by his legs, but something about them makes him more human, less flawless. More like me. With my help, he’s learning to accept himself, too. He’s even wearing shorts again. If anyone stares too long or makes a face, I fist my hands in his hair and pull his lips down to mine. Now he tries to get noticed.
According to him, we’re perfect in our imperfections. Leigh’s take on us is less diplomatic. When she ditched us to travel with Paige, she said, “Being around the two of you is like watching circus freaks trying to mate. If I don’t leave, I’ll end up plunging hot needles in my eyes.” Sam growled, I laughed, and we decided to meet up in a few weeks in Christchurch.
Now Sam’s all mine. That chest. That jaw. Those tasty lips. I can barely believe it. I sent Mom a text that first morning, and she practically blew up my phone with replies—twenty-seven in total. The last one made me shriek and had me fumbling to hit delete, but Sam pinched my knee and snatched the phone away. Even he blushed while reading her text:
If he asks if you’d like a pearl necklace, the answer should be no.
He took one look at me and burst out laughing, telling me over and over how awesome she is. Sam and I talk a lot about our families. He asks about my mom without the resentment you’d expect, and he seems genuinely happy to remember his. I’ve grilled him about the accident, too. About how badly he was hurt. Every word tears me up, but I need to know, and I get the feeling he needs to let it out. We’ve spent hours discussing his hospital stay, the surgeries, the pain, the recovery. How we feel both young and old and how the choices we make in the next few years will define us.
It sounds as though Sam is leaning more and more toward physiotherapy instead of working for his dad, but I’m still muddled over what to do with my life, what career would suit me best. When I think about it too long, my head hurts. Instead, I plan meals, cooking and laughing with Sam, staring at Sam, fantasizing about Sam. I do things that come naturally to me and make me happy.
All this talk and time has spanned a week that feels more like a year—seven years in travel time, as Sam says. Our conversations are set against a rotating backdrop of kayaking, beach walks, hikes, and one surprise dinner at a local winery, all in and around Nelson. We’ve grown closer, so close I can barely stand it when he’s out of sight. By the way he curls his hand around my waist and nuzzles my neck at every opportunity, I’d say he feels the same. We’ve progressed, my boyfriend and me, in every department…but the sexy department.
Since the night of the big reveal, we’ve swapped our separate bunks for a private room. Unfortunately, and fortunately, my monthly friend paid a visit that same night. Unfortunately, because it meant Sam and I had to tone down the sexy stuff while we were together. Half naked. In a bed. Not an easy task. And fortunately, because Sam and I had to tone down the sexy stuff while we were together. Half naked. In a bed. There’s only one explanation for my debilitating fear to go further with him: The I’m Not Sure I Lost My Virginity Incident scarred me more than I realized.
When I went down on him that first night, I was nervous as anything. But Sam put me at ease. He let me know what I was doing felt good, and I loved being in control, knowing I could make him fall apart. I was almost the sex goddess I’ve imagined—still fearful, but experimental. Since then, I’ve had too much time to overthink things. Letting go enough to be with him is twisting me up to the point of immobility. I’m still turned on. Constantly. On the verge of a colossal explosion so epic it’ll make the Mount Saint Helens eruption look like a spurt. I want him in every way, but fear has me frozen. I lied, too. I told him my period is ever-present even though it ended two days ago. Shark week, as Leigh calls it. I just can’t stop reliving that awful incident. I know this is Sam, and Sam won’t yell at me or call me names if