Toby's sentence rang in his ears unmercifully. Toby sure as hell hadn't been
honest with him. As prickly and as standoffish as he was, Sam considered Toby
a friend. He was beginning to seriously doubt his judgment and his ability to
read people.
He hit the steering wheel as he stopped at a red light. The drop-in had been
wrong. The sentiment of friends being honest was right, but it was the wrong
time and the wrong place for that drop-in. Toby wouldn't see that. Sam wasn't
even sure if the President would see it. But it was just plain wrong. And
annoying.
Having been so caught up in his thoughts, he didn't notice that the light had
turned green. A series of rude honks from the car behind him spurred him to
action. He hit the gas pedal to get through the intersection, mumbling an
apology the driver of the car behind him would never hear.
The car that had honked, however, tailed him through every turn, every lane
change. It did manage to distract him from his anger at Toby, but it caused
new fears and worries. Who was following him? Was the car that was tailgating
him really following him or was it coincidence? It was enough to give a man a
complex, especially after his shortcut through a restaurant's parking lot. The
car was still directly behind him.
So as not to take his stalker to his apartment building, he drove around until
he found a nice, brightly-lit parking lot. It happened to be in front of a
DCPD station. The car pulled up and parked beside him. There was something
familiar about it, however. He couldn't place how he knew the car until the
driver got out of it and tapped on his window. Sam climbed out of his car,
looking at her. "Mallory."
"Hello, Sam."
"You followed me."
"I did," she said with a nod.
"Why?"
"I'm not sure yet," she admitted.
"Oh."
"Yeah."
"So..."
"So what?" she asked.
"I don't know. I was the one who was followed."
"Yeah, you were," she said softly. She studied his face for a moment. He
seemed depressed to her, defeated. "What's wrong?"
"What makes you think anything's wrong?" Sam asked, instantly on the
defensive.
Mallory shrugged. "Possibly the fact that you were distracted as you were
driving and I wasn't there to do the distracting." The night of their only
date, Sam had very nearly gotten them into seven separate car accidents.
"You're with that guy, that hockey player."
Mallory looked in her car. "Do you see him in there?"
"No."
"Then guess what."
"What?"
"I'm not with Richard anymore," she said.
"Why?"
"Does it matter?"
"Well, yeah."
"Why?"
"That's my line."
"What's wrong, Sam?"
"Nothing."
Mallory sighed. "My fourth graders lie better than you do."
"Well, I'm a politician."
"Strike two."
"Mallory, I really don't need this right now, okay?"
"Tell me what happened," she said gently, taking a step towards him.
"Just... It's been a rough day, okay?" he said, leaning against his car.
"Dad said you guys were swearing in ambassadors today."
"Some, yeah."
"That wasn't fun?"
"I don't know; I wasn't there for any of the pomp and circumstance. Nor did I
attend the party afterwards..." He glanced at his watch. "Actually, I'm
pretty sure they're all still celebrating."
"Why didn't you?"
"Why didn't I what?"
"Have more to do with the ambassadors?"
"I was too busy working on a speech that President Bartlet gave this evening."
"What was it about?"
"What is this, Mal? Twenty questions?"
"You answer mine, I'll answer yours."
"I don't have any questions for you."
"You might eventually," she reasoned. "Keep going."
"The speech was about CARE, the Clean—"
"I know what it is. How'd the speech go over?"
"Badly," Sam said, hanging his head.
"Why?"
"Well, it wasn't really my fault."
"The President got a little too extemporaneous in the b section?" she asked
with a knowing smile.
"No. Well, in a way, yes. Toby insisted upon a drop-in."
"I don't understand..."
"It's a long story and it's over now," Sam said, pushing himself off the car.
"I should be going."
"Whoa, there, Skipper," she said, grabbing his arm as he started to walk away
from her.
"What?" he asked, looking down at her hand on his coat.
"See, I told you you'd be asking me questions."
His eyes met hers. "Mallory, please. I'm tired. This whole day has just
been…" He drifted off.
"Draining?"
"Indescribably so."
"I'm sorry," she said softly.
"Doesn't matter," he said, falling against the car with a sigh.
