A few days later, and I've mostly recovered. I think. One awkward Sunday dinner, and I think I am building an immunity to Sam. Finally. The key is, not to make eye contact, or talk to him, or really focus too hard on his gruff, strangely soothing, ridiculous voice. Also, I left right after the meal, practically still chewing my last bite, claiming that I was getting a migraine. Problem solved.

We've both since made ourselves busy. It's obvious our drunken sexcapade was a mistake. One we both regret. I see him around town occasionally, and sometimes I hear him banging inside the old house. I mean, banging on things. Banging on construction things with a hammer. Who knows about the other kind of banging. It's really none of my business. I can't say that I've seen any of the Housewives stop by, but then again, I don't sit around staring out my window, watching for perfectly coiffed hair and Manolo Blahniks.

On this quiet, Wednesday morning, I'm hastily trying to finish up work at the Spoon so I can stop by Rock's and check on him. He's the strong, silent type but I can't quite tell how he's been coping lately. He, like all of us Trinks, tends to keep his emotions behind many different walls. High ones, too.

"I think this year, for the hayride, I'm going to dress up as a zombie of some sort. Maybe a zombie bride." Libby sighs, staring off into space as I'm sure visions of blood and guts and gore cloud her imagination. She loves being part of the haunted hayride production. It's the highlight of her year.

"Sounds gross. And perfect." I nod, watching her cleaning one of the coffee machines.

"Yeah, I've got a whole back story. She was finally getting married to her true love. Months and years of planning. And on the day, when she shows up at the church...zombies. As far as the eye can see!" Libby cackles, raising her hand up in the air. I laugh and then scowl.

"Sounds a little too close to home, actually." I grumble, which makes her laugh.

"Please. We all know Evan was not your true love. God help you if you think that." She rolls her eyes and I can't help but smile. She's right. He wasn't.

"Speaking of true love, any good dates lately?" I ask, changing the subject. She sighs heavily, and pushes back a strand of hand into her messy, lopsided bun.

"Yeah. Last night. This guy Tony. He's a podiatrist and the most boring man on earth. Did you even know that foot fungus comes in many different forms? I didn't, but now I do and I wish I could have gouged both my eyes out with my own dismembered toe." Libby makes a yanking motion at her foot, and then pantomimes digging out both eyes with a tiny toe shovel. I squint and watch her, fascinated for a second before getting slightly grossed out.

"At least you know who to go to if you've got any foot issues." I shrug, trying to look to the bright side. Libby has never had luck with dating, though she constantly dates. I think it's because she's not actually trying to find anyone worthwhile or truly appealing. She just likes meeting new people, which isn't a bad route to follow.

"Yeah but I'm tired of sleeping with any old foot podiatrist, ya know? I wanna find the foot podiatrist." She sighs dreamily and I barely manage to hold back my laughter. She flashes me a silly, wicked grin and we both cackle.

"You didn't really sleep with him?" I ask.

"Don't slut shame me, Trink." She shoots me a look, and I roll my eyes.

"You know I think it's great you can be casual. I just am dumbfounded when you just pretended to gouge out your eyes with your dismembered toes, and yet you still slept with him?" I grin. She huffs and looks at me impatiently.

"You have a point. But I was in the mood, and he was surprisingly good looking, despite the foot fetish thing. He was boring as hell at dinner, but afterward...." She winks at me. I grin and turn back to finishing the totals for the morning.

"You're something else, Lib." I say good naturedly.

"Listen, one day, when you're in a bind and need a podiatrist...Who do you think is going to help you?"

"You and your friend, apparently."

"Exactly." She looks triumphant. I grin and nod.

"I wish I could be like you, Libby. So carefree. You just have fun and you don't overanalyze it. My solution is just to never date."

"Well you can be like me, Max. Just four easy payments of $19.95--" She grins and then we both laugh.

