Sam.

~~~

The past two weeks had been a lonely blur. Raymond was back in Los Angeles, neck-deep in recording Purple Rain's third album. He had to stay in the City of Angels, and I couldn't leave New York, not with Rose depending on me.

Even though Rose mostly seemed like her old self, the worst had hit the night I returned. The thought of leaving her alone gnawed at me. Moving to New York permanently was a real possibility, but that would mean Ray and I would likely fall apart. Maybe I was naive to think we'd make it work.

We talked every day on the phone. I missed him. I wanted to be with him. But I felt trapped between what I wanted and what I had to do.

Tonight was supposed to be a family dinner at Rose's house, the night before my parents left for Italy. Alyssa, my younger sister, had finished her school year and was staying with me for a few days. I hadn't seen her much lately, so I was looking forward to catching up.

I'd been writing in my journal obsessively, pouring my heart out like some lovesick teenager. It was mostly about Ray—how I felt about him, what I missed, the future I wanted to believe in. Sometimes rereading my own thoughts gave me a fragile kind of hope. I'd written about Scott too, rehearsing what I'd say to him the next time we met.

I was on a video call with Ray when I heard a commotion downstairs. Reluctantly, I ended the call and stepped into the hallway. Alyssa was there, her small bag in hand.

"Which room is mine?" she asked, tilting her head to one side.

She looked different—older, somehow. Her jet-black hair now had streaks of blonde, and she'd added bangs that softened her high forehead. Her full lips shone faintly under the hall light, and her face seemed more defined, her cheekbones sharper. Even her figure had changed, fuller and more mature.

"Take whichever one you want," I said, motioning to the rooms at the end of the hall.

"It's your house," she said, shifting her weight onto one hip.

"It's still Grandma's house," I corrected with a smirk. "Take the one at the very end—it has a separate bathroom."

"Great." She grinned and strolled away, swinging her bag like it was a handbag on a runway.

I headed downstairs, where laughter spilled out of the living room. The foyer was quiet, so when the doorbell rang, I called out, "I'll get it!" Unsurprisingly, no one responded. Typical. They were too busy entertaining themselves.

When I opened the door, I wasn't expecting to see him.

There stood Tom, holding a bouquet of red roses in one hand and a bottle of wine in the other. His green eyes caught the porch light, and his nervous smile almost felt practiced.

"Hi," he said, clearing his throat. "Your mom invited me."

I leaned against the doorframe, letting my disbelief show. "Well, that's a surprise," I said, my voice dripping with sarcasm. He chuckled, dimples creasing his cheeks. I stepped aside, holding the door open. "Come in."

He hugged me lightly as he walked in, the roses brushing against my back. It was a brief, polite embrace, but I took a step back anyway. As he set the roses and wine down on the small table by the door, he bent to take off his shoes. My eyes betrayed me, flicking to his backside for a split second. Caught off guard, I quickly focused on the wall instead, pretending to admire the wallpaper.

"They're all in the living room," I said, turning toward the noise.

Tom nodded and followed me, carrying his "tributes" like he was walking into a royal court.

"Tom, my darling!" my mother screeched the second we walked in. She brushed past me like I was invisible, throwing her arms wide open for him. "Samantha," she added with a dismissive nod in my direction.

Tom handed her the wine, and she lit up as she studied the label. "Oh, this is a brilliant choice," she cooed.

"It's great to see you, Jen," Tom said smoothly, offering her one of those charming smiles he seemed to reserve for adults he wanted to impress. "You look terrific as usual." My mom soaked up the compliment like a plant basking in the sunlight.

"Richard," Tom said, turning to my dad and extending a hand. "Long time, no see."

Dad, who was leaning near the bar, shook his hand. "It's been a while, Tom."

As they exchanged pleasantries, Mom sidled up to me, looping her arm through mine like we were the best of friends. "He looks great, doesn't he?" she whispered, leaning in conspiratorially.

I bit back a groan. "Sure, Mom."

What else was I supposed to say? Tom did look good in his black jeans and fitted shirt. But this was supposed to be a family dinner. I glanced down at my Metallica T-shirt and yoga pants, silently cursing the universe for my lack of preparation.

