A/N: Um...long time no see??! How's it hanging? How's life? What's happened since I've last been able to write? Hope everyone has been well! If you are still reading this, then please believe I am beyond thankful for you.  I don't blame anyone for jumping ship, but if you're still clinging on for dear life, thank you. Thank you.  I'm trying to find my muse again. I really am.  You're the best. Now onward and upward!
-Germy

I'm sweating slightly, the autumn sun surprisingly hot as it bears down on my head and shoulders. There's a cool, crisp breeze that tumbles through every few minutes, and I set my face back when it does, letting it ruffle through my hair. I've been moving sets all morning for the haunted hayride, and now I've planted myself in front of one of the panels, paintbrush in hand. I'm doing my best at repainting a haunted cemetery, gravestones, ghouls and all.

"Oh, that looks fantastic, Max." A chipper voice says. I turn around and see Elaine, walking up to the shady spot where I'm sitting. She's dressed in her usual uniform of designer names, skinny jeans and riding boots. In her hand is a clipboard, and she's writing stuff down as she walks.

"Thanks, it's been a busy morning." I say and turn back to what I'm doing. I don't have a problem with Elaine, I really don't. But she's not exactly the person I want to see at the moment. Still, I can feel her hovering behind me like some sort of bad luck curse. Looming. Waiting.

"What a beautiful god damn day." Libby comes stomping up, saving the day while swatting wildly at invisible bugs near her face. I hold back a snorting laugh and smile at her. Elaine blinks, looking shocked and somewhat appalled. Libby has on full zombie makeup, her hair is in a teased nest, fake blood oozing from a fake wound on her neck. All that, and she's wearing a bright pink prom dress, smeared in dirt and more fake blood. She's a sight, that's for sure.

"Wow." I lean back and take in the view. "Straight out of a Disney movie." She scowls and then does a curtsy, nearly toppling over as she trips on some of the pink taffeta.

"It is way too warm to be wearing all--" She motions up and down to her get up, "of this." She sighs, but then looks pleased.

"Test run?" I ask, leaning onto my palms. Elaine still hasn't spoken, she's just staring at Libby. I'd hate to be on her side during a zombie apocalypse. Useless.

"Yes. Henry helped with the makeup. And I got this dress at the Marshy Point Thrift. I'm sure some Housewife was throwing it away, memories of her less than perfect Prom where she lost her virginity to the highschool quarter back and ended up with crabs and a teenage pregnan--- Hi Elaine! Didn't see you there." Libby twirls and I, once again, muffle a laugh.

"Isn't that a little...scary for the Fall Festival?" Elaine finally speaks. Libby scowls and puts her hands on her hips.

"No scarier than it's former life. Highschool cheerleader valedictorian." She ruffles the dress.

"Less blood, maybe? This is a family event, Libby." Elaine scolds gently and Libby huffs softly in compliance. I grimace at Libby's horrific makeup, and then turn back to my painting.

"Have you seen Sam around, Max?" Elaine asks. I can tell she's trying to be casual, but she's anything but. She might as well be wearing a neon sign of his name strapped around her head. I press my lips together, and drop my paint brush into the water bucket at my side. Apparently, I won't be getting much work done.

"Not really. Not since this morning when we had coffee." I regret saying it immediately, because I know what it sounds like. Libby raises an eyebrow, but doesn't say anything. Elaine's eyes nearly bulge from her perfectly sculpted face.

"I mean, he was at the Spoon." I quickly add, and Elaine's face goes back to it's normal amount of bulgy and judgey.

"Oh, well, I need to ask him a few things." She says with a huff. She tilts her head then, a small, sly grin forming on her lips.

"Are you two? Are you..." Elaine starts, shifting her weight and looking, for the first time ever, unsure of herself. I hold my breath and wait, not feeling particularly generous this morning. I still don't know how I feel about Sam. I know how my hormones feels about Sam. But they don't count because my hormones are pure, unadulterated sluts.

Still, I know what I offered him that night. And I can't go back on it. Especially if he's sleeping with Elaine too. And god knows how many other women.

"Are they banging?" Libby steps in, her voice monotone and unimpressed. I shoot her a dangerous look, and she shrugs.

"Ah, sure, yes." Elaine frowns.

"We're just friends, Elaine." I say, giving her a quick smile. Elaine looks elated and then take a deep, dramatic breath.

"Wow. That's good to hear. Really. Because I have been chasing that man for weeks. Weeks! And nothing! I was sure it was someone else, possibly you, but I just didn't see how that could make sense." Elaine rolls her eyes, laughing good naturedly. I frown, trying not to take offense.

