The Creeping Page 11

  “Thank you.” I exhale, eyeing the glittering mess in the rearview mirror.

  “No problem.” He shoots me a sympathetic look. “You don’t need to be there for that.” A long pause. “How do you feel about chicken piccata?”

  I smile weakly. “I am decidedly pro chicken piccata.”

  We navigate the ten blocks that separate our houses. With every block put between us and my house, I breathe easier. Sam’s is a brick two-story on a quiet court. No reporters or meddlesome neighbors in sight as he pulls into the driveway. I push out of the car and regard the house for the first time in years. The ivory paint on the shutters is peeling like my nail polish; the waist-high lawn has splotches of brown; the picket fence is sagging and creaking rhythmically. It’s not what I remember.

  As if reading my mind, Sam says, “Dad’s picking up odd jobs whenever he can. I try to keep it up, but between school and BigBox, I don’t have much time.”

  The outside of the house may look shabby, but once inside it’s obvious that Sam still has a family-sitcom kind of home. Sam’s mom practically floats from the kitchen, donning a ruffled apron to welcome us.

  Mrs. Worth’s eyes linger on Sam’s bruised cheek and then on me. She doesn’t ask, though, and I’m sure she assumes the injury has everything to do with me spontaneously reappearing in her home after a five-year absence. “You’ve been missed around here,” she whispers close to my ear as I’m wrapped in her soft arms. She avoids mentioning the news and tells us that dinner is in a half hour. I follow Sam up the narrow carpeted staircase; its shag is squishy and familiar under my soles. The dimly lit hall is lined with framed family photos. I’m in a few taken at picnics, field trips, and school plays.

  I stop halfway up the stairs, tapping on the glass of one picturing Sam clad in green tights for his role as Peter Pan in the fourth grade. “I wish you still had this outfit. I’d like to see you running around school in those tights,” I tease.

  He pauses a few steps above me, leans one hand on the railing and, with the other, points to a scrawny nine-year-old in a blue leotard and fairy wings in the corner of the photo. His voice is soft but serious. “I’d like to see you in this, Tinker Bell.” He holds my gaze with his. The words are light enough, but there’s an undercurrent to them that makes heat rise in my cheeks. Who knew that Sam Worth could . . . uhhh, flirt? I catch my breath and jog up the stairs after him.

  The second floor is warm with stale air. Sam lifts a hall window up a crack before opening his bedroom door. He stands to the side so I can enter. I hesitate. “We can keep the door open if you’re worried about not being able to control yourself so near a bed with me,” he says with a laugh. I brush against him, even though there’s plenty of room to avoid touching him. Umm . . . alternate universe much, am I flirting back?

  Sam’s bedroom brings on a deluge of memories. It’s almost exactly as I remember: walls painted in forest green, with the silhouettes of pine trees in brown; his twin bed draped in a navy comforter with white piping along its edges; two nightstands stacked precariously with books; and a giant bulletin board above his desk, covered in photos, pictures of cars from magazines, and band logos. It used to display photos of us; now I’m not in any of them. I inch closer to see who is: a group of boys on a camping trip; a mousy brunette sitting on his lap grinning at the camera; a bunch of girls and boys in matching yellow T-shirts huddled in a pyramid; a perky blonde in a low-cut tank top with her arms wrapped around Sam’s waist. I don’t recognize a single person in any of them. It makes me feel left out; ridiculous since he’s the one who should feel that way.

  I prop my hands on my hips and try to imitate Zoey’s purr and honeyed smile. “Well, I guess now you wouldn’t need me to pull you in for a kiss, since it looks like you’ve had loads of experience.” Sam fills the doorway, where he’s leaning watching me. “Who are these sluts?” Inwardly I cringe at saying “slut.” Zoey says it a lot, but only because she tries to own the word. You know, take it back from all the people who put girls who like sex down? I use it in the bad way. I’m instantly ashamed.

  “Who are you talking about?” Sam asks.