Mallory took a step towards him, still holding onto his arm.
"You know you're
not fooling me," she said, "so why don't we go somewhere other than the police
station and talk?"
"I just want to go home, Mal," he said.
"You going to be able to drive yourself home?" she asked, genuinely concerned.
"I've made it so far, haven't I?"
"I had to honk at you."
"Somebody else will honk at me," he said, his voice quiet and low.
"Want somebody to drive you?" she asked.
"I can drive myself home, Mallory."
"Okay," she said, releasing his arm.
He opened his car door and looked at her. "Mallory?"
"Yeah?"
"Are you still mad about the picture?"
"No."
"You're not?" She shook her head. "Why not?"
"Well," she said, "you told me that she's your friend. As much as her
profession offends me and most of the rest of the American population, you
didn't know about her night job. And even afterwards, when you did know, you
didn't discriminate. You were still her friend in the face of everything.
That's an admirable trait, not a reason I should stay mad at you."
"Thanks."
She smiled faintly. "Thank you," she said as she started to get into her car.
"Mal?"
"Yeah?"
"What are you doing the rest of the night?"
"That depends."
"On what?"
"On if you want me to go to your apartment with you so we can continue our
conversation or not."
Sam was silent for a moment. "You're kind of scary, you know?"
"I know."
"Will you come home with me?"
"If you want," she said with a nod.
"Please," he asked softly, his eyes pleading with her.
"Of course," she said. She followed Sam back to his place, watching his
silhouette the entire drive. They parked and walked up to his apartment in
silence.
"You want some coffee?" he asked as they entered.
"Sure," she said, slipping out of her coat. He held his hand out to her, to
take her coat. "I can hang up my own coat—"
"Mallory," he said quietly. She gave him her jacket. The pain in his blue
eyes was overpowering. "Have a seat," he said before hanging up both their
coats.
She wandered to his couch and sat down. A copy of Theodore H. White's "The
Making of a President: 1960" sat open on his side table. Campaigning notes
were scribbled in the margins. She picked up the book and looked at the
handwritten notations and reminders for the impending presidential campaign.
One particular note surprised her the most: Visit Dad's grave in Santa Monica.
Sam carried two full coffee cups into his living room. "Here you go," he
said, offering her a mug. She noticed that he had abandoned his suit coat and
tie, giving him a somewhat bedraggled appearance.
"Thanks," she said, leaving the book open on her lap. "It's an interesting
read," Mallory said, nodding to the book. "Dad has a copy." She smiled. "I
drew in his when I was little."
"Yeah," he said as he sat down beside her. "You might want to look in the
front of the book."
She flipped to the front cover. "Oh my gosh," she said quietly, looking at
the pink, purple, and blue crayon marks.
"There's a sweet message on the next page."
She turned the page, having forgotten what she had written. Blocky green
letters read, "I love you."
"Leo told me he was all set to punish you for writing in his book when he saw
that," Sam said quietly.
"He gave it to you?"
"After my first week on the campaign trail for President Bartlet," he said
with a nod. "I told him it had been a while since I had campaigned for anybody
and even then I had never done much. Most of the time I wrote for Senator
Dodson from Washington while he was on the road. I faxed his speeches to him.
All of the sudden I'm meeting with a former governor turned presidential
hopeful and his friend, the former U.S. Secretary of Labor. I was
overwhelmed."
"But look where you wound up."
"Yeah," Sam said bitterly. "Out of the loop."
"What do you mean?"
Sam stood and started pacing. "I mean Toby slipped the drop in into the
speech behind my back. I worked on that speech all day, *all* day. Toby had
been in Kansas City until this afternoon and he decides to go and *screw* with
my speech. I'm left to spin the drop in at the GDC thinking that the President
did get a little extemporaneous, a little spontaneous. I had *no* idea
*whatsoever* that Toby had gone behind my back and had the goddamn thing
*planned*!" He gestured with his coffee mug, sending the hot liquid sloshing
out of the cup and onto his hand and arm, dripping onto his now literally
coffee table. "Damn it," he muttered. "Fuck!" he yelled, all the aggravation
from the day finally reaching critical mass.
