I Will Find Myself Again In You, In the Taste of Chocolate and the Smell of Lilac
She shows up at his door at 3 A.M., with a bottle of tequila and her black lace bra showing under the shirt of his she still has. He kisses her hard, fast, and she lets him, lets him tear the fabric from her tan shoulders, suck a mark into the soft spot where her shoulder meets her neck, toss her bra into a corner and follow with her matching panties seconds later.
Afterwards, he holds her close, tight against his chest. It’s not the most comfortable position, her toes flexed against the arm of the couch, head crooked to study his face, but she doesn’t say a word, just lets him hold her.
She only moves when she feels tears hit her hair, feels him shake with sobs beneath her hands, his whole body convulsing, his breath tight and trapped in his chest. “Ssh,” she murmurs reassuringly, sliding over him, wrapping his body in her arms, pinning him to her to stifle the shaking. “Ssh, it’s ok, it’s ok, I’m here now and I’ve got you, I’ve got you.”
Lucky falls asleep, not for long, fifteen minutes at most, but he falls asleep. Sam keeps her arms around him, watches the familiar rise and fall of his chest, the contours of his stomach muscles, the place where his disheveled hair meets the dip of his neck. His face is rough, he hasn’t shaved in days, and the dark circles under his eyes are so pronounced they look like he’s been punched.
He stirs restlessly, body tossing, hands reaching for a little boy he can no longer find, and Sam stills his violently trembling fingers, cups them between her own and holds on tight, remembers days and nights when all she wanted was the child that was already gone.
“I’m sorry, I should have,” he chokes out, and Sam knows these words are for her, and Jake, and Cam, and the ex-wife and brother he can no longer stand the sight of, and the mother who will never be aware her grandchild is dead, and the father who knows all too well. He’s lost every home he’s ever known, every safe space he’s ever had. Every one except for her.
“You’re amazing,” she whispers into his hair, kissing his cheek, his skin trembling under her gentle touch. “You’re my hero. “
“I’m nobody’s hero.” His words seem to cut his throat, each one harder and harder to say, more painful, and she makes soft soothing noises, like she used to do with the child she was so good to but wasn’t allowed to keep. Her hands run through his hair, gently, ghostly touches, until he turns into her touch and she lets her fingers touch his scalp, his cheeks, his lips.
“You saved me,” she says, louder this time, because he needs to hear this, has to understand how beautiful and special and important he is. He’s on the verge of letting go, into pills again, or alcohol, or something somehow even worse, and she will be his lifeline, like he was hers. “I was so caught up in how much it hurt, how much everything hurt, and I didn’t think it would ever be any better. I didn’t know it could ever get better until I met you.”
There’s silence for a moment, then Lucky turns, raises himself up, and kisses her, softly this time, sweet, like he used to kiss her after they realized what they had was love not just lust. His hands run through her hair this time, settling lightly on her cheeks, his thumb brushing over her upper lip. “Walk with me?” he asks, hesitant, his words almost lost in the darkness of the room. She nods, lets a smile turn up her lips, and reaches for her clothes.
They walk for hours, down the quiet streets. Lucky stops to smell a lilac bush, his eyes closed, his breathing slowing, and he picks a sprig, tucking it into Sam’s hair. “You remember, huh?” she smiles, and Lucky nods, his hand lingering on her cheek.
“Lilac relaxes you, it’s your favorite,” he says, and his voice is stronger and stronger, and his smile is genuine. She kisses him, soft, her skin already smelling like peace, and then laughs, tucking a sprig behind Lucky’s ear as well.
He sighs, so soft she can barely hear it, and she watches the tension seep from his shoulders, his chest take in sweet deep breaths, and then he wraps her in his arms, takes her in.
When they break apart, he links his arm through hers, keeping them together, and they keep walking.
When they end up at Kelly’s, neither one is surprised. Lucky still knows where the key is kept, opens the door, and they slip in.
Neither one mentions the thousands of memories contained in this one small space, the brownie toasts, the ribs smuggled in, the stolen kisses, the pills, the illicit, the love, the fear, the loss. Instead, Sam perches on the counter, while Lucky slides behind, picks up a frying pan, cracks an egg.
They eat fried egg sandwiches snuggled on the floor, yolk dripping through their fingers, Lucky letting out a laugh as some drips onto Sam’s jeans. She grins back, smears a little on his cheek, her lips kissing it back off.
They talk about the last great meal they ate, the trouble with the local sports teams, how much they can’t wait for hot cocoa weather. They talk about everything and nothing, find the cocoa powder and stir it into hot milk, kiss the taste of winter out of each other’s mouths. In the morning, they walk together, watch the sun rise from the docks. Lucky wraps her in his coat and his arms, rests his cheek in her hair.
“Want to do this again sometime?” Lucky asks, and Sam grins, laughs as she lays her head on his.
“Are you asking me out on a date, Mr. Spencer?” she asks, and he nods, kisses her again, keeps her tight in his arms.