Countless Times Before

With my arms still trapped behind my back, Sam took my bag and dropped it on the floor.  Removing my coat was an interesting experience.   He still wouldn't let me go, insisting that he could no longer trust me.

"There isn't even any more snow around to throw at you," I argued.

"I don't care.  You might find some cookie dough,"  He countered.  I sighed angrily, glad that my wrist didn't hurt very much any more.  

"Sam, I promise that I won't attack you again.  Please, let me go.  I'm soaking wet, I need to change,"  I pleaded.

He turned me around to face him, his grip still firm behind my back, and he kissed me.  There was a clump of snow in his hair that hadn't melted yet, and he shook it in my face and kissed me again.  

Finally, he let me go.  

"I'm going to change my clothes real quick.  Stay here, and I'll be back in a moment."  Another kiss.

"What, I don't get to change my clothes either?  I'm wetter than you.  Someone just happened to throw a snow ball in my face."  He glared at me.

"Fine, go back to your room and change.  I'm not holding you captive, unlike someone I know."

"Fine.  I will."  I watched as Sam grabbed his wet backpack and exited through the door.  

I reached my closet when I realized that I still hadn't done laundry.  I was very thankful that we had a washer and dryer in the house, and that we didn't have to use the ones in the basement of this apartment complex.  Three flights of stairs with a heavy load of laundry is anything but pleasant. 

I put a load of my clothes in the washer and returned to my room, hoping there might be a pair of pants that I somehow missed. 

Kicked halfway under my bed were the pants I'd worn two days ago.  I'd only worn them once before, and they didn't stink or have any stains, so I deemed they might be fit to wear around the house for now.  I added my wet jeans to the washer's current load.  

There was a knock on my bedroom door and Sam asked, "Are you decent?"  

"Yeah, come on in."   My door creaked open a crack, and Sam poked his head in.  "What are you doing?  You don't have to peek.  You've been in here countless times before.  Hell, you slept in here last night,"  I reminded him.

"I'm just used to using the window.  Doors are predictable, remember?"  I laughed as he came in all the way and took a seat on the edge of my bed.

"I can't believe you remember that."  

"I remember just about everything you've said to me.  I usually write it down before I can forget."  I looked at him as if I was seeing him for the first time.  "What?"

"Do you really keep a journal?"  I never thought that guys were capable of writing down their feelings.  Then again, Sam was a writer.  

"Yes.  You don't?"  I shook my head.

"When I'm stressed or upset, I write.  Sometimes in a journal, sometimes in a story."

"What do you like about writing?"  

"What do you like about painting?"  he countered.

"Oh, please, Sam.  You know what I like about painting.  It's how I express myself.  When I'm angry, I paint and then I'm not angry anymore.  When I'm sad, I paint and I'm not sad anymore.  I like being able to create anything I see in my head."  

"Yes, well, writing is like painting, but with words.  All I need is something to write with and write on.  I can create worlds too.  I like the power it gives me.  When my characters speak of a God, they're talking about me.  I can create or destroy anything.  I can take and give anything I like.  When I write, I'm never lonely." 

"I had no idea you felt that way.  Can I hear something, please? You've seen all of my paintings, the good and the bad.  I've never read anything of yours.  Please, Sam?  I'm begging you.  I'll get on my knees and plead if I have to, but please.  Just one page? One little bitty page?" 

"I just took my notebook back to my room."  


"Fine, come with me."  I jumped up off my floor and hugged him tight.  I bounced with every step I took, I was so ecstatic.  Sam just shook his head at me.  

I was sitting on the edge of Sam's bed, waiting on him.  He was digging through his desk drawers, searching for the "right one".  I didn't care what it was I got to read, I just wanted to see his work with my own eyes.  

When I'd told his dad, Alex, what we were doing, he seemed taken aback.  I guess Sam didn't often let anyone read his stuff.  

"The last thing of Sam's I read was when he was in seventh grade.  Kudos to you, Nikki.  He's so secretive about it all anymore."  He winked at me, his eyes crinkling.  Then he went back to his news paper.  

"It's not done yet, but this is my favorite so far.  Ten times better than the one I was originally thinking about showing to you."  He handed the notebook to me and sat down across from me in his desk chair.  

The End

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