Unfortunately Sam does not have any tissues anywhere in his car. I try to make do with some leftover fast-food napkins I find. Even then my eyes are still all puffy and red. I look awful, but at least I feel a little better. More calm. Kind of embarrassed, though, for slobbering all over Sam like that.
Eventually Sam comes back and tosses my coat and bag into my lap. I make an oomph sound in surprise and nearly choke on the piece of licorice I’m chewing.
He laughs as he buckles his seat belt. “You know, I think that’s the most sound I’ve ever heard from you.”
It’s more than a little bizarre that we have never had a real, two-way conversation. With both of us using our voices. I mean, I knew of him before the party, and I’m sure he knew of me. Most people do; it’s one of the benefits of being friends with people like Kristen Courteau, if you could call it that. People know who you are. So we knew of each other, but we never talked.
Usually there are narcs monitoring the student parking lot to stop delinquents from cutting class, but somehow, thankfully, not today. Sam turns the car out of the lot and drives toward the center of town. He hasn’t indicated where we’re going. After he let me go, all he said was, “I’ll get your stuff, we’re getting out of here,” and that’s all I wanted, to leave, so I wasn’t about to object.
“I’ll call Asha and let her know we took off,” he says now. “She can walk, and after we’re done, I’ll drive you back so you can pick up your car.”
Asha. Shit. I didn’t even think about her. But Sam doesn’t seem worried, and it isn’t a far walk, really. Fifteen minutes, tops. I’ll make it up to her later. Somehow.
I notice the cell phone in his hand. It reminds me how I’ve barely used mine at all since the vow. I take it from him, and he watches bemusedly as I program my number into his contacts list, and then his into mine.
“What’s the point of having my number?” he asks. “It’s not like I can call you.”