"Hey, I used to overanalyze. I used to be scared of meeting people. I felt the pressure of finding the one. And that was the worst. It meant I never really got to know anyone, cause all I was doing was thinking about the distant future. So now, I just do whatever I feel. And if the person I'm with is on the same wavelength, then that's great. If not, then no harm done. You just have to live in the moment a little." Libby tilts her head slightly and smiles at me, a warm and caring smile. I nod, knowing her advice is solid.

"I just don't want to die, having only slept with two people. Alone and all rusted up in my tiny little shack--"

"What?" Libby cuts in, her eyes getting huge. I freeze, confused and wondering what I said wrong.

"What?" I shoot back. A customer comes in the shop and I turn to help them. I can feel Libby behind me, her eyes like smoking lasers. I help the customer, serving them coffee and a scone, all while Libby stares.

As soon as the man turns to leave, she's at my side.

"You said you'd slept with TWO people." She hisses into my ear. I freeze. Shit.

"Did I?" I blink and try to make myself busy.

"Max!" She gasps, and covers her mouth. I shake my head and refuse to look at her. I also can't help but smile. A solid, silly, shit eating grin.

"Shut up, Libby. Shut up." I shake my head, and she grabs me roughly by the arm and yanks me toward the back kitchen. I go with her, with only a bit of resistance. She nearly throws me against the wall, which startles Henry.

"What the hell, Libby?" He shouts, looking ornery and yet interested. I look at both of them, steady and waiting.

"Henry, Max slept with someone and she won't say who." Libby spills my beans. Henry gasps, loud and almost comical. I groan and put a hand to my forehead. Libby takes a step closer, and Henry walks over, spatula in hand.

"I'm suddenly feeling like I'm being threatened by a low grade kitchen gang." I eye up Henry's spatula. He looks down, realizing he's wielding it in a somewhat weapon like fashion and he grins at me and throws it on the counter.

"Sorry, boss." He laughs.

"Stop changing the subject, Trink. Who did you do the wild horizontal bean toss with?" Libby wiggles her eyebrows.

"Bean toss...." I frown.

"Yeah, the orgasmic hokey pokey." Henry offers. I laugh.

"The ancient rubik's cube of love."

"What?"

"Answer the question." They are both staring at me with big, intense eyes. My sex life is so insanely interesting to them mostly because...I don't normally have one. Henry is happily married to Josh, and Libby dates a new guy every week. I've just thrown a huge wrench into their normal, every day expectations. I sigh heavily and shake my head slowly. I know I shouldn't tell them. I know it's bad news. But at this point, I also know resistance is futile.

"Sam?" I whisper.

"SAM!?" They both explode and I start immediately shushing them.

"Are you serious? Sam?!" Libby is grinning and hopping on one foot, her arm wrapped around Henry's who is also grinning and hopping. I scowl at them both.

"Can you guys shut the hell up?" I wince. I glance through the kitchen window, making sure no one is at the counter. Thank god no one is there. Especially not a Housewife or Sam himself. Yeeesh.

"When? How? What?!" Henry looks absolutely giddy, which is a first. They stop jumping and now they are just standing, watching me, and nearly vibrating with excitement. I shove my hands into my pockets and shrug.

"It was after Rock's funeral. After I met up with Evan." It suddenly sounds terrible saying it out loud. One bad choice after another.

"He was your shoulder to cry on?" Libby asks. The romanticism of her question is shocking even to me. I swallow.

"I guess. I don't know. We just were hanging out, and talking and I just...it just..." I glare at them.

"Holy shit." Henry breathes out. Libby nods.

"He's gorgeous, Max." She sighs. "I would bark up that tree all night long." She grins. I shrug and then nod.

"Yes, he is."

"I bet he's kinky as hell." Henry raises an eyebrow and I scrunch my nose at him.

"This conversation is over. Or you're both fired." I turn to go, but Libby grabs me again.

"Was it just the once? What happens now?" She asks the million dollar question. I sigh, and lean back against the counter. The kitchen is quiet. All I hear is their excited mouth breathing.

