Page 87 of Run Home

“And I love you, Sam,” I say, but something flares in the back of my mind—a comment she made while sharing her story. “Hang on . . .” I start, and worry pulls her lips into a frown. I quickly continue, “Did you say you started going by the name Sam because your stepfather said Samantha was too long?”

Sam’s hands drop from my face to rest on my shoulders as she shrugs. “I mean, yeah, that’s when it started. But now it’s been most of my life that people have called me Sam. Or Sammi. I’m not picky.”

Gears turn in my mind. “Danae calls you Samantha,” I say. “Why?”

Another shrug. “When we first met, she asked me what I preferred to go by. I told her I didn’t care. That I didn’t want my name to be a mouthful, so I didn’t have a preference.”

Narrowing my eyes, I cock my head. “But she calls you Samantha.”

Shrug.

“And you like her calling you that?”

Shrug.

“Cielo, I want you to tell me straight—do you like being called Samantha?” I can see her getting ready to downplay an answer, so I cup a hand behind her head and stare hard into her eyes. “Samantha. Do you like being called Samantha?”

Her expression melts, and she whispers, “I really like the way you say Samantha.”

A light smile curves the edges of my mouth, and I murmur “Samantha” in a low voice before kissing her jaw, right along her neck. I allow my Venezuelan accent to slip to the forefront as I whisper “Samantha” in her ear.

Her responding kiss isn’t tentative at all.

Chapter thirty-three

Samantha

My knee bounces up and down as I chew the inside of my cheek. Adrian reaches over, clasping his hand on my knee, squeezing gently.

He’s solidly proven that he loves me. He chased after me. He listened to the most painful parts of my story and didn’t run away. He told me he still loves me.

And he’s sitting in my therapist’s office, getting ready to meet with Amber together.

We sat in the tree house for a long time last night. I told Adrian more about my past relationships, filling in some gaps, better explaining some of my insecurities. He reassured me of his love twice as many times as he made threats to Ryan’s life. I might send an anonymous postcard to Ryan suggesting a cross-country move to ensure he never makes the mistake of crossing paths with Adrian.

And when I was completely drained from the conversation, we quietly watched for shooting stars.

And kissed some more. There was a fair amount of kissing.

When we finally came inside to go to sleep, I found a note from my mom on the counter letting me know that while I’d been napping, she had scheduled an appointment for me to see Amber. Adrian read over my shoulder and immediately asked if he could come with me to talk to her together.

I feel so loved by him coming with me. And so very terrified to pull him into the deep end of all that is so messed up about me.

As if reading my thoughts, Adrian moves his hand from my knee to wrap around my shoulders, pulling me to him and kissing my temple. “I love you, Samantha. This isn’t going to change that. This is going to help me learn how to love you better.”

Sighing, I lean my head against his shoulder.

My knee keeps bouncing.

The door between the waiting area and the hallway to the counseling rooms opens, and Amber steps out with a warm smile. She has new glasses—a bright teal pair this time—and her curly red hair is longer than the last time I saw her. Rising to my feet, I give her a hug.

“Thanks for squeezing me—us—in,” I say. “Sorry to make you start your day earlier than planned.”

“You will not apologize for that because I am not upset about it, Samantha,” she says, giving me a look that’s equally loving and chastising. I smile.

Turning toward Adrian, I introduce them to each other. We follow Amber back to her office, sitting together on the loveseat as she sits in an armchair across from us. Amber moved into this office when I was seventeen, so I’ve spent innumerable hours in this space. The walls of this room have absorbed so much of my pain and healing, my anguish and hope. As I sit on the familiar pale-blue loveseat with Adrian’s broad, strong frame next to me, I try to let myself be comforted in feeling small, just like sitting under the stars. But nothing about this conversation feels small.

My knee starts bouncing again.