"Ok." I click my tongue.

"Oh, no, no! I didn't mean that way! You're great, Max. It's just...a week or so ago, I practically threw myself at the man. He came over and fixed a few things around the house. I made him dinner, and then practically laid myself out as dessert. And it was so embarrassing. He just...left!" She scoffs and I have to admit, I feel as if my head is going to explode. There's a tiny little monster inside of me, jumping up and down, partying like it's 1999.

"Oh? Wow..." I lick my lips. Libby looks horrified, more horrified than before. Like a zombie teenager being forced to learn about puberty from it's zombie mother. I choke down a laugh.

"I even dropped by his house--"

"My house." I say under my breath.

"The next morning to return the tools he just left. And he still was completely unreceptive!" Elaine looks frustrated and completely baffled. Baffled as to how a man could turn her down. Could refuse to sample her J Crew catalog woman buffet. I swallow slowly, realizing she's talking about the morning after Sam and I slept together. The morning when I ran hastily from the Old House, and from Sam.

"You know him better than anyone, I'd say. Right? Because he's fixing up your house? What's going on with that man?!" Elaine nearly shouts. I blink and wish the ground would open up and swallow me whole. I couldn't answer her questions. Because I'd done practically the same thing. Thrown myself, somewhat drunken and pathetic, at the man. Except...he'd taken me up on my offer. Completely. Maybe there was something about my brand of pathetic that was particularly hard to turn down.

"He's a hard one to read." I say, my mind wandering.

"Hard." Libby nods.

"Maybe he's gay?" Elaine asks, looking almost relieved at the revelation.

"Not gay." Libby quips. I shoot her another look, as Elaine frowns at her.

"He's a wanderer, Elaine. You don't want to get involved with him. He's going to be gone soon anyway." I say. It's the first time I've felt like I've actually said these words out loud. Words that I've been saying a lot to myself lately. They feel like a fine dust, settling into the cracks of my world. Making things feel permanent and real. Soon, Sam will be gone. And then what?

"That's true. But he's just so...sexy. A real man, you know? And so mysterious. I just wanna get into that mind of his, and see what makes him tick." She grins and then shrugs. "Oh well, on to the next, right?" She laughs and then waves at both of us as she trots away.

Libby is quiet for all of three seconds after Elaine leaves, before she starts staring at me with zombie laser eyes.

"Don't." I turn back to my painting, spending way too much time on the pumpkin I'm working on.

"He didn't sleep with Elaine." Libby hisses. I glare at her.

"Doesn't mean anything."

"He DID sleep with you." She hisses again. I look around, making sure we're still alone.

"Doesn't mean anything, you dumb zombie." I say through gritted teeth.

"I knew Sam wasn't a slut. He's too closed off to be a slut. He's not charming enough either. The Housewives are just interested in him because they're desperate for new meat. They passed around Bobby Bishop like he was a goddamn hot potato. I'm surprised his dick didn't wear away like a sandstone in the desert." She says huffily, as we both start laughing. I groan softly, and then let out a slow breath.

"It doesn't matter if Sam did or didn't sleep with Elaine. We were just a one time thing." I say. Libby doesn't respond. And suddenly, I feel somehow lighter. Like a weight has lifted off my back. But it doesn't mean anything. I know it doesn't. Because Sam doesn't mean anything.

****

It's nearing seven in the evening, when I finally decide to call it quits. All of the sets have been painted, and I've been making sure they get to the right designated spots in the haunted hayride. The haunted cemetery is toward the beginning of the ride. The creepy farm house is in the middle, near the Thompson's actual farm house. The ghoulish jail and abandoned wagons are toward the end of the half mile long trail. The hayride is the most popular attraction at the fair, followed closely by the corn maze and then the stuff your own scarecrow station.

"Thanks for your help!" I call out, watching as the remaining volunteers make their way home, taking tools and extra props with them.

"See you tomorrow, Max." Someone calls out, and I wave happily as I begin packing up my own supplies. It feels good to be a part of something. Good to get out of the cafe, and out into the outdoors. Something to keep my mind off of Jacob, and Evan, and the syrupy mire my life has become.

We're about a quarter mile from town center, and the Festival headquarters. Out past the Thompson's farm, the group of about six of us had been putting the finishing touches on the dummies and creepy stuffed scarecrows.

I grab my backpack, and a heavy shovel that had been used to dig holes to stabilize the sets. It's an easy walk back, and it's a beautiful night out. I'm looking forward to the walk home, and then maybe getting a late dinner. Rock has probably already eaten, so I'll make something simple and then go and sit out on his deck. I'm not sure he'll actually be home, as he usually goes out to play pool with buddies in Marshy Point a lot of nights. But I can use the peace and quiet after a busy day.

