Playing With Fire
When Samantha was a little girl, Billy Evans from next door stole firecrackers from his dad's shed and lit one to impress Samantha's older sister. Marilyn was thirteen and had a boyfriend, but Billy was optimistic. The ten-year-old Samantha (even then it was always Samantha, not Sam, never Sammy) thought Billy was the coolest boy in the whole neighborhood. When Marilyn sent Samantha to tell Billy to go on and light the cracker without her, Samantha was only too happy to comply. Besides, she thought he might let her have a turn at lighting one.
But something went wrong with that first cracker and Billy lost an eye and Samantha has hated firecrackers ever since. (Even now, she can't smell burnt gunpowder without smelling blood and hearing Billy scream.)
Fourth of July picnics were never the same after that. The first time her daddy went to light the crackers, she panicked, certain that he'd be hurt. Every time after that (until he went for a beer and never came home) Samantha shut her eyes and covered her ears until the show was over and she knew they were safe.
After all these years, she thinks she should be over it. She's not ten years old anymore and she knows there are things in the world more dangerous than firecrackers.
Like sleeping with your married boss.
She knew it was a bad idea to tell Marilyn. (Marilyn, the perfect child who grew up and married the perfect man, who has two perfect children and lives a perfect life.) Samantha hadn't meant to let slip about the affair but she was sick of Marilyn's smug, "Well, I'm sure one of these days you'll find someone to settle down with."
In retrospect, "I'm not interested in settling down," was not the best reply.
"Why not?"
"I . . . it's nothing . . . it's complicated." Samantha hated that Marilyn still had the ability to turn her into a blubbering idiot.
"So you are seeing someone then?"
"Uh-"
"God, Sammy, tell me he isn't married!"
"Marilyn, look-"
"He is, isn't he? When will you learn? You can't base a relationship on sex. Do you honestly think he'll leave his family for you? Have you told Mom? She's going to have a fit-"
"Mar, please don't say anything to her. It's . . . it's not permanent. I'm just . . . having fun."
"Just having fun? Sammy, do you really want to be a-"
"Please, I don't want to fight with you."
Silence. When Marilyn spoke again, her tone was cold. "You know, for someone so smart, you're incredibly stupid."
Samantha hasn't spoken to her sister in four months.
Tonight, she sits at her desk and wonders if she should call her. It's getting dark outside and she can see Jack's light on. He shouldn't still be here. Earlier (before dawn, tangled in her bedsheets) he'd mentioned that he was taking his girls to Central Park to watch the fireworks.
His girls: Hanna, Kate, Marie.
Not her.
Samantha tries to tell herself she doesn't care, it doesn't hurt, she doesn't like firecrackers anyway . . . but she does care, it does hurt, and maybe watching firecrackers with Jack wouldn't be so bad.
His office light goes off and he comes out. Samantha brushes her hair behind her ear and pretends she wasn't looking. She wonders why she even bothers; it's not as if they aren't already involved. (She doesn't feel cheap, doesn't feel guilty, so take that Marilyn!)
His footsteps near and he touches her shoulder. "Hey."
"Hey."
"I thought you'd gone already." Small talk, she knows he's lying.
"Just finishing up my report." Caitlin Merriweather, six, disappeared from a church parking lot. Found, five hours later, wandering around a toy store.
"What are your plans for tonight?" His fingers slide under her hair and he begins to massage her neck.
"Nothing special."
"You're not coming to see the fireworks?"
"No."
"But it's the fourth of July!" He sounds like a little boy and she lets herself smile. She's had that same reaction from her nephew Garrett.
"I don't like firecrackers." She doesn't add, "and I don't want to see you playing happy family."
Marilyn is right. For someone so smart, she is incredibly stupid.
"What are you doing tomorrow? I told Marie I needed to work in the afternoon."
She swivels around so she's facing him. Why make it easy, she thinks. "Really?"
"I thought we could get a movie or something."
"A movie?" She's caught off-guard. This isn't in the script. That's not the kind of relationship they have.
He nods. Something in his expression is different. "I'm sorry. I'm a little rusty when it comes to this . . . We don't have to-"
Samantha smiles, though her stomach is a knot of uncertainty. "A movie is fine. As long as it's not a dumb action movie without a plot. No Bruce Willis, okay?"
"Okay. Good." He lets out a breath and she wonders what it took to ask. "So, I'll see you tomorrow then."
"Yeah. Goodnight."
"'Night." He bends, placing the briefest of kisses on her lips. He's gone by the time she realizes he's never kissed her like that before. (Passionate, wet, open-mouthed, make-you-melt kisses, yes, but never one so soft and - dare she say it? - loving.)
She leaves not long after and finds herself drawn to the fireworks. Jack is somewhere in the mass of people, but the thought isn't enough to keep her there. Maybe one day they'll watch fireworks together. (Where did that come from?)
Samantha goes home alone. She can't help but think of poor Billy Evans (his family moved away after the accident, she hasn't seen him since). Whatever happened to him, she wonders. Wherever he is, he's probably not watching fireworks either.
Samantha sighs, heading for the bedroom where she and Jack spent the previous night. Lately, she's been spending too much time thinking in terms of 'she and Jack'.
And then it hits her with startling clarity, and she understands.
If she thought sleeping with Jack was dangerous, loving him is far riskier. And she's already too far gone to back out now.