Wildflowers (9 page)

I’m past halfhearted gestures and I’m past denial. I’m embracing what I’ve got—even if all I’ve got is a chance.

A chance is all any of us have, and I’m so fucking thankful I have it.

TWO WEEKS
pass. Sam grows stronger. Strong enough to take short walks. We go outside and walk around the weedy hospital garden. There are no wildflowers here, but there is sky and sunshine and the scent of summer drifting by. We stay out as long as we can. Sam likes being outside. He watches the birds.

At half past two this afternoon, he’s seeing the consultant. We sit on the garden’s only bench, our backs warmed by the summer sun, our hands gripped together too tightly as we watch the clock on my phone tick away the minutes like it’s the countdown to a bomb exploding. No one else is outside in the garden.

At twenty-five past two, Sam lets go of my hand and stands up.

He brushes away a swooping lock of black hair that has fallen in front of his eyes, then signs,
You sure you want to come? What if they tell me I have a month to live or something?

Sometimes Sam seems made of opposing forces—one part of him scared to die, another scared to live. But then, aren’t we all sometimes?

“Whatever happens, we’ll deal with it together, okay?” I hold out my hand for him to pull me up. “Come on, let’s go.”

AN HOUR
later we’re packing his meagre belongings into a holdall I bought from a nearby charity shop, and waiting for the papers to release him—along with a prescription for the drugs he may have to take for the rest of his life.

My relief at him being allowed to leave the hospital eclipses everything. I hope Sam feels it too.

The consultant didn’t talk about timescales, only that Sam is on a waiting list for a transplant and he needs to come to the hospital for dialysis three times a week. She asked where Sam would be living, and I told her he would be coming home with me, to my parents’. Just for a while. Just until I find somewhere for us to call our home. Before we left she filled out some papers to transfer his care to a nearer hospital, and that was it.

I sit down on the bed, watching as Sam struggles to pull a skinny jumper on over his T-shirt.

“I’m going to buy you a field by the sea,” I say.

Sam tugs the jumper over his head and turns to look at me, startled. A few weeks ago, I wouldn’t have believed it myself, but now I understand that anything really is possible; you’ve got to push past your belief, reach beyond it into the scary unknown, and see what’s really there.

Perhaps he can see how much I’ve changed.

The commune was by the sea
, he signs eventually.

He sits down on the bed beside me and stares at his hands. There are times when I think he’s going to tell me more of what happened, more about his mother, more about Iran and the soldiers, but I also realize it’s something he finds hard to talk about. And if he never tells me anything more, it doesn’t change anything. Some stories are never meant to be retold.

“Would you want to go back there, to the commune?” I ask. Because we could, I think. Perhaps Sam could visit the place his mother was buried. We could go there and both lay some painful ghosts to rest. I’m not afraid anymore. I would go anywhere with him.

Sam shakes his head.
No
, he signs with a small smile.
A field is just a field. The sea is just the sea.

Unsure what he means, I pull his hand into my lap and squeeze it. “Want to say good-bye to the hospital garden?” I ask, more than ready to get out of this room, to move on, to keep telling our story with Sam’s hand in mine.

He nods. “I’m ready to go,” he mouths.

THERE IS
a path that leads down toward the sea through a field of wildflowers swaying gently in the breeze. The sun is shining, and the sky is the deep turquoise of the water.

I find the perfect spot on the ridge of the hill to sit and try to read the little book I carry everywhere—its cover ripped and torn, the gold writing faded. I need a piece of Sam with me even when he’s not, imagining his smile when I get a word right he’s taught me, or his good-natured quiet laugh when I get it horribly wrong.

I work part-time at a bookstore in the town where I grew up, and spend the rest of my time volunteering at a nearby animal sanctuary with Sam. Working with him—watching him care for sick and injured creatures, and seeing him gain confidence and shine when he helps the other volunteers makes me so incredibly grateful to have him in my life. He’s the kindest person I’ve ever known, and he makes me want to be a better person for him—he makes me want to be the person he deserves. Occasionally, when Sam goes into the hospital for dialysis, I’ll hire a car and go looking for our field.

Today I think I’ve found it.

I don’t quite know how. I got lost driving down snaky country lanes, took a few wrong turnings down narrow and narrower roads, until I saw the sea suddenly expanding in front of me as though I’d arrived at the end of the world. And here I am.

There are boats out in the bay—tiny specks that glint and gleam in the whiteness of the September sun, alone and unsteady on the waves and yet completely free.

Looking around, I take a few pictures on my phone. I try to send them to Sam, but there’s no phone signal out here so far from anywhere. Instead I lie back among a cluster of bloodred flowers and watch the clouds drift by. I don’t stay long.

