Goodnight Beautiful Read online

  “Sorry?” Sam says. “What did you say?”

  “Sam Seaborne hasn’t had a stable relationship in his life. And okay, fine, while he says he wasn’t aware of her profession, it’s clear that deep down, on some level, he knew she was unavailable. That’s why he was attracted to her.”

  “Huh,” Sam says. “Interesting.”

  “And you want to know why he’s like this?” I continue, wringing out the washcloth. “Because of his father’s affair. When Sam Seaborne found out that his father had been having an affair, for twenty-eight years, while married to his mother, it deeply shook his idea of what he can and cannot depend on. And don’t even get me started on Josh Lyman.” I approach Sam’s bed. “What?” I say, noticing the look on his face.

  He shrugs. “I don’t know. It’s just . . .” He takes a deep breath. “I can relate to what you’re saying.”

  “You can?” I ask, tilting his chin toward the ceiling. “How?”

  “My dad left my mother for another woman,” he says. “Moved out on my fourteenth birthday, to be exact.” I gently clean around his stitches. “Learning that your dad is unfaithful can mess with your mind, and like Sam Seaborne, I used girls to make that pain go away.” Sam grimaces. “It's shameful how good I was at manipulating girls.”

  I step back. “I never understood guys like you,” I say. “No offense, but it always seemed like the bigger the jerk a boy was, the more girls who wanted to date him. How on earth did you do it?”

  Sam looks me in the eye. “You want in on the secret to seducing a girl?”

  “Are you serious?” I ask.

  “Sit down,” Sam says, nodding at his chair.

  I slowly make my way across the room.

  “Taking advantage of a girl is a delicate dance,” Sam says when I’m seated. “But it comes down to one thing in particular.” He pauses.

  “What?”

  “Finding their weakness and exploiting it. You have to make them think you care about them. Convince them you’ve never felt this way before. But the quickest way to get her?” He leans forward and lowers his voice. “Tears.”

  “Tears?”

  “Yeah, a past regret. A dead dog. A dad who walks out on your fourteenth birthday. Throw some fake tears into that mix, and you’re going to have a naked girl underneath you in ten minutes flat.”

  “That’s repulsive,” I say.

  “I know it is. Now, I mean. I didn’t see it that way when I was younger.”

  I hesitate. “Can I offer a theory?”

  Sam nods.

  “You used girls to feel validated,” I suggest. “A series of stand-ins for what you ultimately wanted: your father’s love.”

  He holds my gaze. “Huh,” he says. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I blamed myself for my father leaving, and sleeping with a new girl was the only thing that made me feel worthwhile. I was always on the hunt for the next.” He closes his eyes, wincing. “I hurt quite a few people.”

  “In some ways, you were doing what was expected of you,” I say. “Being a boy.”

  He nods. “It hasn’t always been easy, being a guy.” He laughs. “I can imagine my wife’s face, if she could hear us. Two white guys bellyaching about our lot in life. That would not go over well.”

  “I hope you still don’t believe it’s your fault your father left,” I say.

  “I don’t, actually. Not anymore. All thanks to Clarissa Boyne.”

  “Was she a girlfriend?” I ask, settling back into Sam’s chair.

  “That was the plan,” Sam says. “Ithaca College, psych major, class-A tits. I signed up for a class she was taking, Abnormal Psychology, thinking it’d be the fastest way into her pants. But then I got distracted by what the professor was saying.” He’s looking past me, pensive. “Third week of class, Dr. Robert Carlisle stood at the front of the room and read a list of symptoms. ‘An inflated sense of one’s own importance. A need for excessive attention and admiration. Complete lack of empathy.’”

  “Narcissist personality disorder,” I interject.

  “That’s exactly right,” Sam says. “Narcissistic personality disorder. We read a few case studies, each one a perfect description of Theodore Statler. I started to read everything I could about it, coming to the conclusion I’d been searching for since my fourteenth birthday: my dad didn’t leave because there was something wrong with me, but because there’s something wrong with him.”

  “That sounds like a transformative moment.”