My mom had clearly dressed for something much more elegant than a family dinner. Her hair was styled just right, her makeup more polished than usual, and her blue blouse was tucked neatly into a black pencil skirt that hugged her thin frame. She moved gracefully toward the men, and Richard poured whiskey into two glasses with the precision of someone who had done it a thousand times.

I caught my father's eyes as he scanned me, narrowing his blue gaze. "Sweetheart, did you forget we're coming?" His voice was laced with a sharpness that made me bristle.

Richard looked exactly like someone just come home from work. His gray suit, white shirt, and tie were as crisp as ever, though his hazel hair had a silvery streak above his ears. His brown beard, carefully shaped, complemented his angular chin. I knew exactly what he was thinking — I was a disappointment, and no matter what I said, I wouldn't be able to make him proud.

"No, Dad," I said, my voice flat. I threw a glance at Tom, who was still holding the bouquet of roses. "I thought this was a family dinner," I added, letting the words hang in the air.

Jennifer stepped behind the bar, lifting a bottle of wine with a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "And it is," she chimed in, filling a glass with a flourish.

"So, there's no problem then," I said, shrugging, trying to keep things light. Tom bent his head and chuckled at my tone.

Richard's face remained stiff, showing clear dissatisfaction, but I ignored it, too tired to care. At that moment, Amber and Alyssa walked into the room, both carrying platters of food. Rose followed close behind them, her gentle presence a relief in the midst of the growing tension.

Everyone started to settle down, grabbing food and drinks, and the tension began to dial down — though it still lingered in the air like a thick fog. Richard and Tom continued to sip whiskey, while Jennifer sipped the wine glass, the chatter blending with the hum of the evening.

Once I finished my meal, I slipped behind the bar, searching for rum. I mixed my usual cocktail — rum and cola — and took a long sip, the familiar burn sliding down my throat, easing my frazzled nerves.

I returned to my seat, my mind still racing as the small talk around me settled into its comfortable, predictable rhythm.

"So, Samantha," Richard said, loosening his deep blue tie and settling into his seat. "How was your trip?" His voice was casual, but I could feel his eyes on me, waiting for an answer.

I felt the heat rise in my cheeks as every eye in the room turned toward me. "Good," I muttered, taking another sip of my drink.

Richard smirked, his voice lowering to a teasing pitch. "Did you discover yourself?"

I let out a breath, trying to keep my cool. "Not yet, Dad," I replied, glancing at Tom, whose green eyes were fixed on me, narrowing slightly in a way that made me uneasy.

Richard's lips curled into a grin as he leaned back, gulping down more whiskey. "Your office is ready, you know. You can discover yourself while working." His words were more of a command than a suggestion.

The mention of work hit me like a punch. "I don't want to work in publishing," I said firmly, tapping the straw between my lips, the cold plastic a small comfort.

Richard's voice rose, a familiar edge creeping into his tone. "You're wasting your degree, sweetheart."

I shrugged, barely looking at him. "Perhaps I am. But I'm not like you, Dad. Business stuff isn't for me."

Richard threw his hands up in exasperation. "So what are you going to do then?" His gesture was sweeping, as if he couldn't fathom any other possibility.

I took a deep breath. "I'm drafting a book," I admitted, watching for a reaction. I could already see a small, proud smile tugging at Rose's lips. "I don't know what I'm going to do with it, but I like the process," I added, feeling a little lighter, even if only for a moment.

"Fine," Richard scoffed, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "But you will not publish at Miller and Sons," he warned, wagging his finger at me like I was a child.

I sighed, sinking back into my chair. "I'm not ready to be published," I clarified, trying to push the conversation away. "And if I do, I'll try my luck like everyone else."

I knew they wouldn't understand. Rose would support me no matter what, but my parents — they expected something grand, something that would elevate the Morris name even further.

"You are a Morris, so you don't need to do that," Jennifer chimed in, her voice sweet with condescension. Richard nodded in agreement.

I took another sip of my drink, letting the silence stretch between us. "Everything is hypothetical since I'm not ready to share my work," I reminded them, hoping the conversation would move on.

