What Nobody Else Sees

chapter twenty-one

"Do you regret it?"

Sam sighed, propping his elbows up on the kitchen counter. If he really thought about it, did he regret leaving and joining the group? Did he regret missing Callie grow up, seeing her go to college, possibly protecting her from Peter? Did he regret never speaking to Eileen and getting closure?

Maybe, maybe not. No point in wondering about it now, can't change the past.

He looked up at the freshly painted walls, proud of his work from the day before. Sam was good at handiwork, he always had been. As a teenager, he made most of his money by doing odd jobs for people. Mowing the lawn, gardening, fixing porches, whatever folks wanted. Blake would come with him in the summer, working at his side. Never in the winter, though. Blake got sick far too easily, picking up every little cold and virus that came by.

Sam gazed out the kitchen window, his eyes exploring the front yard. Wild purple and yellow flowers grew among the grass. Birds soared overhead, going high above the trees. It was all so foreign, yet so familiar. He knew these details; he had grown up with them. But then everything changed, and the flowers were replaced with concrete, and the birds were replaced with airplanes.

Not that he cared, of course.

He pushed open the front door, stepping onto the porch. He drew in a breath of fresh air. Part of him felt like a traitor for being able to relax. This was the same town he had sworn off, the same town he had wanted to burn to the ground. Now he was standing on the front porch, wondering how hot it would get today. He made himself sick. With a scowl, he turned and went back inside.

He pulled the phone off of the wall and dialed Dylan's number. He had never needed a list of contacts, the numbers came naturally to him.

"Who is this?" Came the kid's voice, confused and cautious.

"Hey, it's Sam,"

"Oh, Sammy! Wait, where are you calling me from?"

Sam nearly laughed at that. Nobody needed to know where he was, or what he was doing.

"Business matter. So, since I'm not in the area, can you give me a rundown of what's been going on since I left on Friday?" He asked, leaning against the wall. He wanted something to keep his busy, to keep his mind in shape.

"Good question. No one really knows," Dylan casually said.

Sam blinked in surprise. "What do you mean no one knows?"

Dylan scoffed on the other end of the line. "Jackson's in one of his little 'don't ask any questions, don't come to my house, don't do anything unless I tell you to' moods. So, that's exactly what I'm doing."

Kicking halfheartedly at the wall, Sam groaned. It was best to be in the general area when Jackson was in these moods, so that he wouldn't have to wait. No one liked to keep Jackson waiting.

"Alright, alright. Does anyone know what he's doing?" He asked, frustrated.

"Not a clue. If it gets bad though, he'll want you around. You're his favorite, so you better be on hand when he needs you," The kid had an edge to his voice, something that wasn't common with him. It was nervous, almost hesitant. Dylan never let his guard down around the gang. Not even with Sam.

"Are you ok, kid? You being threatened or something?" Sam asked,

There was a pause on the other side of the phone. For a moment, Sam thought something had happened.

"You never talk about your past, Sammy. No one does, it's like y'all can just pretend it never happened. I just-I... how do you deal?" Dylan finally asked.

He was asking himself the same question.

Sam gave a deep sigh. "You let it go. You're right, no one in the group talks about their past. It's just an unspoken rule. The sooner you accept that, the better."

Part of him felt a little guilty about shutting the kid down so quickly. This was just how it had to be. For his safety, for his family's safety, this was just how it worked. Sam's history was his business, no one else's. The same thing went for everyone else. He didn't ask questions.

"I know, I know. I'm not trying to pry or anything, but I'm still new to this. I can't just let it go, I'm not like you," Dylan argued, clearly growing more agitated.

"How old are you, Dylan?" Sam asked, racking his brain. He figured Dylan was about nineteen, maybe eighteen.

"Sixteen in April."

He hadn't expected that.

Fifteen. It was so young, still a kid.

"That explains it, then. You're just a teenager, Dylan, you shouldn't even be doing-," he quickly stopped himself.

The group was just a bunch of people trying to survive and cover for each other, though is a rather roundabout, illegal way. Dylan already had a price on his head, a star beside his name in the books. The kid had no way out, not as long as he was in Memphis. Sam shouldn't have cared. He should've been able to shrug and tell the kid to grow up and move on. But he couldn't. He just couldn't.

It was that part of him that was still an older brother.

"You're a kid. I can't help you, but I'll tell you this. Do what you have to. I'm not giving you advice, or looking out for you, I'm just telling you to be careful." Shaking with suppressed anger, Sam shook his head. "Write down this number, give it to Jackson if he asks about me or heads to my place. You understand?"

Dylan cleared his throat, and in a harsh whisper, answered, "I understand."

Sam read him the phone number, hating himself the entire time.

When the call was over, he sulked to his bedroom, digging through the drawers to find himself some clothes. He shouldn't have been this upset by the call. Back in Memphis, nothing phased him. It was a skill he had taught himself. He didn't get attached, he didn't have remorse, he just didn't care. The Sam Evans the gang knew was quiet, emotionless, and had nothing except for a cramped apartment. But now? Now he was second guessing himself, talking too much, caring too much.

He needed to get out of Key Creek.

"Get over it, Sam. I'm going back soon; I need to be at the top of my game. No more grieving, no more worrying," Sam quietly told himself, staring harshly at his reflection in the dresser mirror.

He could practically see Blake beside him, a skeptical look on his still-teenage face.

"Not that you care, right?" The dark haired boy said, smiling sadly, his eyebrows raised.

Sam would have to fix that before he left.