I swivel away, I simultaneously elbow him in the ribs and smack my head into the window. He’s no smoother. He jerks into the steering wheel, a piercing honk ringing for several seconds.
“Okay then,” he says as he fumbles with his keys. “It’s off on the open road. Just the two of us. Together. In New Zealand.” He inhales deeply and looks at me as he turns on the ignition. “I was serious about the stories, Canada. One epic family tale for every hour in this car, or you can hitch your own way.”
I rub my head, smirking. “Fine.” But I’m still flushed from whatever just happened between us.
* * *
The four-hour ride to Rotorua is exactly as Sam promised it would be: fun. Fun enough to put the Hot Soup Incident out of my head. I’ve had years to perfect that particular skill. I am the founder and CEO of Repressed Memories, Inc., the Public Speaking Incident being the catalyst to form said company.
With all such incidents buried in my subconscious, I’m able to enjoy my time with Sam. Comfortable silences weave seamlessly with our sarcastic jousting, each of us trying to crack the other up. He’s winning. The clincher was his Bruno impression. He nailed the guy’s mad laugh.
So far, this is way better than sitting on a bus next to Reese, worrying over every gesture and chosen word. With Sam, things are easy. Easy, except when I envision my hands sliding down his chest to gain access to his fly. Easy, except for the quiet moments I catch myself staring at his profile as I overanalyze that intense look we shared. And I do mean shared. The way he slammed against the horn and got all flustered, I’d say he felt it, too.
One-syllable Sam, who has a girlfriend.
As requested, each hour is punctuated with a drum roll from him and a confession from me—one of my ridiculous childhood stories retold for his amusement. If I’m honest, mine, too. Usually, I’m so mortified by the eccentricities of my family I tiptoe around the subject. When Sam laughs, though, it doesn’t feel like it’s at my expense. The sound is deep, warm, and heartfelt, and it curls around me. It’s fun laughing with someone about how nuts, yet awesome, my folks are. So I keep talking.
Come to think of it, we’ve spent the whole drive joking about my family and me, barely touching on all things Sam. Aside from the fact that he’s from Florida and has a younger sister my age who is, and I quote, “A little out there, but not as accident-prone as you, Canada,” he’s steered our conversation away from himself at every chance.
It’s dark when we roll into Rotorua, just after nine. Sam pulls up to the hostel we chose from his guidebook, and we shove our doors open. The metal creaks, my joints mimicking the sound as I unfold my body into an upright position. Sam reaches his arms above his head on the other side of the car, stretching from side to side. I get to the trunk first. His left leg drags more noticeably after sitting so long.
When he gets to the back, I lean on the car. “What’s with the limp? If you don’t mind me asking. I heard you say something to Callum about a football injury.”
A few streetlights illuminate his face while he jams his foot into the pavement, each kick grinding against loose gravel. He does that thing I’ve noticed where he rubs the scar on his chin before he directs the conversation away from himself. Reading the signs, I shrug. “Sorry, forget I asked.” I turn at the sound of laughter drifting through the hostel window.
“That’s bullshit,” he says, and I swivel back. “What I said to Callum,” he continues. “It wasn’t a sports thing. It was a car accident.” He studies his feet, his injured foot still scrubbing the asphalt.
My heart squeezes at his confession. “I’m sorry, Sam. It must’ve been pretty bad to mess up your leg like that.”
“Yeah, pretty bad,” he says, still focused on the pavement. The veins twitch on his forearms as he fists his hands, the dusky light casting shadows. His jaw ticks mercilessly.
It doesn’t take a genius to realize he doesn’t want to talk about this. He lied to Callum about it, which means it was more than a little fender bender, something too personal or painful to relive. I touch his arm as another chorus of laughter floats