Sam--short for Samantha, if you please--has been living in Crawley, Maine for about a year in her grandfather's lighthouse. A promising advertiser, she works from home and the local coffee shop, where she gets her daily hot chocolate fix. For her, l...
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"I'm sorry, I don't think I heard you right, what is this for?"
"For... you?"
"I'm sorry, I think you have the wrong person," I held out the box in my open palm, gesturing for him to take it, "We've never met and—"
He stepped back, away from the proffered box and waved his hands in a negative gesture.
"No, no!"
Stepping forward quickly, he gently wrapped his hands over my proffered one and pressured my fingers closed around the box again, a clam clutching its precious pearl.
His downcast eyes focusing on our connected hands, creased eyebrows, and slight frown stilled my automatic response to yank my hand back. A few timeless moments later, after just simply looking at him, waiting for him to continue, he looked back up into my face and our eyes glued together again.
"This is for you."
The sincerity of his voice and expression wet my eyes a little, but I was and always have been a sucker for puppy dog eyes. It came with the allergies.
"But I don't—" His expression stopped my protests. I squeezed my eyes shut and took a deep breath. When I opened my eyes again, his eyes were roving my face anxiously. My heart panged.
"Why."
"Why?" He cocked his head to the side, the slight frown back.
"Why me? Why scam me? Why'd you pick me!"
My voice grew louder and louder until I was yelling. He blinked furiously, and drew back a little bit, but never let go of my hands.
"Scam? What is 'scam'?"
"Scam is—well, its—you seriously don't know what scam means? Where are you from?!"
He looked away to the coastline,
"Not here."
I rolled my eyes.
"Obviously, I mean your accent gave that away pretty quick."
Right after I said it, I felt the pang in my stomach. His face fell, and so did my heart.
"I'm so sorry, I didn't mean—I didn't—"
"It is alright." His hands dropped from my own and hung limply at my sides.
"No, it's not, I'm sorry," My hands quickly grabbed for his limp ones, and I clutched his large tan hands between my smaller, paler ones, "I'm upset and confused and angry and I don't think about what I say before it leaves my mouth a lot of the time."
I didn't know when I'd gotten comfortable enough to touch this guy's hands so casually, I guess his comfortableness rubbed off on me pretty quick. His behavior reminded me of an overzealous toddler who was yelled at for getting too excited. Maybe that was influencing my own, making me more comfortable with him.