Mallory abandoned her coffee and the book, guiding Sam into his kitchen. She
turned on the water and put his hand under the stream, hoping the coffee wasn't
hot enough for a burn. Grabbing a dishtowel, she started back for the living
room to mop up the spilled drink.
His hand rinsed of coffee, Sam crossed determinedly to his bedroom and shed
his coffee-stained shirt. He pulled on an old tee shirt. Balling up the shirt
he had been wearing, he hoped to throw it into the hamper, but he missed.
Sighing heavily, he tried again, only to miss a second time. He ran both hands
through his hair before returning to the living room, to see Mallory finishing
up. "I'm so sorry," he said, shaking his head.
"Don't worry about it," she said. "You have every right to be tense. If I
were in your shoes, I would have spilled more than my coffee and yelled many
more expletives."
"I didn't mean to yell at you," he said quietly, looking down at his shoes,
scuffing one on the carpeted floor.
"You didn't yell *at* me. You just yelled; you got rid of some anger." She
walked up to him, leaving the dishtowel on the table. "It's all right," she
said gently, reaching out to him, placing her hand on his arm.
"I haven't seen you since the symphony at the Kennedy Center and I ask you
here and I yell at you—"
"You're upset."
"Yes."
"You feel betrayed."
"Toby's more concerned about the election than anything. And, sure, the
election is important *but*... God Almighty, Mallory," he said, exasperated.
"What the hell are we going to do if we're so busy concerned about an election
*two years away* that we lose perspective on the here and now, on getting
things through Congress like the Clean Air Rehabilitative Effort, social
security, and our education reform plan?"
"I thought you had an education reform bill."
"We pulled it. It needs revision," he said. "But, if we're too busy trying
to analyze congressional districts and voting behavior, guess how much energy
will be put into education reform? *None*."
"On that, you're wrong," Mallory said, dropping her hand to his and lacing her
fingers through his.
"Mallory, I've worked with these people for three years. Issues will be the
last things on their minds in the next few months. They'll all be focused on
election day 2002."
"Everyone's mind but *yours*. And you'll convince them that there are more
important things than campaigning."
Sam shook his head. "I serve at the pleasure of President Bartlet. If he
wants me to work on nothing else but the campaign between now and election
night, then that's what I have to do."
"He doesn't want 'yes men,' Sam. The President wants a staff that will keep
him on his toes and that will remind him that his duty isn't to the re-election
campaign but to the people of the United States of America."
"He's not going to listen to me," he mumbled.
"Why wouldn't he? Are you or are you not his Deputy Communications Director?"
"With what happened today, I'm sure Toby is plotting either my demise or my
firing. He blamed me for the disastrous leadership breakfast. He blamed *me*
for *his* screw up. *I* make plenty of my own mistakes so that I shouldn't
have to take the fall anyone else's. That drop in is completely on Toby but
nobody's going to know that. I went to the President with the idea to do the
GDC meeting tonight. I wrote the speech; I rewrote it thirteen times. I may
have tried, inadvertently, to set the White House on fire, but I did *not*
insult the environmental lobby!"
"No one will let you take the fall for the drop in, Sam," Mallory said with
some degree of confidence.
Sam shook his head and started for the couch, slipping his hand out of hers.
"I'm always the one who gets blamed, Mal," he said, turning back to look at
her. "I'm the kid of the Senior Staff. At thirty-two, I'm the kid," he said.
"If anything goes wrong, politically or otherwise, I'm the guy they pin the
blame on. Sometimes, yes, I do mess up. I admit that. I own my mistakes. I
didn't tell the President to go screw the environmentalists. The fire in the
Mural Room, while not entirely my idea, I participated in actively. Josh tells
the President it's all my fault. I go to clear up a problem Leo had with Karen
Cahill and I confuse Kazakstan for Kyrgystan. That mess snowballs and Donna's
upset with me, blaming me for her problems when I wasn't the one to start it in
the first place. I try to free up some office space in the West Wing, try to
get some numbers to show C.J. and a reporter gets called. The probability of a
White House Press Corps member getting called by the monthly DNC and asked if
we should move them across the street to the OEOB is phenomenal. It's like
God, in His infinite wisdom and power, has said, 'Sam Seaborn, your life is
going to be hell. Everything that can go wrong will go wrong, and it'll go
wrong in a *big* way.'"