  I flick my hand toward the bulletin board, completely aware of what a wicked witch I’m being. “Is Anna what’s-her-face up here?” I ask. Just thinking it makes me want to rip the pictures down. Nice to meet you, jealousy. I seriously need to get a grip. I shouldn’t even be here. Who am I kidding? Zoey will lose her shit over today. And how is this fair to Sam? Once this nightmare is over, we’ll go back to the way we were. I’m Stella Cambren; he’s Sam Worth.

  Sam’s jaw tightens as he stares at me. There’s no trace of the glint in his eye or the smirk that guys get when trying to make you jealous. He actually looks . . . angry.

  “Stella, you’ve had nothing to do with me for five years. For five years I’ve tried to show you that I care about you, and you’ve shot me down every single time. I’ve made friends. Was I supposed to wait for you just in case you changed your mind?” He shrugs with his hands. “I went out with other girls. Don’t call any of them that word. Better yet,” he adds, steady and low, “don’t use it at all.”

  I bite the inside of my cheek. I’m a monster making Sam explain anything to me after I deserted him. What did I expect? That Sam wouldn’t be able to make friends? That there would never be a girl who saw what ten-year-old me saw that day at the cove? And why do I care anyway? Why do I feel like the girls on the bulletin board stole something vital from me, when really, I threw it away?

  I drop to the edge of his bed, covering my face with my hands. I wish I could make my awfulness disappear. Why can’t Sam just get it? I didn’t choose him. He was supposed to hate me, not spend the last five years proving that I chose wrong. Proving that even though I threw him away, he would never ever do the same to me. Believe me, I get it.

  Sam drops to his knees at my feet. “It’s okay. It’s been an insane couple of days.” He pats me lightly on the knee and then withdraws his hand.

  I wallow in the darkness of my palms. “I don’t know who any of those people are. I only guessed who your friends were at the bonfire because of how they were dressed. I don’t know if you have a girlfriend . . . or if she’s the girl you left with the other night.” Jealousy threatens to choke me as I inhale. “I used to know everything about you. With my eyes closed, I could pick your footsteps out during silent reading whenever you got up from your desk, and I’d ask for a bathroom pass and we’d talk out in the halls.” I stare at him. Only Zoey’s face is more familiar than Sam’s.

  Sam knits his brow and rocks back on his heels. “I might not always like you, but I could never hate you.” I try to blink away the tears; they’re too fat. Sam jumps to his feet and taps a photo on the bulletin board.

  “You see all these losers in the yellow shirts?” His eyes laugh. “We were in a science camp the summer before sophomore year. A few go to Wildwood, but mostly they’re from all over Minnesota. They’re all at camp this summer, but I couldn’t take the time off from work. This girl here”—he points to the blonde—“this is Anna. We met a year ago at BigBox. We dated for four months and are strictly friends now. I gave her a ride home because she was there with another friend of mine—Toby from school with the thick-framed glasses and braces—and she wasn’t into it.” He grins like it’s a funny story. “This is Harry.” He taps a photo of two boys sitting on the hood of a vintage car painted cherry red. “I helped him rebuild his Dad’s ’67 Mustang last summer. We’re going to take it to a track in a few weeks. This brunette is Sarah. We dated for all of eighth grade. It wasn’t serious and we had nothing in common, but she was my first girlfriend, after you.” He freezes. Did he just call me his girlfriend? Well, maybe that’s what we were. We were just kids, but we were every bit as much of a couple as I’ve ever been with anyone. Obviously minus the sex stuff. When I don’t object, he launches into a short bio of every person pictured on his board.

  Fifteen minutes later Mrs. Worth shouts from downstairs that
dinner is ready. I’ve been quietly listening, gradually letting my guilt wane as Sam tells me about his life, post–Hella Stella. It’s difficult to hear he’s been mostly happy without me, but I guess it would be worse if he’d been pining away. I drown the jealousy by picturing every guy I’ve made out with over the past five years. The only problem is this makes me queasy. Every one of those kisses took me further and further away from my first kiss with Sam. The only kiss that ever really meant anything.