"Max." I hear my name and immediately know who the voice belongs to.

"Hi." I smile at Sam, as he comes walking down from behind the last set. He's carrying a big heavy looking tool bag with him, along with a gallon can of red paint. He's been a great help all day. Despite my initial reservations, he was an invaluable part of putting things together. Always there to lend a hand. He was perfect when we needed muscles to physically put things in place, and then he was brilliant when it came to any troubleshooting we had.

"Thanks for your help. Really. I don't know what we did the last few years without you!" I laugh, and then I have to swallow my happiness. Evan. Evan was always around the last few years. I shake off the thought and smile at Sam.

"You're welcome. I was happy to help." He nods as he shifts his weight. "Can I walk back with you to town?" He asks softly. I nod immediately, and then lean down to gather the rest of my things.

We begin the walk without speaking. It's nearly completely dark out, but the moon is bright and the last lingering bits of the day illuminate our way. Plus, I know this path by heart. Having set up this hay ride every year since I was a teenager, and then having run these fields as a kid.

It's a nice walk. Quiet, peaceful. The soft hum of bugs, and rustle of the drying leaves in the trees and on the ground. The air smells faintly of wood smoke, and I'm sure most of the houses in town are burning their fireplaces.

"I only have a few more weeks work left on the house." Sam finally speaks, his voice low and soft. I look over at him, and I can see his profile in the low light. He's walking with his head somewhat lowered, and he turns slightly to look at me.

"That's good. That's great. I'll have to get in touch with a realtor so I can get things ready to sell." I say, my mind starting to churn. I know I want to sell the house. I know I want to get rid of the burden that owning the house has caused. But for some reason, I don't feel totally happy about it. I don't feel excited by the prospect of selling it. I feel a different weight on me, a new one. And I can't put my finger on it.

"I'm going to do those few remodels we talked about, but it shouldn't set me back much." Sam says as we keep walking. Our shoes rustle in the fallen leaves, and we take our time as we walk. Neither of us seem in much hurry.

"Thank you." I reply. After I'd cooled down, Sam and Rock had sat me down and talked it through with me. I'd decided to go through with a few of the suggestions Sam had thought up. Nothing too crazy, but I'd agreed to adding in a wide, spacious opening between some of the rooms. A way to open up the space without compromising the old farmhouse feel. In reality, it had been a great idea. I'd just been too hot headed, thinking about changing my mother's home too drastically, that I hadn't been able to see it at first.

"I'm happy to do it." He replies, his voice a low murmur. I've gotten used to his voice- his quiet confidence. The way his accent blurs his words at times. It's endearing, and strangely comforting.

"You're going to come to the Festival, right? Take a ride on the Haunted Hayride?" I grin and gently elbow him in the side. He chuckles softly.

"Sure. I'll come. You want to show me around?" He teases. I nod, though I know he can't see me. I feel my face burn, and I'm glad for the darkness. I don't need him to know the weird effect he has on me. How with a few simple words, I feel like a teenager. It's annoying. It's obnoxious. And I don't want anything to do with it, really.

We keep walking, and I try to think of something else to say. Anything. Something to fill the silence.

Instead of finding something to talk about, I find something to trip over. It happens so quickly, and so out of nowhere, that all I can manage is a loud squeaking noise before I start flailing toward the ground.

I drop the shovel, and the bag I'm holding as I fall, twisting my ankle as I try to right my step. I land hard, awkwardly, my leg underneath me and on top of the shovel handle. Pain bursts through my leg, and I cry out softly, too surprised and in pain to say anything.

"Max!" Sam is right beside me immediately, dropped down next to my silent figure. It's the sort of pain that leaves you speechless for a moment, the pain bright and intense as it throbs up and down through my leg.

"Oh...fuck." I gasp, reaching down to grab my ankle. I'm lying half on the shovel, half on what feels like a bunch of rocks or tree roots. My ass and thigh hurt from landing without breaking my fall at all, and I feel like I've had the wind knocked out of me.

I take a few gasping breaths, the stars that had exploded in front of my eyes in the darkened night, finally fading. I can sense Sam next to me, moving around in the dark, but he doesn't touch me. I'm rocking back and forth in the way that you only do when you're in shocking, surprising pain.

A few seconds later, a bright light floods the space around us, and I look to the side to see Sam setting his phone on the ground. He's turned the flash on, and it illuminates a two foot radius around us.