"You can't believe that," Mallory said. "You can't honestly believe that."
At least, she hoped he didn't believe it. The dejected expression in his eyes
told her he did.
"It's not just now. It's been *always*, Mallory. Always."
"How?" she asked quietly.
Sam fell onto his couch and propped his feet up on the coffee table. "Where
do you want me to start? The day I was born?"
Mallory slowly eased over to the couch and gingerly sat beside him. "I'm sure
it didn't start then."
"My mother had me and left. That day, she left. She stuck around long enough
to tell the doctor at the hospital what my name was. And then she left. She
vanished into thin air, never to be seen or heard from again."
"Sam, I..." She was speechless.
"You don't have to say anything," he said. "Dad couldn't hold down a job to
save his *life*. He was..." Sam laughed lightly. "Dad was a surfer. He'd
much rather be hanging ten than working nine to five."
"I always figured you came from a family of lawyers," she said quietly. "The
lap of luxury."
"Not even close. We had the *crummiest* of houses in L.A. I mean, just…
deplorable conditions. I never had friends over because I was too scared of
what they would think. Dad always offered to pick me up from school in the old
jalopy. He did once and I was mortified. We made a deal: he wouldn't ever do
that again and I would get a job after school, something steady so we could
have, y'know, food on the table. So we could pay the electric and water bills.
Don't get me wrong; I love my dad. It's just..." He trailed off, leaving
Mallory hanging.
"It's just what?" she prodded gently.
"He never knew. The last day I saw him, we had an argument. I had gotten a
full scholarship to Princeton, book stipends, tuition, housing... He didn't
want me to go. He wanted me to stay in L.A. with him. He never went to
college, why should I? I told him I didn't want to be him. I wanted to be me.
And I wanted to go to Princeton." He stopped for a moment to look in her
eyes. "A kid like me going to Princeton. That was something," he said.
"What happened?"
"He had been working semi-steadily at the marina. He was going out to do... I
don't even remember now. Pleasure cruise or fishing trip," Sam said with a
shrug. "I was home, packing. I was leaving in three days. He didn't come
home that night. It had been raining a little but I didn't think too much
about it. I called the marina the next morning and they said they hadn't seen
the boat, hadn't heard from anybody, didn't know what happened. I figure Dad's
out, y'know, at Catalina, cooling his heels and looking for the next big wave.
His body washed ashore in Santa Monica. The boat had capsized somewhere. The
Coast Guard figured it was probably a waterspout that came and just..."
"I am so sorry, Sam," she breathed.
"I was seventeen. It's been... a long time ago," he said, closing his eyes
and leaning his head against the back of the couch.
"College was good, though, right?" she asked hopefully.
He opened his eyes and looked at the ceiling as he began to recall his college
years. "Princeton was fine. When I decided I wanted to go to Duke... I got a
scholarship but it didn't cover everything. I had so many loans I was *so* far
in debt when I graduated and passed the bar. I started working at the district
attorney's office in Charlotte. You don't get paid well unless you're a
criminal lawyer. I studied corporate law. There isn't much demand for a
corporate lawyer in a district attorney's office. I was doing paralegal work,
which fine because, honestly, there's no way I could've handled a case right
out of Duke. But it was boring. It was like I was still in law school."
"How'd you go from working in Charlotte to Washington?"
"My boss tells me he's going to D.C. for the week for some conference and
needs somebody to go with him."
"And you went."
Sam nodded. "And the rest, as they say, is history. I met Josh the first day
in D.C. He was boisterous and brash... And a lot of fun. Somehow, after I had
been drinking a little more than I should have been, I wind up telling him I
hate law. I don't hate the concept. I don't hate making them. I hate
prosecuting. It's not my thing. When you have a law degree and you've passed
the bar, you're expected to practice it. He tells me there's a guy who's
looking for a speechwriter and to give it a shot. Four days into the trip, I'm
telling my boss I quit. I had gotten the job with Senator Dodson's office.