  “Very much so,” Sam says. “It sparked a serious interest in psychology while forcing me to examine who I had become as a man. I’ve been working hard on being a good guy, but the truth of the matter is, I’ve never stopped being afraid that I’m going to turn out like him.” Something is changing in his face. My god. He’s starting to cry. “Now that I’ve found Annie, I don’t ever want to lose her.”

  “You shouldn’t worry about turning out like your father,” I say, fidgeting in my chair. “You’re a good man. Smart. Generous. Brave.”

  He laughs. “Brave? I’m the biggest coward there is.”

  “Sam,” I say gently. “That’s ludicrous.”

  “No, Albert, it’s not. You want to know how brave I am?” He holds up a finger. “One: I haven’t visited my mother in months. Two: I’ve kept things from my wife.” He looks away. “I didn’t get Cal Ripken Jr. to sign my bat.”

  “What?” I say, lost.

  “I was thirteen.” Sam closes his eyes, tears spilling onto his cheeks. “My mother surprised my father and me with tickets to see Ripken play at Camden Yards. Best moment of my life, opening that envelope.” He wipes his eyes with the sleeves of the MIT sweatshirt I loaned him this morning. “I’d read that at the end of the game, Ripken would stand in a certain area and sign one hundred autographs. I couldn’t sleep for weeks, thinking what it was going to feel like to meet him.”

  I take the Kleenex box from the table and extend it to him.

  “My mom and I devised a foolproof plan,” Sam continues, pulling a tissue. “My dad and I would leave our seats at the top of the ninth. Get there in time, but not so early that we’d miss a lot of the game.” He falls silent.

  I clear my throat. “And?”

  “And then this girl shows up in the seat in front of us, and I knew right away I was fucked. ‘His weakness,’ that’s how he’d describe a pretty woman any time the two of us were together.” He swallows back more tears. “Top of the ninth rolls around, and my dad’s got his fingers hooked around her belt loop, whispering something in her ear. I couldn’t pull him away. He told me to go by myself, and I couldn’t.”

  “Why not?” I ask, gently.

  “I was afraid of what would happen if I left the two of them alone. I was afraid he’d cheat on my mom if I wasn’t there to watch him.” He starts to cry again. “And so I stayed. Missed the one chance I’d ever have to meet my hero.” He blows his nose. “I don’t know what’s worse. That my dad cheated anyway, or the sight of my mom standing in the living room window when we pulled into the driveway the next morning. ‘So?’ she asked, all excited. ‘Did you get his autograph?’”

  “What did you tell her?”

  “Nothing,” Sam says. “I just held up my bat and showed her the black scrawl of Cal Ripken’s autograph, which I drew myself in the car ten minutes before we got home.”

  “Oh, Sam,” I say. “You’re such a good man.”

  He smiles. “And you’re a good clinician.”

  “What?”

  “You have a mind for this work,” he says, blowing his nose. “I’ve never shared any of this before. It feels good to talk to you.”

  “That’s like Van Gogh telling a street painter he has talent,” I say, blushing.

  Sam laughs and then presses the heels of his hands to his eyes. “Good lord. I need a nap.”

  “Of course,” I say, standing up and returning to the cart. “You should rest.”

  “Thank you, Albert,” Sam says as I hand him the pills. “And
you know what? I’ve been thinking about something.” He hesitates. “You want to have that drink?”

  “Drink?” I ask.

  “Yeah, the one I turned down the night of the storm. I don’t know about you, but I sure could use a stiff cocktail.”

  “Sure,” I say, exhilarated. “When?”

  Sam shrugs. “I’ll have to check my calendar, but I’m pretty sure I’m free tonight. Six p.m. work?”

  “Six p.m.,” I repeat, as I watch him toss the pills into his mouth. “I’d like that very much.”

  Chapter 39

  Sam checks the clock on the table beside him—three minutes to six—and then taps the waistband of his sweatpants one more time, making sure the pills are still there. Six of them, which he’d spit out after Albert left the room over the past two days, hiding them in his pillowcase. It hasn’t been easy. The pills put him to sleep almost immediately, and given all his options, sleep consistently ranks high on the list, but it’s all been worth it for this moment.

