I click on the email and read through the content. At the bottom is a contact number. I close the email and manage a few more, trying to decide what I should do about Sam’s email, if anything. The decision to meet with Sam is made for me, though, when I make a follow-up call to one of the potential sponsor leads and am told, for what seems to be the millionth time in a row that they don’t think we’re the right fit, and to try back in the spring.
Five minutes later I receive a message from London, her dour mood reflected in the sad face emojis because her meeting didn’t go as planned either.
* * *
Two hours and a phone call later I find myself behind the wheel of the old van we keep at Spark House. It’s mostly used to move stuff around the property, but it runs fine. It’s still a little overcast, but the sun keeps peeking through the clouds, alleviating some of my anxiety over the hour-long drive.
I’m still nervous, though, partly because it’s been a long time since I’ve seen Sam face-to-face, and it’s also the first time I’ve driven this far on my own since the accident. I stop halfway for a bathroom break because I sucked back half a gallon of water due to a dry mouth.
I arrive at Beaver Woods, the adult adventure camp that Sam and his wife, Lisa, have been running for the past several years. I did some research after I read the email and went on a little social media creeping adventure. Sam and Lisa even had a little girl. Seeing them together didn’t hurt. So much time has passed since our tumultuous ending, and I’m in a much better place now.
Beaver Woods is set in the midst of a valley surrounded by forest and peaceful walking trails. But the best part is the amazing lake with the sandy beach and the adult-style waterpark. At least that’s what the videos on the website tout. It’s far too cold for watersport activities now, but in the summer months it is probably amazing. I’m about to find out for myself if it’s true. Knowing Sam, it’s 100 percent accurate.
I check my reflection in the visor mirror, apply another layer of lip balm—I don’t have gloss with me, and it’s not really something I’d wear anyway, apart from an event night or a date. If I had it with me, I might consider dabbing a little concealer under my eyes. Last night Declan and I stayed up later than we should have, enjoying each other a bit too much, based on the ache in my quads and the tightness in my calves.
I exhale a calming breath and remind myself that the past is in the past. I’m independent and self-sufficient and no longer reliant on someone else for my happiness. Sam and I have both moved on. And hopefully, if all goes well, we can start fresh, as business associates.
He’s married with a family, and I’m in a committed relationship. Declan and I are happy, even if we’re avoiding the difficult discussion about the future and what that might hold.
I shake my head, not wanting to go down that path right before I see my ex and the only person to have owned my heart completely until Declan. Ironically, I’m too afraid of what telling Declan might do to our relationship should I be inclined to admit the truth—that I’m in love with him. I don’t want to upset the fragile balance we have, and I’m very aware that in the past, any time he so much as had an inkling that one of his “girlfriends” was getting close to dropping the “I love you” bomb, it signaled the kiss of death for that relationship. I’d like to think we’re different, because our relationship is built on a strong foundation of friendship, but I don’t know for sure. So I’ve been holding on to those feelings, hoping that maybe he would come out and say it first.
I park in front of the main lodge. It’s a gorgeous, massive, rough-hewn log cabin with thick posts and Adirondack chairs lining the front deck. I barely have the car in park when the front door swings open and Sam comes down to meet me.
He hasn’t changed much over the years, same short hair covered in a ball cap, same blue eyes, and wide smile—although currently there’s a little strain behind it. He’s dressed in a pair of khaki cargo pants, a long-sleeved Henley, and a vest. Memories of our time together—nearly two years of love that ended in bitter regrets and my broken heart—clog my throat and make my palms damp.
“Hey. Hi.” I wipe my hands on my pants and hold one out, feeling ridiculously awkward. Maybe this wasn’t the best idea.