And then I meet the woman who would very nearly ruin my life entirely."
Mallory looked at him curiously and kicked off her high-heeled shoes to sit
cross-legged facing him. "Your mother?"
"No," he said, a bit sourly. "The woman's name was Lisa Alexander. Or at
least, that's what I thought it was. As it turns out it was really Lesya
Alexandrova."
"Russian?"
"Very much so. She had a doctorate from GW in finance. On my government
salary, I couldn't pay my down loans and have an apartment at the same time. I
crashed with Josh for almost two years. I met Lisa—or Lesya—in a café about
five years ago. I was scrounging around for enough money to buy a cappuccino
and I didn't have it. That's how bad off I was. She took pity on me, buying
me coffee. We started talking. She told me she didn't really know her
parents, that they had abandoned her years ago. I felt I was really making a
connection with this woman. She even helped me figure out how I could budget
my money to the point where I could live without rummaging around for every
dime and pay down my loans at the same time. I thought I was finally going to
get somewhere in life. Didn't know I'd wind up in New York. Six months after
we had met, she was moving to New York because she could get a job at one of
those stockbroker places. She wanted me to go with her. I didn't feel I could
tell her no because of all she had done for me. Only problem was, I couldn't
get a political job up there. I went back to law, landed Gage Whitney."
"But Gage Whitney is one of the finest firms in New York City."
"Second largest," Sam said with a nod. "But that doesn't make it 'fine,'" he
said. "It makes it... well-known. Doesn't make it moral, doesn't make it a
good place. It's just famous."
"You didn't like it there?"
"I hated it. But I stayed there because I needed the money. Because of Gage
Whitney, my loans are paid off; I repaid Lisa for everything she gave me. She
was constantly giving me money when I came up short."
"And then?" she asked.
He smiled faintly. "See, even you're the one waiting for the other shoe to
drop. I'm a month away from partner. Josh comes in to see me. I had called
occasionally to talk to him but I hadn't seen him in a while. He tells me he's
going to Nashua, New Hampshire. He's... He was lost, Mal. His political edge
was dulled a little from, I think, banging his head into the wall so many times
working for Hoynes. He looked as lost as I felt when I was in D.C. for the
first time. He had helped me; I wanted to help him. I was engaged, though, by
then. I had proposed to Lisa, we had plans for September. I couldn't just
leave and go with him like he wanted me to. The thought of getting back into
politics was... thrilling, but I couldn't do it. I had an obligation to Lisa.
He goes to New Hampshire and I go home to see INS trucks parked outside my
building. I figure somebody doesn't have the right papers. I figure it's,
y'know, the Spanish couple the floor above me. I get up to the apartment and I
see Lisa being dragged down the sidewalk and to the truck in handcuffs. I
start demanding explanations. Her student visa had expired *years* ago and she
never bothered to get it renewed. She went to Harvard—where she met Josh—and
her visa expired after getting her bachelors. That didn't stop her, she went
to the University of Maine for her masters and then onto George Washington for
the doctorate. I was harboring a fugitive without even knowing it. She was
going to marry me to get a green card."
Mallory placed a light hand on Sam's shoulder. "Ouch," she said quietly.
"That's an understatement. But as much as that hurt, it hurt worse to see
this other Russian guy being dragged out of the apartment building. Turns out
they were lovers from the 'old country.' Their parents didn't approve, so they
had run away together, getting student visas and grabbing all the money they
could from their respective families. Apparently, she was the daughter of some
wealthy guy—I forget exactly what her father did. The plan was she could marry
me and get somebody to marry him and they'd keep up their... extra
curricular... relationship."
"I'm sorry."
He shrugged off her sympathy. "So then Josh comes back the next day. I was
getting nowhere at work. The woman I thought I loved didn't really love me. I
was isolated in the middle of Manhattan. So, I quit and went back to what I
liked doing… Although, maybe 'like' is too strong a word." He sat up to look
at her. "So, yeah, Mal, I believe God's out to get me. Sins of the father
maybe... Or sins of the mother considering I've never met her. I know her
name. I don't even have a picture. The only thing I have of hers is this
letter she wrote to my dad a couple weeks after she found out about me," he
said, pulling the letter from the pages of the book Leo had given him. He
handed it to her.
