Page 79 of Run Home

“It’s not your fault you didn’t know. I tried to tell her that she should—” Griffin cuts himself off again with a sigh, and I can imagine him rubbing a hand over his beard. “This is the one . . . well, she always . . .” I know Griffin is trying to clue me in without telling me things Sam should decide for herself whether to share, but the dancing around things is killing me.

“Could you shoot me straight, please?” I beg.

“It’s not a good day for her. Ever. She’s grown, she’s worked through things in therapy, she’s secure in our family. But your body remembers things like that, even when you’ve mentally tried to move forward,” Griffin explains. “August twelfth is not a good day for Sam. It’s always hit harder for her than it does for Ian. I don’t know why. Usually she goes home to my parents’ house for a few days, but I think she’s been trying to prove she can handle things on her own. I guess she’s trying to stick it out here by herself. I’ll be sure to check on her.”

Possessiveness flares, and I say, “I have time tomorrow. I’ll go see her before the game.”

“Okay,” Griffin says, understanding in his tone. “I’ll text her tomorrow night to check in before bed.”

Lightly pounding a fist on the floor next to me, I swallow down the emotions fighting in my chest. “Griff? Thanks for telling me, man.”

“You’re welcome,” he replies. “And Adrian? I’m glad Sam has you in her life. I mean, I know you’ve been there for her for a long time now. But I’m glad she has you there for her in a new way. You’re good for her, man.”

When we hang up, I hang my head. I don’t even know exactly what Sam went through seventeen years ago, but I wish I could protect her from the memories. I don’t know how to do that, though, and it makes me want to scream.

Rubbing a hand across my goatee, an idea formulates in my mind.

I don’t know how to protect Sam from the memories. But maybe I can distract her from them.

Knocking again on the door, I whisper-yell, “Sam! It’s me!”

I’m trying not to call attention to myself standing outside her apartment door. I have on a plain hat, a long-sleeved Dri-FIT shirt, and black athletic shorts, trying to look as unnoticeable as possible.

But I can’t exactly pound on her door and go unnoticed.

Dialing her number, I press my ear to the door to listen for the ring tone, happy when I hear it inside. I’ve already texted her twice that I’m here, but maybe a phone call will get her attention.

The ring tone in my ear abruptly goes to voicemail, and seconds later, the door opens a crack.

The second I see Sam, I start to question my plan.

Her hair is pulled into a messy ponytail at the nape of her neck, the short length causing pieces to stick out everywhere. She’s dressed in sweatpants and a hoodie twice as big as she is, despite the fact that August in Kansas is still summer weather.

But her eyes are what take me out. So haunted they’re practically hollow. There’s no scientific way it’s possible, but I’d swear the blue-green of her eyes has faded to a muted sage.

“Adrian? What are you doing here?” Sam asks. I almost don’t hear her, but I’m not sure if that’s because her voice is so quiet or because the internal alarms in my mind are so loud.

“I came to take you on a breakfast date. A picnic in the park,” I say, although the suggestion now sounds ridiculous after seeing Sam’s physical state. A car door slams below us, jarring Sam.

She shrinks impossibly smaller.

“Come in,” she says, taking a step backward. “I don’t want you to get ambushed.”

I step inside, taking in the closed blinds, the lack of light.

This might have been a really dumb idea.

Reaching my hand toward Sam, she looks at it, seems to process the invitation, and steps close enough for me to hug her. I rest my cheek against the top of her head and say, “Griffin told me today’s a rough day for you. I thought I’d distract you with some breakfast in the park before I have to go to the stadium. But we don’t have to do that. I can stay here with you if that’s better. What I had planned doesn’t matter.”

Sam tenses in my arms, then leans back. “Yes, it does matter. You planned something nice for me. I’m so . . .” Her voice cracks, and she clears her throat. “That was really thoughtful, and I’m so thankful. Um, give me a second to change my clothes.”

As Sam walks back to her bedroom, I stand dumbfounded at my own cluelessness. Once again, I have no idea how to handle this. And I hate myself for not knowing.

Sam walks out of her room with a bundle of clothes and turns into the bathroom. “I’ll be just a minute.”

I pace the living room as I wait for her. When she emerges from the bathroom, she’s wearing running shorts and a T-shirt, and she’s redone her ponytail.

“Sam, if you’d rather—” I begin, but she cuts me off.