Page 130 of Things I Overshared
Immediately, I am nauseated and struggle to inhale. She’s pulled her fancy security app up from her phone and onto the big screen. There, at her private elevator, stands the Ice Man himself.
“He looks terrible,” Sadie says.
“No, he doesn’t,” I whisper.
“No, he really doesn’t. I mean, a little tired, maybe. I think his tie is a bit wrinkled, but really, a full three-piece suit. Damn.”
“Like ice cream,” I whisper without realizing words are coming out of my mouth. He’s wearing his tan suit, cream button-up, and pale-pink tie. He looks like a vision. Straight from my dreams. But then my nightmares. My knees start to give out, so I sit down, staring at the screen.
“You want me to let him up? Or I can tell him to get lost if you want?” Sadie studies me as I look at the pixels on her wall. “Sam? What do you want?”
“I-I don’t know.”
“Well, again, it’s whatever you want. Totally get that he’s Voldemort and everything,buthe did travel fifteen hundred miles to talk to you, sooo maybe you should hear him out?” Sadie tries not to smile as she says it. This is the stuff of all her books, her crazy imaginary fantasies coming true. I can’t believe she’s still a romantic after everything life has thrown at her.
“O-Okay.”
“You sure? You don’t have to hear him out, really, you don’t.” Sadie hesitates, and I know she means it, despite her barely masked glee.
“I’m sure.”
“All right,” she says to me, and then she presses a button on her phone as she turns back to the screen. “You’re getting twenty minutes, asshole.” The relief covers Emerson’s whole body like a blanket when the elevator doors open. He rushes into the private elevator, and then she shuts the TV off. My sister turns to me, serious, with her eyes boring into mine and her hands on my shoulders.
“You’re Samantha fucking Canton. You do whatyouwant. What’s good foryou. Whatyouthink you should do. Okay?” I nod. “I’m going to set out a couple waters and then go to the gym downstairs. Text me as soon as you need me.”
The elevator in her lobby dings, and I shoot out of my seat at the sound. I think about throwing up, or running, or sitting back down. Sadie gathers some things and heads to let him in. I hear her open the elevator door and I think he says a quiet thank-you, but I don’t think she replies. My guess is she’s giving him a death stare to match his own intense gaze.
I smooth my hands over myself instinctually, not thrilled that I’m in a baggy shirt and tight workout shorts. My hair is in a messy bun, and I only have mascara on. Still, it’s better than the holey, stained sweatshirt I wore for two weeks straight.
Then he’s in the room. Emerson, my Frosty—no, Voldemort, Sam!He stops as soon as he sees me, his cold eyes burning into mine like they have a hundred times. Like they did when he said he wanted to marry someday, just not me. Like they did when he admitted I was too much and slithered out the door with a pitiful apology.
I cross my arms to hide my shaking hands and straighten my spine. I don’t trust myself to form short, coherent sentences, so I just raise my eyebrows and jut out my chin, inviting him to speak.
“Samantha,” he says in a low, scratchy tone as he takes a step toward me. I back up a step, remembering his indifference at the office a few weeks ago. “I’m so sorry.” His eyes plead with mine.
“So you said,” I say softly, proud of myself that I was able to stick with just three normal, logical words.
“I-I spoke to Adam.” He says the words slowly, as if I should know what the hell my brother-in-law has to do with anything. My face stays twisted in a frown. He shakes his head. “I mean, I owe you an explanation.” He steps toward me again, and I flinch. “Can we sit?”
“No.” I couldn’t possibly sit. If he’s uncomfortable, too freaking bad. He pulls on his hair and lets out one of his painful sighs. “Just say what you came to say,Mr. Clark.” He looks up at me then, recognition and guilt etched into the tiny lines around his eyes.
“I’m—”
“Don’tsay you’re sorry again. Seriously, just don’t.”
He nods and sighs again.
“I . . . I didn’t tell you everything . . . about me.”
I scoff at his comment, the understatement of the century.
“Everything that happened . . . in London before I came back to the States . . . with Chelsea, and my father, it was . . .”
I tried, but as of this second, my patience has run the hell out.
“What, Emerson? What? You still love her? She broke you, so you can’t love again? They are forcing you to marry her or—”
“I can’t have children, Samantha!” He blurts it out so loudly, it’s almost a shout. A shiver goes through him after the words are out, and then he collapses onto the couch. I feel my mouth hanging open and my body frozen. Eventually, I feel my knees bend to sit, landing directly across from him on one of Sadie’s plush designer chairs.