"What hurts, Max?" He is suddenly right next to me, on his knees. His hands hover above me, and I catch a glimpse of his face. Worry. Plain and simple.

"My ankle. My hip. My ass." I say in short, breathy bursts, before breaking into something that could only be described as a cross between a laugh and a sob. I feel like a complete idiot.

"Did you hit your head?" Sam asks, and I shoot him a look.

"No. It's mostly my ankle." I manage, finding the pain coming in throbbing waves now as opposed to blinding bursts. Sam's hands go to my foot, which is curled painfully under my other leg. I wince as he moves me, and then slowly pulls the leg of my jeans up my calf.

"What did I trip on?" I sigh angrily, moving my hips and feeling underneath my ass. There's an array of what feels like extra pointy rocks and jumbly tree roots, as well as a dash of stumpy assorted twigs, all perfect for tripping and falling over in the near darkness.

"I don't bloody know-- a bunch of rocks it looks like. Can you stand? You're already starting to bruise and I'm a piss poor substitute for a doctor." He sets back on his feet, his dark eyes searching mine. I take a deep breath, and reach for his hands as he holds them out. We both go to move, Sam steadying me as I put all my weight on my left leg.

I'm embarrassed, in pain, and I'm not totally sure that I didn't rip my pants somewhere (judging by the oddly cool breeze I can feel on my back of my thigh). I go to take a tiny step forward, and I'm nearly sucker punched by the pain.

"Shit!" I gasp, crumbling forward as my right leg practically dissolves under me. Sam reacts immediately, and I'm suddenly in his arms. He dips down, throwing one broad shoulder under my arm, and grabs me tightly around the waist.

"Alright, that's not how you walk." He quips, and I grumble.

"Just leave me here to die." I sigh, my grip on him tight. He's keeping me upright, as the pain is resonating up and down my leg.

"That's not dramatic at all." He says, his voice way too low and gravelly, and very near to my ear. Despite my idiotic ankle, and my bruised ass, the situation suddenly seems far too funny and a little too much like a rom-com. The bad kind that don't even get a real release- they just go straight to DVD or Netlfix.

"Let me go, let me go. I can walk." I push at him, shoving against his chest...which I can't help but notice is warm and covered in soft flannel, and muscle-y in all the right places.

"If you fall, and hurt yourself more, I'm going to be pissed. Right now, I'm mildly amused and somewhat worried. But if you hurt yourself more because you're just trying to be a pain in the arse, then I'll be mad." Sam says, his accent coming out thick and fast.

"Okay. Just...let me try one more time." I say, my voice calmer. I don't let go of Sam's shoulders, and this time, take a much more hesitant step, testing my weight. He still has one arm wrapped around my waist, and I don't mind it. Especially since it's a quick and decisive 'no', as I put the slightest pressure down.

"How far is it to the car?" He asks, looking over our shoulders toward town center.

"Quarter mile." I say sheepishly. Sam lets out a low breath, that sounds rather close to being a groan.

"Alright, let's go." He moves then to grab me, positioning himself to pick me up like he's carrying me over the threshhold on our wedding night. A few flashing images pass through my pain addled mind. Sam in a tux. Sam holding out a ring. Sam watching an unidentified female that looks and feels a lot like me, as she walks up the aisle. Yikes. I quickly push them to the side.

"No, no, no." I shove at him before he can pick me up.

"There's not many options. I'm not leaving you here to die." He leans down then, picking up his phone and turning off the light. We're thrown into darkness again, and the idea of sitting out here by myself in a field isn't all that appealing. Ghosts and ghouls and all.

"Piggy back?" I ask quietly. A noise escapes from him, something that could almost be confused with a laugh, but I can't see his face so I'm not sure. It's either a laugh or disgust. It's a narrow chasm when it comes to Sam.

"Come on, then." He says, and then turns and squats down.

****

"How is this possible?" Sam grunts angrily. We're both standing outside of Brush River's only doctor. It's almost 8pm, which is late for Brush River, but Dr. Harrington lives in the apartment above the practice. He's on call 24/7 and has been for most of his forty-some year long career. It's a small town and he's the only doctor for a 30 mile radius.

"Went Fishing?" I groan as I read the sign that's taped to the front door, the porch light gleaming on it like some sort of sadistic spotlight.

"People really write 'went fishing' signs?" Sam grunts. He's still carrying me on his back, like some sort of strange humanoid backpack. His hands are firmly under my thighs, and I have my arms draped over his shoulders. It's a surprisingly comfortable way to travel.