  He closes his eyes and imagines it again: slyly dropping the pills into Albert’s drink. Two sips, and Albert’s speech will slur. Three, confusion and drowsiness will set in. By the fourth he’ll be unconscious, at which point Sam will strangle him and then, for good measure, stab him with the putty knife tucked under his thigh. His beloved four-inch putty knife, which he’s kept hidden under the mattress, carefully smoothing away every remnant of wallpaper paste, polishing it until it glows. He envisions it piercing the soft spot on Albert’s temple, again and again, watching that sad, deranged brain unspool all over whatever dumb college sweatshirt Albert will be wearing tonight.

  Sam closes his eyes and sighs. Freud was right. Aggression really is as satisfying as sex.

  The clock strikes six, and Sam hears the key in the lock.

  “Hey there, heartbreaker,” Albert says, sticking his head into the room. “You ready?”

  Sam smiles. “Sure am.”

  Albert steps inside, leaves the door open, and parks the cart near the wall. It’s set with two glasses and something hidden under a yellow dish towel. “I have a surprise for you,” Albert says, excited. He pulls the towel off the bottle with a flourish.

  “Johnnie Walker Blue.” Sam is stunned. “How did you know—”

  “That this is your go-to drink on special occasions? You said so, in the interview with the newspaper. Question number twelve.”

  “Didn’t know you saw that,” Sam says, surprised.

  “My mother instilled me with an appreciation for local journalism,” he says, turning his back to Sam. “I read the paper religiously and remember you mentioned this drink.”

  “Lucky for me,” Sam says. And he means it, too. Not only is it the world’s finest scotch, it’s also going to deal quite a blow when mixed with a gazillion milligrams of whatever the hell these pills are.

  “You sure do have expensive taste,” Albert says.

  Sam nods and keeps his eyes on the bottle in Albert’s hand.

  “May I do the honors?” Sam asks. “Nothing like the first whiff of Johnnie Walker Blue.”

  Albert hands Sam the bottle, and he pauses to stroke the smooth glass, appreciating its weight. “This was my mom’s drink,” Sam says, turning the cap and leaning in for the scent. “Kept a bottle in the cabinet. After my dad left, she poured herself a glass every year on her wedding anniversary.”

  “That’s sad.”

  “Sure is.” Sam takes the glass tumbler Albert hands him. “Most bartenders believe a pour is one and a half ounces,” he says, watching the whisky stream slowly into the glass. “But I find that amount is inadequate, especially for a first drink.”

  “Not too much,” Albert says, holding up his hands. “I’ve never had scotch before.”

  Sam pours a drink for himself and then sets the bottle on the bedside table as Albert sits in Sam’s chair. “To a return to happy hour,” Sam says, raising his glass.

  “That’s exactly what I was going to say,” Albert says, red-faced. “To happy hour.”

  Sam raises his glass to his lips and then lowers it quickly. “Wait. Stop. This isn’t right.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “The ice cube.”

  “What ice cube?”

  “For the drinks. It’s key,” Sam says. “A slight chill enhances the flavor.”

  “You know so much about everything,” Albert says. “Hang on.” He sets his glass on the bedside table and walks out of the room.

  Game time.

  Sam pulls out the square of paper towel holding the pills and gently unfolds it. Beads of sweat sprout on his forehead as he crushes two pills over Albert’s glass.

  “How many?” Albert calls from the kitchen.

  “One ice cube for each of us,” Sam says, watching the powder dissolve in the copper liquid, leaving a chalky film that rises to the top of the glass. “Medium ones.” Sam drops the last four pills in and swirls the glass, his hand trembling so badly he fears he’s going to drop it. He replaces the glass on the table and picks up his own just as Albert walks into the room, an ice cube in each palm.

  “Perfect,” Sam says, the sweat pooling on his lower back, as Albert drips a cube into his glass. “Thank you.”

  Albert sits down. “One more time,” he says. “Cheers.”

  Sam watches as Albert takes the tiniest sip. “Good lord. It tastes like lighter fluid.”

  “Whisky is an acquired taste,” Sam says. “But trust me, it’s worth it.” He lifts his glass, allowing himself one swallow. The whisky warms him immediately, and he has to hold himself back from drinking it all in one satisfying gulp. There will be plenty of time to sip whisky at home, with Annie, and he needs a clear head.

