This Means War

Two weeks after winter break ended, I was back in school.  I got a lot of warm welcomes, and even Lucy and Gill weren't harassing me.  I knew it wouldn't last, though.

Over break, Sam had filled me in on what had happened over the two weeks of my memory I'd lost.  I felt terrible, but I didn't remember anything about Adam and I dating.  He understood though, and didn't seem too upset, which made me feel better.  Adam was just glad that I was okay.

My first day back though was long, and I couldn't wait to get home.  Sam walked with me, which I was grateful for.  I wasn't sure how I'd handle walking past the alley again after the last time.

When we passed it, I didn't say or act any differently than I would've before my attack.  However, I did take Sam's hand, and I held it so tight I cut off the circulation in his hand.  I was grateful that he was there beside me.

 

Sam helped me with my homework later that night, mainly helping me write out my work.  I dictated what he should write, and it worked out pretty well.  Cooking supper was a whole other story, though--and an entertaining one at that.

I wanted to bake cookies after making macaroni and cheese with sausage, green beans, and mashed potatoes.   The first half of dinner went off without a hitch, though I was still learning how to use my left hand for everything.

I pulled the pack out of the refrigerator and set it on the counter, but without my right hand I couldn't open the wrapper.

"Need help?"  Sam came up behind me.

"I'd lie and say no, but you're not blind."  He laughed, smiling at me.  I stood back and let him open it, trying not to look like I was pouting.

"I don't think you'll be able to separate them all on your own," he announced skeptically.  I rolled my eyes at him and attempted to prove him wrong.

It worked for the first three, but I came across a piece of dough that was just too sticky for one hand alone.  He cocked one eyebrow, which made me insanely jealous because I couldn't do that, and a grin spread across his lips.  He watched me struggle with the piece of dough for a minute or two before he finally held the other half down for me. 

I glared at him and came at him with the cookie dough, smearing it across his face.  I even got a little in his hair.  He gasped in shock, and gave me a look that said,  "This means war."

I shrieked as he came at me with his own cookie dough.  I tried to escape him, but my wrist slowed me down.  He wrapped his muscular arm around my waist, holding me in place while he smeared the cookie dough across my face.  It was cold and sticky, and I wondered if it was a good facial mask.

I stood on my tip-toes and rubbed my face against his neck, getting the dough on his chin and his shirt.  He put me in a headlock; though it was gentle, I didn't have the strength to get out of it.  I was stuck, and I looked up into his eyes.  They were sparkling with excitement and more blue than I had ever seen them.

"Alright, you win.  Are you going to let me go now?"  I wondered.

"No, I don't think so.  I'm kind of enjoying this moment."

"Come on, I'm crippled,"  I pleaded playfully.

He shook his head, beaming from ear to ear.  I glared at him, trying to keep my expression angered.  I must admit, I was a great actress when I wanted to be.  He slackened his grip around me, and I wrestled the rest of my way free. 

We laughed for a while, putting the cookie dough on the cookie pan and not in each others' faces.

As the cookies baked in the oven, we washed the dough off our faces and cleaned up the small mess we made in the kitchen.  I was ecstatic for the cookies to be done; I hadn't had any in a very long time.

As we waited, Sam and I talked on my couch about how our day had been.  Mine had been filled with lots of careful hugs, and excited 'Welcome back's.  Meanwhile, Sam's had been a little more productive.

"I wrote a new poem during fifth period," he commented.

"Really?  Can I hear it?"  I asked. 

He shook his head, holding back the shadow of a smile.  "No way, it's not good." 

"Oh, come on Sam!  I show you my paintings all the time, but you've never let me hear your poetry.  If you don't let anyone else read it, how can you tell it's not good?  Never trust your own judgment.  You're your own worst critic," I told him.

"Just trust me. It's not good."

"Sam, would I think any less of you if your poetry was terrible?  No.  You're my best friend, Sam.  Why won't you share with me?"  He only shook his head.

"Fine, well, I have a poem for you.  Roses are red, violets are blue, I swear to God I want to hit you right now."

"That doesn't rhyme," he noted.  I revised it for him.

"Fine.  Roses are red, violets are blue.  If I had a brick I'd throw it at you."

He laughed in earnest, and nearly fell off the couch. "Oh my goodness, are you alright?"  I got up and sat on my knees, leaning over him to make sure he was okay.  He had other ideas in mind though.

He sat up, quite sobered now, and stared at me.  His eyes bore into mine, and I was caught off guard by how electricity almost seemed to flow through them.  He leaned in close to me, and our lips met in a kiss.  This was far more passionate than the last time, and I found myself floundering in confusion.

His fingers wove themselves through my hair, while one hand held the nape of my neck so I couldn't pull back even if I'd wanted to.  After the first few seconds, I gave up trying to make sense of it all and found myself lost in the moment and kissing him back.

The End

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