Author's Note: life got in the way for a few days there folks. Back on track. Just joining? First, kudos to you for wading in at "Ch.09." Second, I'll bottom line this for you: Samantha, Heather (aka Peaches) and Hero (narrator) are a happy little love triangle. Enjoy.
*
Sam and I missed Heather during her first semester away at college. The girls e-mailed regularly. Peaches and I exchanged text messages at random times. She got lonely at night sometimes. Now and again she'd send me a blurry cell phone camera pic of her butt and ask me if it looked like she'd put on any of the infamous "freshman 15." I was happy to see that college was not damaging her sense of humor. And, of course, her ass still looked awesome.
In the meantime, life with Sam was anything but boring. In fact, you didn't live with Sam so much as you rode her. Like a rollercoaster. The good news is that I
like
rollercoasters - real ones and figurative ones.
The week before, we went together to visit the grave of Sam's old boyfriend, Stephen. Once in awhile, I had heard Sam cry his name in her sleep. After a particularly fitful night, she had asked me if I minded coming to visit him.
We stood in the open cold of the cemetery. It was windy and clear. Gusts whipped Sam's long dark hair around until she twisted it loosely and tucked it under the collar of her tan wool coat. I hung back a few steps as she touched his headstone. "Hi Stevie," she began softly, "I still miss you."
I swallowed and blinked several times to stave off tears I hadn't seen coming. Sam's mix of loss and love hit me harder than I expected. Here was proof that Samantha loved just as fiercely as she hated. And why fight off the tears? Well, my dad told me that girls and children can cry whenever they want but men have to choose the right time. This visit was about Sam's grief, not about my sympathy.
Sam talked softly enough for the next few minutes that I couldn't hear her. Then she reached a hand back to me and pulled me forward.
"...and this is Hero. He's good for me, honey. Like you were."
That did it. I gritted my teeth as one good-sized tear spilled down my face. If Sam asked, I'd blame it on the wind.
There was a pause and I realized Sam was waiting for me to say something. I said the only thing I was thinking. "I guess I owe you for helping make Sammie special. I love her too, Stephen. Thank you."
Sam smiled, and we said goodbye to his headstone. Then we stopped for ice cream despite the freezing cold weather. I'm pretty sure that grief is fat-soluble.
So, yeah, that had been a low point. But, oh boy, last night had been a high one.
It started when Sam had finally consented to being my guinea pig. No, nothing kinky. At least not in the beginning.
At long last, I had convinced Sam to let me find her a real liquor. I'm not an alcoholic, but I do like a good stiff drink when I get home from a bad day at work. And while clear spirits like vodka and gin are bedrock principles, I'm convinced that anyone worth spending more than 5 minutes of my time with can be shepherded along into the world of cask-aged brown liquory goodness.
Thus far, Sam usually drank wine - Italian reds. Where a cocktail was more appropriate, she favored a simple cosmopolitan. In the right setting though, she'd treat herself to a martini and, to her credit, Sam's martini was the sexiest one I'd ever heard ordered. I even liked to watch her order it. Particularly from male bartenders. In fact, the first time she'd done this in front of me it had produced an interesting outcome. The restaurant added her drink to the bar menu. It happened when we were waiting at the bar for a dinner table on a crowded night.
When the bartender came over, Sam sized him up. We'd seen him before and I guess she decided he was capable so she laid it on him. "Perfect martini - down and extra dirty with two spaniards and the best you can give me," she requested with a glint in her hazel eyes.
I stifled a laugh, her drink order was the outline of a porno script and an invitation.
The bartender stopped in his tracks. He was in his mid-fifties - young enough that he still appreciated a beautiful young woman making a double entendre but old enough that his mind could still work under those conditions. He raised an eyebrow, then cocked his head and squinted at her a moment in thought. Finally, he nodded when the light bulb in his brain clicked on. It took about three seconds. The man knew his trade.
He fared better than I did. When he stepped away, I had to lean into Sam for an explanation. "OK, I understood the 'perfect martini' part but you lost me after that. 'Down'?"
She smiled. "If I said 'up' it would mean?"
"No ice."
"So when I say 'down' I mean?" She prompted socratically.
"Ice?"
"Mmm-hmmm."
"So why not say 'rocks' like everybody else?"
"'Cause 'down and dirty' sounds better doesn't it?"
It did. No point in arguing. "Allrighty, I know 'dirty' means adding a dash of olive juice, but 'two spaniards'?"
"Spanish olives. I can see them in the bar tray over there. They're herby and scrumptious - better than italians."
"Gotcha. Now please tell me that 'the best you can give me' means you're asking for his best gin
...
" I said with a crooked grin.
She chuckled as the bartender returned. He slid the drink to her across the bar on a cocktail napkin. "What's your name young lady?"
"Samantha," she smiled warmly.
"Next time you come in Samantha, that'll be on the menu." The bartender turned to wink at me. "Careful son, I'm guessing she's a hellcat."
"In
so many different
ways," I shrugged and grinned, stressing each of the three middle words.