  “Wait a second, there’s one more here.” He shuffles through papers in a desk drawer. “Here we are. This is my oldest friend. She’s a raging ass most of the time, but I just can’t get rid of her.” He winks at me and tacks up the photo in the center of the board. It’s one his mom took while we were swinging in his backyard forever ago. She captured us mid leg pump as we were reaching to grasp hands. Our arms splayed in the air, like once our fingers touched we would take flight. Vaguely, I remember believing we would.

  “And you’re right”—he nails me with a solemn stare, the sort of stare you fall into—“I wouldn’t need you to pull me in for a kiss. All you’d have to do is say the word and I’d be all over you.”

  Chapter Eleven

  I think Sam’s mom can hear my heart thumping, wildly trying to free itself from the cage of my ribs, during dinner. Sam’s words bounce around in my head, and I can’t quit being completely turned on by them. Gag me, but somehow it’s the hottest thing anyone’s ever said to me. Epically random, since I don’t even think Sam’s hot. I appraise him slyly over a spoonful of rice. Okay, so maybe that little crease between his eyebrows from concentrating too much is adorable, and maybe there’s something kissable about those freckles, and maybe the lean muscles corded in his arms are quiver-worthy?

  But hello? How can I be falling for Sam with all that’s going on? Or at all? That is what’s happening, isn’t it? Am I falling for Sam Worth? Falling back into Sam Worth?

  Sam’s dad never comes home, a knowing look exchanged between Sam and his mom, so it’s only the three of us at the round kitchen table.

  “Stella, tell me what you’ve been up to.” Mrs. Worth launches her first of many questions. I tell her everything I think a mom would want to hear. She beams proudly when Sam says we compete against each other for the second spot in our class—Michaela usually comes in first. She tilts her head and listens when I tell her about the last article I wrote for the Wildwood Herald. She applauds when I tell her I might work as the Herald’s editor senior year. She coos sympathetically when I share that I haven’t seen my mother since Christmas Day. It reminds me of long summer afternoons spent by Sam’s pool, with his mom serving us lemonade and teaching us to backflip into the deep end. She’s always been the kind of mother I wish I had.

  That is, until she scrapes her fork along her plate and finishes her last bite. “Do you have a boy you’re seeing?” Her voice is low and velvety, but her words needle my eardrums.

  I stare at the points of my fork; if I jammed them into my arm, would she be too distracted to make me answer? “No, not really,” I say after too long.

  She leans forward, resting her elbows on the table. “Really? It’s hard to believe that such a pretty girl doesn’t have a boy.”

  “Mom, stop,” Sam groans. “You don’t have to answer, Stella.”

  I fidget in my chair. Mrs. Worth keeps her eyes on me, waiting for more. I swear the grandfather clock ticking in the living room has been turned up ten decibels. It’s all I hear as I say, “I don’t really date much. I mean, I go out on dates, I just don’t have boyfriends.” I stop. I’ve already said too much. This apron-wearing, stay-at-home mom will not understand. The fabric of my camisole pulls uncomfortably against the itchy skin on my chest. Great. I’m breaking out in hives, red welts rising as they watch.

  Mrs. Worth scoffs at Sam, “Don’t be silly. It’s a harmless question.” She smiles warmly at me. “You’ll get no judgment from me. I barely know what I want and I’m . . . well, let’s just say I’m older than you. I can’t imagine knowing what you want when you’re your age.” She shrugs and slides her chair back from the table.

  She shoos me out of the kitchen when I try to carry plates over to the sink. “You two go watch a movie or something.”

  I follow Sam through the house, up the stairs, and into his bedroom. My purse is on his bed where I left it and my cell rattles, vibrating against a compact. I snatch it from the bag and glare at the screen, hoping beyond hope that it isn’t Shane calling to chew me out. Taylor. Really, now? It’s been days since the bonfire and no word. Plus, we usually text, so what’s with him calling all of a sudden?

  “You should answer it.” Sam surprises me, looking over my shoulder. I avert my eyes, worried that they’ll reveal too much, and fumble for the end button.

  “No, that’s okay. I don’t know why he’s calling.”

  “I do. Aren’t you going out with him?” He laughs a bit nervously, mostly to himself, when I don’t answer right away. He perches on the edge of his desk. He’s still wearing his UFO shirt, but it doesn’t look silly to me anymore. I take so long to answer because I can’t get over the fact that even though Sam assumes Taylor and I are together, he didn’t bring it up when I was throwing a jealous tantrum earlier.