"Just the once. It was a mistake. He's just the guy who's fixing up the house, and then I guess he's gone." I nod and look them both in the eyes. They both visibly deflate, like whoopie cushions. I'm surprised there's not a wheezing, farting noise.

"Really? That's it?" Henry looks almost offended.

"Listen, don't tell anyone, okay?" I say, though I already know my secret is safe. They both nod, in unison. "The next morning, Elaine showed up. I didn't see her or anything, but I heard them talking. Apparently Sam had been at her house some night before." I whisper this, feeling the slightly sick, unsettled feeling return. Henry's brow creases and Libby's eyes darken.

"I can't do the casual thing. It's not me, I don't think. And I most definitely don't want to be one of many. Does that make sense?" I ask softly, feeling a bit embarrassed at my old fashioned ways. Libby steps forward, and suddenly her hand is on my arm. This time, she gives me a warm, gentle squeeze.

"Never apologize for knowing what you want, Max." She says gently, and I smile at her, grateful for her words. "But are you sure he's sleeping with the whole town? Sam doesn't seem the sort. He's kind of a loner, if you haven't noticed." She adds.

I shrug. It seemed pretty transparent that morning, but who knows.

"Yeah, I've thrown myself at Sam multiple times and he's never bitten." Henry says with a wry smile. Libby laughs and I grin, and jab Henry in the side.

"Do you like him?" Libby asks. I chew nervously on the side of my lip. A question I hadn't dared to think about too long. Not seriously, at least.

"First instinct is no." I swallow my nerves. "But, then...I don't know. He was really kind to me that night. He showed up at the funeral for Jacob. He let me talk and rant and, god, the sex was phenomenal."

Henry groans and Libby giggles. I sigh and scrunch my shoulders up.

"I don't think he wants anything more. Like you said, he's a loner. And he's leaving in the next month or two. There's no point in pursuing it." Saying it out loud makes me surprisingly sad, but I push the feelings down. I'm just lonely. I just miss having someone. It has nothing to do with Sam.

Henry and Libby hold me hostage for a few minutes more. They grill me for details that I refuse to give them. It feels to good to get my secret off my chest, but it also makes it more real. When I finally am released from captivity, I hightail it out of the cafe, hoping to catch Rock at his shop.

Rock's shop is quiet, which isn't too surprising. Lunch is a big deal around here, and so most of the guys are out eating. Rock is back in the office, going over paperwork and eating a cold cut at the computer desk.

"Hey Unk." I set down a hot cup of coffee for him, and he smiles up at me. His eyes are warm and bright, his bald head gleaming in the overhead lights. I sweep my hair back and twirl it into a quick bun, out of my face.

"Thanks. Needed a little pick me up."

"Me too." I sigh and take a deep breath.

I lean against the door jam, taking in the office. It's a somewhat hectic mix of paperwork, car parts and food wrappers. Rock keeps his shop impeccable, but his office is like a tornado swept through.

"Have a seat. Take a load off." He gestures to a metal stool in the corner, and I walk over and sit, feeling the busyness of the morning weigh me down. We are quiet for a minute, both lost in our thoughts. It's been hard since Jacob died. Hard to come to terms with the missing voice and presence in both our lives. My uncle is no stranger to loss, to heartache. He lost his only sibling far too early. Both his parents, as well. It still never gets easier.

"You going to help out this weekend? With the festival?" I ask. It's the biggest day for volunteers, people from all over town, coming together to put the festival together. I usually help with painting sets, and setting up the corn maze. Rock busies himself with the layout of the festival, helping the main organizers set up food stands and finding the safest spots for carnival rides.

"Yup. Bright and early. Sam's going to help me move some stuff for the rides, and then I'm putting him on set detail with you." Rock says, taking a chomp out of a huge cold cut. I want to groan when I hear his name. It seems like he's the only thing people can talk about. I frown and suck in air through my teeth. The sound fills the office and my uncle waits until I stop making noises.

