of his shirt and he had been only one button away from losing control and running his hands along places untouched on her body when Carly had called out that she was back. Freddie had pulled away from Sam, his lips red and bruised, skin hot all over, and he had just stared in Sam's desire-filled eyes before she turned away from him and answered to Carly, yelling out to her that they were in the studio.
Freddie pulls his head from his reverie and reluctantly places the photo back on its spot. He surveys the rest of the room. There's not much else in the way of personal items in the room besides a pair of shades and a day's old newspaper lying on the side table. He looks out of the window, at the passing cars and the dull rays of the sun hidden behind clouds, and wonders when she'll be back. After gathering a few things from his bag, he goes into the bathroom and soon discovers that the door doesn't close properly. There is a hinge that's loose, making the door crooked, and when he pushes against it, it only hits the doorframe and leaves a four-inch wide gap where it stays cracked open. He thinks that it's another thing he'll want to fix.
After freshening up, Freddie goes in search of food. Unfortunately, he finds that she was telling the truth, that there really is nothing for him to eat. With his stomach growling, he sinks onto the couch and runs his fingers through his hair, gripping strands. He was torn; he didn't want to leave the apartment just in case Sam came back, but his stomach was roiling in hunger and he remembers the spot she had mentioned the night before.
He rolls his head in his palms until he's facing her bedroom door. He stares at it for a minute, curious as to what may lie behind it but cautious enough to know that it would be in his best interest not to pry. His inquisitiveness triumphs over his cautiousness and he holds his breath as he slowly turns the knob.
What he finds is that her room is dark, a huge contrast from the rest of the apartment which is surprisingly bright for the clouds covering the sun. The curtains are drawn closed, blinds are down, and Freddie barely notices his feet taking him to her low dresser, just knows that he is soon running his hands over everything, trying quickly to catalog these bare snippets of the life she has created for herself. A coin purse here, a couple of pairs of earrings there, a comb and a small makeup kit. He turns away from the dresser when a creaking floorboard startles him.
"Sam?" He calls, and then winces, remembering that the last thing he wanted was to be caught snooping around in her room. He tries to think up an excuse as he waits for a sound of acknowledgement, afraid but expecting Sam to stop in front of her bedroom door and accuse him of prying. But she never comes and he lets out a breath that he didn't know he was holding. He places the items on her dresser the way he had found them and is halfway across her room to the door when he stops and eyes her bed.
The dark sheets are messy in the way that they're thrown around on the bed and the pillows are at the head, crumpled, but in the middle is a small wooden box. Freddie goes to the bed and picks up the object. When he opens it and tinny music spills out, he closes it quickly, sweat beading on his forehead. But he opens it again and, headless of the high-pitched tune, shoves a small notepad to the side, lets a delicate chain slide through his fingers, and halts when he sees something unfamiliar but not unknown at the bottom. It's small, the color and texture of dead grass, and it doesn't exactly take a genius to figure out what it is.
He snaps the lid closed and tosses it on the bed, all at once revolted and angry and just a bit distressed. He does end up going to the burger place a short while later when all of his hard thinking and jittery nerves get the best of him. He's hoping that the fast-paced diner will at least get his mind off of confusing thought of Sam, of what she's grown to be, and set his head straight so that he could know what to say when she finally gets back to the apartment.