  “No, I’m not.” Thinking about Taylor makes me frown. “We’ve never even been out together. You know, not without a group.”

  Sam stares at his socked foot as he taps his toes on the carpet. I crawl back onto his bed, crossing my legs. “I don’t get it then,” he says, shoulders drooping.

  I start to get blushy as I realize I’m sitting on his bed. “Don’t get what?” I sound too breathy.

  “Everything, really.” He smiles crookedly. “But in this moment, I don’t get why you never seem to have a boyfriend, but I always see you with guys. Granted, the infamous lacrosse or football players at Wildwood aren’t my type either.” He waggles his eyebrows before continuing, “But I see you out with them. And . . . I hear things.” He finishes quietly, eyes intent on my expression.

  I pretend to fawn over my polished nails to stall for time. The tactic doesn’t deter Sam, who stares at me unflinchingly, patiently. Always patient. I sigh and admit, “I go on first dates with a lot of guys. I like flirting; guys act really interested when you’re just flirting and you’re still . . . you know, not giving it up. But I don’t have boyfriends.”

  “Why not?”

  I stare at the ceiling as I answer. “Guys lose interest once you show you’re interested. They only want what they can’t have. Once they get it, they leave. Everyone knows that.”

  “I don’t know that,” he says firmly. I risk a quick look at his face when he says it. The crease in his brow is a parenthesis mark.

  I shrug, turning my attention back to the ceiling and its whirling fan. It’s safer to stare at. “Then you must be the only person on the planet who doesn’t.”

  I’m aware of him moving closer. I resist the urge to run. He stops directly in front of me, his head blocking my view of the ceiling. “Any guy who doesn’t want you because you don’t play hard to get is an ass. Those guys aren’t good enough for you.” I chew my bottom lip. Zoey would totally pitch a fit to know this: I’ve always wondered what it would be like to kiss Sam again. You know, after I’ve kissed handfuls of boys. I wonder if it would still stack up.

  For a moment I think I might find out. I’m aware of my bottom lip parting from my top. My phone vibrates again, just as he moves to sit next to me. I glance down to see Dad’s office number on the screen.

  “Dad?” I answer, breathless. Sam backs off, leaning against his desk, whistling softly.

  “Hey, Pumpkin. I’m swamped at the office but wanted to check in and let you know I’ll be late tonight. Are the police still in front of the house?” Typical. Dad doesn’t even know I’m MIA.

  “Not certain. I’m actually at Sam Worth’s house. His mom made dinner and we’re watching a movie.”

  “That’s nice, Pumpkin. He�
��ll make sure you get home safe? Give me a call once you’re back.” The call ends when good-bye is just rolling off my tongue. I can’t help sighing as I toss my cell back into my purse.

  “He still works a lot, doesn’t he?” Sam asks.

  “All the time. He keeps saying he’ll cut back with Mom gone and all, but you know how it goes. Plus, I think it makes him sad to be home without her.”

  “It must be hard for you too,” he says gently.

  I wrinkle my nose. “I’m mostly used to it. What else is there to do but accept it? She left us.” My shoulders rise and fall. “Was Harry wearing a sweater-vest at the bonfire?” I change the subject.

  One-half of his mouth hitches up. “Yeah. Don’t you remember Harry? He’s been in school with us since the eighth grade.” My fingers knit in my lap as I picture a twelve-year-old in a sweater-vest. “He wore headgear to school every day for two years?” Sam prods. I shake my head. He groans. “Zoey called him Dirty Harry.”

  My hand flies to my mouth as I try to smother a laugh. “Oh my God. Dirty Harry is your BFF?” He smiles at the teasing in my tone. “Jeez, I thought he moved or something.”

  “Nope. He got rid of the braces, started using dandruff shampoo, and became a Jedi Master at avoiding Zoey.” I cringe and laugh at the same time. “Really,” he says, stroking his chin, “Dirty Harry was not her best work.”

  “No, it wasn’t,” I agree.