"You don't approve?" Rock raises an eyebrow, studying my face. I'm grimacing and not trying to hide it. Jacob used to help me with sets. He was terrible at it. Most of the time he just complained, and sat in a lawn chair, telling me I "missed a spot" while painting.

"No, I don't." I swallow the lump in my throat. Rock's expression softens and he takes a deep breath.

"I'm sure Sam will annoy you just as much as Jacob did." He offers, and I laugh and scoff softly.

"Not the same." I grunt. Rock nods and we go silent for a minute.

"Maybe Sam can help with the carnival games? Or the hayride itself? I can do the sets by myself." I shrug. Rock blinks, and I can see his expression clear.

"He's a good guy, Max. If you'd give him a chance."

"Oh, I gave him a chance." I murmur under my breath.

"What?" Rock says, fiddling with some paperwork. I shake my head and pat my hands against my thighs.

"We just don't get along, Uncle Rock."

"I can tell. You barely spoke a word to him at dinner last Sunday. If he really makes you uncomfortable, Max, I'll stop inviting him." Rock spins in his chair and faces me. I feel a bit bad then. Sam doesn't make me uncomfortable. He's never done anything inappropriate or pushy towards me. It's just me, that can't help but feel awkward and silly around him.

"No, it's okay, Unk. He's fine, I just don't think we'll ever be best buds." I say. "He's a great worker. The house is looking great. But our personalities are not so good together." I shrug, trying to be nonchalant. Rock nods and takes the lid off the coffee I brought him. It's still hot, thin tendrils of white steam drifting up from the deep, chocolatey black liquid.

"You won't even go into the house, how do you know it looks good?" Rock says, giving me a side eye as he does.

"Don't." I reply, warning him. He gives me a half smile and we both chuckle to ourselves.

"You really should check it out, Max. Find something positive in the whole thing. Maybe all the changes will bring back good memories. Not bad ones. You might even consider moving in..." He drifts off, as I scrunch my face up. We've had this conversation before. I know he wants me to keep the house. Not for any of his own personal reasons, but simply because he thinks it would be good for me.

I just can't bring myself to go back. I don't know that I ever will. It holds my only real memories of being a real family. And it holds the memories of that slowly unraveling. I can feel Rock watching me, and I force a smile at him. Being there, with Sam, the other night hadn't been terrible. But I'd also been a bit wibbly wobbly in the head, thanks to all that hobo wine. It just doesn't seem like it will ever be an option for me.

"Love you, Rocko." I knock him gently on the shoulder and he grasps my hand for a moment.

"You too, kid." He turns and starts flipping through paperwork again.

"I'll see you at dinner, yeah?" I ask, my thoughts still on the house. He nods and waves a hand at me, already back to work.

"Yeah, dinner. Go check out the house too." He calls over his shoulder.

"Yeah, yeah." I sigh with a smile, as I grab my things and leave the small, comfortable office.

****

Sam is naked. Naked. Naked. Naked. Saying it more doesn't make it easier to understand. At the moment, he's nude, wet and covered in soap. I'm guessing. This is just merely a hypothesis. I don't have hard evidence...hard...evidence. But I'm fairly sure that's what one does when one turns on the shower and disappears for some time.

The whole "sure, come on over, you can use my shower" thing was really a terrible idea on my behalf. I hadn't been thinking straight. It made sense at the time, but that was until he showed up at my door, towel in one hand and toiletries in another. And he's done this, every single morning for the past three mornings. It's been like going to hell and finding out hell is...sharing a bathroom with the hot dude you banged one time. Whoops.

I thought I'd be safe, seeing that I leave so early during the week, but it seems Sam gets up early as well. So, all week, it's been waiting anxiously while he showers, trying to avoid making eye contact when he comes out, all fresh faced and damp.

This morning, just as I am finishing getting ready for a day of festival prep, the knock starts on my front door. We exchange quick greetings, but we don't talk much. Sam seems as much of a morning person as I am.