"'My love, I'm afraid something has happened that we hadn't planned on. Dad
is threatening to disown me if I carry our child to term. Yes, I said our
child. He—or she—is now three months along. I was afraid to tell you and even
more afraid of what would happen if my father ever found out. I had no
intention of telling him, I had hoped to hide that fact but it's too late. He
now knows and so should you,'" Mallory read. She glanced at him.
"Keep going," he urged quietly.
"'Every time I ask to leave the house, he starts acting like a nervous
hooliellia, interrogating me about where I'm going and who I'm going to see.
Needless to say, I shouldn't go down to L.A. anymore. If he ever found out, I
dread to think what he'd do to me. Or our child. Love always, your Susan.'"
"They were never married. 'Samuel Norman' must've meant something to her for
her to stick around long enough to give it to me but I don't know what and
probably won't ever."
"What was her name? Susan...?"
"Susan Johnson. Do you know how many Susan Johnson's there are in the
country?"
"No."
"Every stop we made on the road during the campaign, I'd look through the
phone book." He opened the book to the back flap. "One thousand, three
hundred and eighty-six," he said, showing her the tally. "We didn't even go to
every state in the union and there are at least one thousand, three hundred and
eighty-six Susan Johnson's or Sue Johnson's or even S. Johnson's. It's
entirely possible one of those is my mother. She could already be dead,
though, and there are those other places that I haven't looked yet."
"Did you ever try calling any of them?"
"Why would I go and do that? She didn't care about me enough to stick around.
She won't ever know what her son is doing, what he's become. If she's still
alive, of course, there's always the possibility that she's passed away."
"From this letter, it sounds like she cared. Her father—your
grandfather—threatened to... abort you and yet here you are."
"Well, what good has she done for me? Nothing," he said coldly. "I kind of
hope she *is* dead and that I never find her. I couldn't care less about her."
"You sound so callous, talking about your mother this way."
"I'm a politician," he said through a forced smile.
"You're not that kind of a politician."
"How do you know?" he asked, closing the book.
"Because the man I fell in love with isn't heartless."
"You're in love with me?" he asked, unbelieving.
"Yes."
"You have a funny way of showing affection. So did Lisa but it was a hell of
a lot nicer for the better part of two years."
"You're hurting now," she said, ready to start into a lengthy explanation.
Sam interrupted her.
"I'm always in pain," he said. "Even when I think I'm doing okay something
like the damn drop-in comes up and reminds me just how horrible my life is."
"You are a well-respected member of the Senior Staff."
"If I'm so respected, how come I was left out? How come I was left out of the
loop on this speech?"
"Because they knew you would raise moral and ethical objections and they
didn't want to have to fight you because they knew, in the end, you would be
right."
"You have insight into the minds of the rest of the Senior Staff?"
"My father is on the Senior Staff."
"Your father told you that?"
"No, I've gathered my information over time, through top-secret spy cameras
and wire taps," she said conspiratorially. Sam sighed. "I've seen the way you
interact with the rest of the Senior Staff. I've seen the way they react to
you and your opinions. I'm betting, ten to one, Toby's at home right now
kicking himself. Same odds say that President Bartlet is in the residence
wondering why he listened to Toby about the drop-in. You know I'm right
because you know them, too."
"Maybe," he said quietly, shaking his head and looking away.
"You know I'm right," she insisted quietly. She turned his face to look at
her. "You know I am. And you know that, so long as the President has you,
you're going to keep his head straight. You're going to walk into the Oval
Office in the morning and tell him he made a mistake, a political one. You
know you're going to have to make it up to them, work on another environmental
initiative to put through Congress or maybe even a mention in the State of the
Union. You're going to tell him exactly what you told me earlier: that your
focus isn't on re-election, it's on the governing of the United States. Your
job—the one you were chosen to do November two years ago—wasn't to get
re-elected in four years. Your job was to help the American people for four
years. You're the only one who sees that right now—even my father is blinded
by polling data. You're the only one with clear vision. And don't tell me you
don't like politics. You just don't like the methods sometimes. You don't
like the press asking questions they know they shouldn't. You don't like
having to watch others make mistakes," she said, moving closer to him. "You
know the humiliation and, even if you're pissed at Toby, you hate that he made
the mistake. You hate that President Bartlet is stewing at the White House
because of the drop-in."