"Just give me the first drafts, and I'll see what I can do," Richard said, finishing his whiskey with a satisfying clink.

I almost laughed. Did he honestly think I'd give him the drafts? "When it's ready, maybe I will," I said, the words slipping out with a sigh. But deep down, I knew I wasn't going to hand over my work. Not to him.

Finally, the conversation shifted away from me. Rose left the table to get some rest, Alyssa spent most of her time glued to her phone, and soon, she disappeared upstairs. Jennifer and Tom continued to chat, their laughter light and easy, while Richard finished his coffee, sending a glare toward Jennifer as if she had been the cause of his frustration.

It was late when Dad placed a hand on Mom's knee and said, "We should go home, honey." His voice was warm and affectionate.

Jennifer clapped her hands together with a gleam in her eye. "Yes, Richard. Italy awaits!"

With formal goodbyes exchanged, they left, and I locked the door behind them, feeling the quiet weight of the house settle in. I checked on Rose, who was still peacefully asleep.

Last week, the security team installed cameras in the common areas of the house, at Rose's doctor's suggestion. She'd be prone to wandering off at some point, so I had to take precautions now. I went through the motions, double-checking the order of things. The cameras were in place, just as they should be.

I poured myself another cocktail, savoring the cold sting as I took it out to the backyard. The air had a damp chill to it, maybe from the rain earlier that morning or the pool's still surface in front of me. The coolness of the evening was grounding, making me feel like I could finally exhale. I lifted my pants, exposing my shins, and dipped my feet into the water, letting the subtle ripples tickle my skin.

As I stared into the soft, reflective blue, my mind wandered. The events of the evening looped through my thoughts, but it wasn't just the dinner I had to process—it wasn't the fact that I hadn't shared my book with my father yet.

He didn't know about Scott. They didn't know a thing about him. It had been so easy to avoid all of this while I was traveling, but now that I had time on my hands, I couldn't ignore it anymore. I had to understand Scott, to figure out why he'd chosen me, and to figure out how to sever ties with him for good.

When I lost contact with Paul, it hit me that I was at a crossroads. Sure things were simple when I was in New York. I could maintain a casual relationship with Scott without having to face the reality of it. But now, that would no longer do.

I watched crime documentaries about stalkers, hoping they'd shed some light on what to expect, on how to protect myself. It wasn't easy, but I kept telling myself it could be worse. At least I wasn't in the middle of some twisted nightmare like the people I saw on screen.

And then there was my book. I had written about a detective, a character tangled in a case involving stalkers. The parallels weren't lost on me. Everyone assumed I would continue with my grandfather's books, and follow in his footsteps. Maybe, in a way, my book seemed similar—but it was mine. And I wasn't ready to share it with the world.

My legs swung lazily in the water, and I absentmindedly sipped my drink, feeling the cold from the ice creep into my hand. I was lost in thought, my hearing not as sharp as usual. So when I heard the deep, familiar voice, it startled me.

"I had a feeling I'd find you here."

I jumped slightly, my heart skittering in my chest. But I didn't turn to look at him right away. "I had a feeling you'd be back," I replied, swallowing the last of my drink.

He stripped off his shoes and socks and, like me, lifted his pants, his legs long and tanned as he sat down beside me. The water shifted beneath his feet, swirling as he moved, and I couldn't help but watch the motion, hypnotized by the ripples.

"You know me well, babe," Tom said, casting a glance at me before leaning back, his hands propped behind him as he stretched out on the cool tiles.

"Yeah, well, that and your car's still in the driveway," I muttered, a smirk tugging at my lips. His hand brushed against mine, sending an unexpected shiver up my arm.

Tom's eyes didn't leave me. He leaned in, his voice dropping a little. "I was gathering my courage." He paused, and when I didn't respond, he continued, "We should talk."

I sighed, taking another sip of my cocktail. "We've talked about everything already."

"Small talk doesn't count, babe," Tom countered with a half-smile, his palm pressing against my knee. His touch sent an involuntary shudder through me, and I glanced at his hand, then back up to his face. I didn't say anything, but I shifted away a little. "I'm happy you're back. I'll admit, I was a little disappointed when you didn't call me after your trip," he added, almost as if he were teasing, though there was a note of sincerity in his tone.