I make myself busy in the kitchen as he showers. I try not to envision what he's doing in my bathroom. The steam, the cascading water. It's like a late night Skinemax in my head. I groan and move my shoulders, feelings tight knots forming.

I make coffee and toast, and stand, watching the toaster as my mind continues to drift. I think about dead baby animals and war and other equally sad and distracting things. It doesn't really work.

"Do you always watch your toast?" I flip around, blinking as his voice interrupts my rather...damp thoughts.

His hair is towel dried and a bit messy. He's wearing just a tshirt and jeans, his feet bare. The cotton clings at his biceps, stretching over the muscle. It hangs looser over his chest and stomach, but I can see the definition of hard earned muscle. He seems at ease, confident and without a care in the world. He's the worst. I feel as if I'm a bundle of raw nerves. Edgy and about to implode. I just sort of want to...rub up against him. But I know. Sexual chemistry is not the same as real compatibility. It's all just hormones and weird smells and aging ovaries, screaming for attention.

"No, I was just...lost in thought." I shrug and flip back around as the toast pops up. "Want some? Coffees hot too." I nod toward the pot.

"Thanks. Sure." He's suddenly very close to me. I freeze, not sure why he's suddenly right behind me, his front nearly brushing my back. A lean, muscular arm brushes by my shoulder and reaches above my head. He smells like soap and clean cotton. I can feel the warmth of him behind me. I feel a tiny bit dizzy for a second, and wonder what he'd do if I just leaned back into him.

Sam opens the cabinet and takes out one of my mugs. Oh, yes. I suppose he can't drink straight from the coffee pot.

I wouldn't say it's a routine but for the last few mornings, after showers, he's joined me for coffee and a bite to eat before work. It's usually quick, and we don't talk much. It's not terrible though, if a bit harsh on my untouched lady bits. It's sort of nice having someone to share the morning with. I haven't told anyone this is happening, lest they jump to conclusions and start humming "Here comes to bride" at me behind my back. It's just breakfast.

"How's the tiling going?" I ask, turning to look at him as he walks over to fill his cup. I grab butter and jam from the fridge, and put in two more pieces of bread to toast. Sam likes his toast dark, and so I turn the knob up.

"Great. Do you want to see it? I think I've got two more days work, and it'll be ready to go. I've retiled the entire shower. And I'm almost done refinishing the tub." He leans against my counter, and takes a drink from his mug. He looks too comfortable here. And I feel like the stranger in my own home.

"Um, sure, maybe soon." I nod. Sam's eyebrows raise and he gives me a slightly off, incredulous smile.

"You don't like that house, do you? You don't like being there." He arches a brow, and watches me.

"Why do you say that?" I deflect the question. He laughs then, and it's the sort of noise that goes deep inside me. He doesn't laugh often and when he does, it's worth noting. Especially when I'm the one to make him laugh. I feel it in my gut and a quick, lightning bolt of pleasure that races through my veins.

"You haven't been inside since you introduced me to the place when I got here." He shakes his head at me. My eyes go blurry for a second because, I very clearly remember being inside the house much more recently than that. Sam gets quiet quickly, and we both seem to go to the same place.

"I mean, to see what I've done. Besides the other night. And really you were just...in my room then." He adds on, and the kitchen gets suddenly heavy and itchy and sort of dense.

"We were both otherwise...occupied." He adds, as if he's rubbing it in. I chew on my lip for a second. I take a deep breath, focusing on my toast.

"I like the house. I love that house." I ignore his comments. "It's just that there's a lot of memories of my childhood." I shrug and slather my toast in raspberry jam, feeling his eyes on me. Sam nods and is quiet.

"I was in the hardware store yesterday, getting some supplies. There was a girl there. She was a lot younger than Poppy, but she looked a lot like her. It was like a sock to the gut. Like seeing a ghost. I had to do a double take." Sam says quietly. His face is light, though his words are somber. I freeze, listening, surprised at his candidness.