"Dr. Harrington always goes on a big fishing trip around this time of year. I can't believe this." I sigh, suddenly feeling emotional. This wasn't how I'd expected to end my night. And now that Sam's been dragged into it, I feel even worse. I lean my head forward, balancing my chin on Sam's shoulder. He looks slightly over his shoulder toward me, his eyes finding mine.

"Don't get all wobbly on me, Max. Let's just go to another doctor. Where's the hospital in this town?" He asks. My ankle throbs as Sam moves, though I know he's trying his best not to jostle me around.

"This is the hospital in town. Dr. Harrington is it. The closest one is in Marshy Point. And that's..." Dread fills me. Sam gets quiet, waiting.

"Not that far. Let's go before it gets too late." Sam turns on his heel, and begins walking steadily back toward the truck. I wiggle in his arms, and then wrap my arms around his shoulders and neck, tight. He coughs. Ooops.

"We can't go to Marshy Point." I loosen my arms now that he's stopped walking.

"Why? Also, I need my throat for breathing purposes." He tugs at my arms.

"Evan." I manage. He doesn't respond.

"Can you take me back to the car, so we can talk? I don't like...talking like this." I ask. Being a backpack is bad for open and honest communication.

Sam walks us back to the pick up truck, depositing me gingerly onto the passenger's side seat. I groan, all the aches and pains in my hip and side complaining as I swing my legs into the cabin. Sam waits, making sure all my parts are tucked inside and then closes the door. He walks around the car, sliding into the driver's seat quickly and turning to me.

He waits for me to speak.

"Evan's practice is the closest one. I can't go there." I chew nervously on my lip. Sam's eyes narrow, and I watch his jaw clench and flex a few times. He's thinking over what I've just said and judging by the squinty way his eyes are, I don't think he's very happy about it.

"Okay, well, we're going." He starts the engine and begins backing out of the spot without another word.

I know it's not up for discussion, and honestly I know that it's our only choice. I have to see a doctor. I can't wait for Dr. Harrington to come back from his fishing trip, which will probably be sometime at the beginning of next week. Evan is my only choice. Except this time, when I face him, Sam will be with me. Whether he wants to be or not.

We drive for the first 20 minutes in near silence. Sam has the heat blasting, and the radio down low. We don't really need to talk. Exhaustion has set in, and the adrenaline from falling has worn off. I'm tired, aching and in pain, and I just want to get treated and then go home to a hot bath and an ice pack on my ankle. Sam seems completely focused on the road, and though his expression is tense, his body is relaxed. I give him directions every one in awhile, and he simple does his normal grunt in reply.

"You'll be in and out. You'll barely have to see him." Sam says, out of nowhere. We're not far from the clinic now, and I'm already getting sweaty palms.

"No. You don't understand." My heart starts pounding in my chest. I turn on the bench seat, and look at Sam in the darkness. His face is briefly illuminated by a passing car, and then back into darkness.

"What don't I understand, Max? Are you still in love with Evan? Does his opinion really mean that much to you? Does he matter that much?" Sam asks, his voice strangely nonchalant and straightforward. He doesn't look at me as he focuses on driving. I pull back, surprised.

"No...I..." I'm not sure how to respond.

"Then forget him. He's got his claws sunk in so deep, you can't walk a few feet away without looking over your shoulder. He wasn't looking over his shoulder when he cheated on you." Sam says, his voice low. He's not holding back, and it's surprising and it stings a little.

"I can so walk away." I whisper.

"Can you?" Sam asks, and turns briefly to look at me. His eyes are a steady flash in the dark, intense and serious. I swallow.

"Yes." I croak.

"No, you're right. Because you walked away really easy the other morning. More like ran away." He says quickly. I'm shocked, and I open and close my mouth a few times, at a loss for what to say.

"Sam--"

"Let's just get you checked out." He cuts me off, pulling into the parking lot of the clinic. He doesn't wait for me to respond, but quickly turns off the engine and hops out of the car. A second later, he's at my side, turning his back to me and squatting down slightly. I hesitate, staring at him, unsure.

What exactly was he trying to say?

I stare at the back of his head for a minute. His ruffled dark hair, the tanned back of his neck, his broad shoulders. I could pick him out in a crowd, for sure. I'm overcome with something I'm not sure how to identify. Tenderness toward him. Feelings. Terrible, horrible, selfish feelings.

He shrugs his shoulders and claps his hands, as if he's getting ready for a play in football.

"Max." He grunts my name. I shake my head, pushing all the thoughts and feelings from my mind.

"Yup." I say, and lean forward, sliding against his strong, waiting back. He catches me effortlessly, and we begin our awkward, hunchback way into the doctor's office.