  Albert brings the glass to his lips again, barely wetting them. “Yum,” he says, grimacing. “So—” He takes a deep breath, eyes wide. “What do you want to talk about?”

  “What do you mean, what do I want to talk about?” Sam says, his gaze on Albert’s drink. “We’re two dudes having a drink at the end of the day. I want to talk about either girls or sports.”

  “Oh!” Albert laughs, blushes. “Well I don’t have much to say about either one of those things.”

  “Course you do.” Take a drink, Albert. “Who was your first crush?”

  Albert winces. “Kathleen Callahan,” he says right away. “We worked together at the 7-Eleven.” He shifts the glass to his other thigh. “She was intimidating. Girls like her never paid attention to me.”

  “What’d she look like?” Take a fucking drink, Al.

  “Brown curly hair. Eyeglasses.”

  “You two talk?” Sam asks.

  “A couple times. She let me listen to some songs on her headphones. The music she liked was loud.”

  “Metal chicks are the best,” Sam says. He takes another sip, hoping Albert will follow suit, but he just recrosses his legs.

  “And then my dad showed up to buy cigarettes.” Albert grimaces. “I hated the way he looked at her. Brought her up at the dinner table that night; told me I should ask her out. His exact words: ‘What about it, Al? You man enough to get some of that?’”

  “Your dad sounds like a serious prick,” Sam says, unable to help himself.

  “It gets worse,” Albert says. “He came back a few days later and told Kathleen I had a thing for her. Said that I’d been jerking off to her, if the state of my bedsheets meant anything.”

  “God, Al,” Sam says. “That’s awful.” Tragic really, like every story you have, so please, brother, take a drink and end this thing. “What did you do?”

  “I waited for my dad to drive away, and then I left. Never went back to the job. Everyone heard about it at school. It was mortifying.”

  Albert’s expression is pained, and Sam can’t help but feel for the guy. “I’m sorry, Albert,” he says.

  Albert shrugs. “I googled her recently. She married a Mormon.”

  “You want my professional opinion?” Sam asks. “How to make yourself feel better about
the whole thing?”

  Albert looks up, hopeful. Sam lifts his glass and points to the whisky. “A whole bunch of this stuff. It’s exactly those types of experiences this is manufactured to forget.”

  Albert laughs. “Well, then, in that case . . .” He raises his glass again. “To Kathleen Callahan, and her seven children.”

  “Go ahead,” Sam says. “A good long sip. Get the full experience.”

  Albert touches his lips to the glass and then abruptly stands up. “Who am I kidding? You shouldn’t be wasting this stuff on me.” He empties his glass into Sam’s. “Just the smell of it turns my stomach.”

  Sam feels the air leave his lungs, the rise of bile in his gut, as he stares at the poisoned contents of Albert’s glass mixing with his own.

  “Go ahead,” Albert says. “Don’t deprive yourself on my account.”

  Sam holds up the glass and takes a good look at it. Do it, he thinks. Drink the whole thing. It’s time to face the facts. He’s got no usable legs, no key to that door, and a very slim chance he’ll ever see Annie again.

  He places the glass on the bedside table. A slim chance is still better than none.

  “Funny thing,” Sam says, “but I think I’ve lost my taste for it.”

  Albert rolls his eyes. “Well I guess that’s one hundred and sixteen dollars down the drain.” He takes Sam’s glass, sets it with his on top of the cart, and then returns to Sam’s chair. “Where were we?” he says, crossing his legs and clasping one knee. “Oh right. First crush. Your turn.”

  Chapter 40

  Annie sits at the kitchen island, her chin in her hand, picturing Sam beside her.

  So let me get this straight, he says in his most professional tone. You’re aware that I hid a shitload of credit card debt from you, and I lied about visiting my mother, and yet you’re still waiting up at two o’clock in the morning, wondering if I’m coming home?

  Not only that, Annie admits. But before opening my eyes in the morning, I pretend you’re behind me, your arms wrapped around me, still the man I thought I knew. I have to say, Sam, this denial thing is pretty great. I can see why you like it so much.