"What did Poppy look like?" I ask softly. Sam smiles at me then, a small gesture that I can tell isn't really for me. It's for the sibling he obviously misses.

"Nothing like me, thank god. Light hair, gray eyes. A huge smile. She never stopped laughing. And she had a laugh that was infectious. One of those sort of loud, obnoxious kinds...that would grate on your nerves after awhile." He grins a bit wider, remembering. "But damn, if I could hear it again." He takes another drink, and then the toaster pops, startling us both. We give nervous laughs and I quickly put his toast on a plate, handing it to him. I slide over, giving him room to reach the butter and jam.

Sam shuffles over the few steps, and we stand, hip to hip at the counter. I can see out the window, out into the sleepy morning. The light is cornflower blue. It's a gray streaked morning, fog filtering across the lawn. The trees are tinged with color, though everything is muted by the light and mist.

Sam butters his toast and then follows with jam. The kitchen is quiet except for the soft scrape of the knife.

"My mother was everything to me. I didn't know my father. The old house was always in my family. All my memories as a kid are of that house. Holidays. Birthdays. Her last days." I say softly. Sam turns his head, and I can feel his eyes on me. I keep my gaze out the window. His arm is warm against mine, but I force myself not to think of it.

"The memories can be suffocating. The pain never really goes away. You've just got to try and find a way to not dwell in it. Don't let that house collapse in on you. Let it be a reminder, not a crutch." Sam's voice is soft, gentle. And I can tell he's speaking from experience. From pain that he's had to deal with for some time. I look at him then, gathering all my courage.

His dark eyes are warm and understanding. The side of his mouth lifts but he doesn't quite smile.

"You were with Poppy? In her last days?" I whisper, fearing if I speak regularly, my voice will fail me. Sam's eyes go far away for a second, and then he's back with me.

"I was."

"Any other family?" I ask, knowing that I'm prying but not caring.

"No."

"She was lucky to have you." I nod. I look back at my toast, suddenly finding the melty buttery edges and the bright, magenta red jam fascinating.

"I hope. Just trying to do right by her." He moves away then, grabbing a piece of his toast and biting into it. The distance between us makes it easier for me to breathe and I feel a lightness in my chest. I turn and smile.

"What do you mean?" I ask.

"Bucket list." Sam says between bites. I frown, shaking my head slightly, hoping he'll elaborate.

"Poppy had a bucket list. She didn't get to most of it. So I'm finishing it up for her." He finishes one piece of toast, and goes on to another. I turn around completely, facing him, interested.

"Really? What's on the list?" I ask, crossing my arms over my chest and leaning back against the counter. Sam clears his throat.

"It's quite a list. She was an ambitious girl." He smiles. "But a few-- New Year's Eve in Paris. Swim the Great Barrier Reef. Stay in a castle in Scotland. Surf in California. She loved the ocean." He grins now.

"Did you do all of those things?" My voice is quiet, amazed. He nods.

"Yes."

"That's really...amazing." I manage, the right words eluding me. His eyes find mine and we both get quiet.

"Actually, it was pretty lonely. But she was there. I know she was there." He takes a breath and then finishes his breakfast and his coffee, and puts the mug and plate in the sink. I can't speak for a minute, feeling surprised. Surprised at Sam. At his confession and his honesty. At his heartbreaking tenderness and sensitivity. At my reaction to it-- which is a heart that is beating faster than a racehorse and a stomach that is full of light, floaty, fluttery things.

"I'm almost done the list." He says quickly. I blink and tilt my head.

"What's left?" I ask. My voice sounds weird.

"I can't tell you. It's a secret." He tilts his head as well, his eyes narrowed slightly. I think he's joking with me, but I'm not sure. I frown and Sam presses his lips together.

"Have a good day, Max. I'm sure I'll see you at the festival set up." He says quietly, as he turns and leaves the kitchen, leaving me stunned.