"I do," he said quietly, his eyes glued to hers.
"I know you do," she whispered. "And you don't like the mistakes your parents
made." Seeing the pain in his eyes, she made an assumption as to how he felt,
saying, "But you are not a mistake." His gaze intensified on her powerfully.
She realized she had hit the nail on the head. "God is not out to get you
because your parents loved each other enough to make you, to give you life."
He leaned forward suddenly and covered his face with his hands, bracing his
elbows on his knees. "If they loved each other, why didn't they love me?" he
asked, sobbing lightly.
Mallory put her arms around him. "They did love you. Your mother stayed long
enough to give you a name. You are her child no matter what. Wherever she is,
I'm sure she loves you very much. And since you kept the name she gave you,
I'd say she knows exactly who you are and is very proud of you."
"Then... why hasn't she..." He couldn't finish his question.
"Why hasn't she contacted you?" Sam nodded. "She could be scared. Some kids
who grow up without one or both of their parents don't want to know who brought
them into the world. But that doesn't mean you're not loved, Sam. As for your
father, I don't think he was out to be mean when he told you he didn't want you
to go to Princeton."
"Why, then? Why did he tell me not to go? Why did he say I'd be better off
staying in L.A.?"
"Because he didn't want you to leave him," she said, resting her head on his
shoulder. "You are an incredibly amazing man and I'm sure you were one
incredibly amazing kid," she whispered before kissing his shoulder.
"Why'd you come up here with me tonight?"
"I didn't want to see you in pain."
"Well, you picked the wrong night to come up, then," he said, drying his
tears.
"You looked like you could use somebody to talk to," she said, gently rubbing
his back. "I had hoped to make you feel better."
He sniffled and sat up, hugging her. "You did," he whispered to her.
"I'm glad," she whispered back. "You bring such light into my life, Sam, into
all the lives around you. You're always looking on the bright side of things;
you've got a sunny disposition for the most part. The least I can do is try to
return the favor."
He held her tightly, afraid that if he let go of her, she'd disappear. He
would find out that her coming to see him had all been a dream. "What happened
to the hockey player?" he asked, wondering if he really wanted to know the
answer.
"It didn't work out," she said with a light shrug. "I didn't want it to. I
wanted you, picture or no picture. I still want you." He pulled back to look
in her eyes. "I love you," she said, drying what was left of his tears. "The
thing with Richard... I wanted to move on quickly. I wanted to forget about
you. The harder I tried, the more you invaded my every thought. You are quite
persistent, Mr. Seaborn," she said with a faint smile. Her smile faded. "I
was hurt after the picture came out. I shouldn't have been—you had been up
front with me about her since I met you—but I was still hurt. I was jealous,
just as your father was jealous because he was losing you to school. I thought
I had lost you to her."
"I haven't heard from her since the picture came out. I was told she moved,"
Sam said.
"I'm sorry you lost a friend."
"Yeah, me too. The one thing I regret about all of that ordeal was that I
lost you."
"You didn't lose me... More like, temporarily misplaced," she said, brushing
his hair away from his forehead. He nodded, unsure of what to say. Mallory
glanced at her watch; it was midnight. "You have work in the morning. I
should probably go," she said quietly.
"Are you tired?" he asked.
"Me?"
"Yeah..."
"A little, I guess. Why?"
He swallowed hard. "I'm not suggesting anything, I just... I want you to
stay." His eyes began watering again. "I don't think I can stand being alone
right now."
Mallory leaned in and kissed his lips tenderly. As it ended, she noticed he
was crying. "I'm not going anywhere," she said, putting her arms around him.
"Not now, not ever, I promise," she whispered.