"I had other things on my mind. Could you remove your hand from my leg?" I asked, my voice steady but firm. I shifted, my eyes narrowing. "Also, stop calling me babe. It's... inappropriate. Why did you come here tonight?"

He chuckled, leaning closer, but not too much. "Your mom invited me. You know that. But you're joking, right? This isn't inappropriate, not at all," he added, a wicked grin playing on his lips.

I shook my head, my voice quiet but cold. "No, I'm really not. You remember I have a boyfriend, right?" I raised an eyebrow.

Tom blinked, his eyes widening. "But you came back alone," he said, as if that were some kind of sign.

"Because Rose needs me. And Ray has some work, but we will try to figure everything out," I replied, glancing at him.

"Ray?" Tom asked, biting his lip.

"Yeah, well, now you know his name. Congratulations." I felt my frustration rising, but I swallowed it down with another gulp of my drink.

"So what? Is he in Los Angeles, and you're here alone?" Tom asked with a scoff.

"At the moment, yes," I said, my eyes still trained on the water. "You're asking a lot of questions, Tom."

"You're doing the long-distance thing with him?" His gaze stayed on me, intent and heavy.

"Yes, for now," I sighed, my voice tired.

"Why?" He rubbed the back of his neck, confusion clouding his features.

"We really shouldn't talk about this."

Tom let out a breath, his voice softening. "Why? We're still friends, right?"

"Are we, though?" I bent my head, narrowing my eyes. "Can you really be just my friend?"

His lips parted, but he didn't answer right away. "Well, no," he finally admitted, shrugging. "But I still want you in my life, Sam."

I stood up quickly, feeling the heat rise in my chest. I set the empty glass down on the nearby table, grabbed a towel, and wrapped it around my feet. "We were forced into each other's lives," I said quietly, though my voice carried an edge. "But you have to be civil about it."

"I am civil, Sam." He stood too, following me, his voice turning low and almost pleading. "But it's hard, knowing you're not mine anymore."

"Then you shouldn't have come here," I snapped, my voice rising. "I'm not property, Tom!"

"You know what I meant." He stepped closer, and I backed away slightly. "I wanted to see you. You didn't even tell me you were back."

I glared at him, my hand trembling. "I don't want to hurt you, Tom," I said, my voice quiet but firm. "I get it. I really do. But you need to move on. This isn't what you think."

Tom's expression hardened, and I saw something flicker in his eyes. "Don't say that," he pleaded. "This can't be the end."

"I told you weeks ago, it's over," I reminded him.

He took another step closer, his face softening. "I don't want to hurt you," he said, reaching out to touch my cheek. "But I can't let you go."

I stepped back, shaking my head. "You need to leave, Tom," I said, my voice a whisper now.

And then, before I could say anything more, his lips were on mine. I felt nothing. No spark, no desire to kiss him back. His mouth parted, and his tongue touched my lips. I didn't respond. It felt wrong, empty, and I placed my hand firmly on his chest, feeling the quick, erratic thud of his heartbeat.

I shoved him away, hard. He slipped on the wet tiles, crashing into the pool with a loud splash. The suddenness of it shocked me, but I couldn't bring myself to feel bad. His soaked body surfaced moments later, running a hand through his dark hair with a laugh.

"You should join me," he said, that devilish grin on his lips, water dripping down his face.

"Good night, Tom," I said flatly, turning on my heel and walking into the house.

I locked the door behind me and rolled down the blinds on the glass door, shutting myself off from the outside world. I heard the splash of water behind me, Tom's voice calling out as he stumbled toward the door.

"Sam, please open the door! I'm soaked. I need a towel."

I didn't respond. I stayed still, listening as he pounded on the door, but I wasn't afraid anymore. I didn't feel the pull to open it. There was a towel out there, sure, but this felt like just another way for him to get close, to test my resolve.

I wasn't falling for it again. I was done. And the truth was, I trusted Ray more than I'd ever trusted Tom. The door stayed shut.