It starts to rain on the long drive back to my parents’ house, and I arrive late and far more on edge than I’d like to be. Even my elation at finding our field has dampened down.

So I found a field. I don’t know who it belongs to or if it belongs to anyone, and even if I do find out, then what?

The light is still on in the living room. I know Sam will have waited up. All I want to do is crawl inside, fall into his arms, and let him quietly drag me up to bed, to sleep.

But there doesn’t seem to be anyone around when I open the door, and the big old house is whispery quiet. I put my coat on its hook and take off my shoes. Maybe the dialysis took a lot out of Sam today and he has already gone to bed. I try not to feel disappointed.

When I look up, I’m startled half to death by the figure on the stairs. Neat, shorn black hair, hesitant smile, and the most heart-stopping, kohl-rimmed, Cleopatra eyes.

Your mum took me to the hairdressers
, Sam signs, walking hesitantly toward me.
Do you like it?

Mutely, I nod.

We have been living here a month. Sam still sleeps a lot, but he’s so much stronger than he was. And in moments like this, he glows, shining as though a light burns brightly inside him.

Too different?
he asks, standing in front of me, biting his lip.

I know he feels unsure of my reaction, but I can’t seem to open my mouth to form a coherent sentence. My knees feel weak. “No,” I somehow force out. I can’t take my eyes off him. “How was it at the hospital today?” I pause. “You look beautiful.” The words fall out of my mouth. I think I might be blushing.

Sam smiles, blinking slowly—purposefully slowly.

Fuck
, that eyeliner.

I take his hands—his fingers are cold. His fingers are always cold, his feet too. I love bringing them to my lips and warming them.

For you
, he signs.
I thought you might like it.

That is such an understatement.

He drops his head to my shoulder. His breath is so warm, I feel it even through my shirt. In a state of wonderment, I trace the newly exposed skin of his neck—all those fine bones I could swallow whole.

“That eyeliner makes my brain stop working,” I murmur. “Are my parents here?”

He looks up.
They’ve gone to dinner. They’ll be back late
, he signs.
Take me to bed.

Squeezing my eyes shut, I pull him back into my arms, holding him close.

“I found our field,” I whisper, my lips pressed against his ear. I know I shouldn’t say things like that before I even know there’s a possibility, but even if there isn’t, I still want to take him there. It’s still perfect. “I found the place we can lay on our backs among the grasses, the poppies swaying, the sun shining, where I can sing stupid songs for you at the top of my voice to the deep turquoise sky. Just like I said all those weeks ago.”

I don’t even realize I’m crying until Sam steps back, rubs the pad of his thumb across the rough stubble of my cheek, and peers at me worriedly. His beautiful eyes make him look ethereal and far, far too perfect to be standing here with me in this room.

Why are you sad?
he signs.

“I’m sorry,” I say. I try to smile. “I think I’m happy.”

It’s true, but it’s painful too. So painful it shocks me. Perhaps all true happiness is bittersweet. Or perhaps I’m just scared this isn’t real. That after everything I’ve put him through, I don’t deserve it.

Sam takes my hand and tugs gently until I follow him. He leads me up the stairs and across the landing to our room. The door clicks softly shut behind us.

The room is neat and clean and so very warm, the covers pulled back invitingly on the large wooden bed. Sam pushes me against the door, indicates that I stay there.

Watch me undress
, he signs.

He’s become bold these past few weeks. Everything he does, he does to please me, and it scares me how much I want to please him too.

Shyly he pulls his T-shirt off over his head. Stretching his arms up and arching his back, he flings the T-shirt in my direction, watching for my smile. I pick it up off the carpet, bring it to my face, and closing my eyes, I inhale his warm scent.

Sam has never been certain of his own beauty, but he knows I like shy, he knows I like playful.

One day perhaps he’ll believe that he turns me on more than anyone I’ll ever meet.

He turns around and pushes his trousers down and steps out of them. He never wears underwear. I drink in the defined ridges of his spine, the firm roundness of buttocks. Turning his head, he looks at me coyly from over his shoulder, and I pounce on him, pinning him to the bed facedown and feeling him laugh in silent delight beneath me.

Playing is what he loves best too.

All that newly visible skin around his face and neck…. I just can’t stop touching it, looking at it, falling in love with the difference it has made. I can see his ears; I’ve never been able to see his ears before. I whisper wordlessly into them. My fingers no longer tangle in his hair; they fall through it again and again. I press my mouth against the silky softness, smell coconut, and suck the strands into my mouth as Sam lifts his hips and ruts against the bed.

Struggling out of my shirt and trousers, I keep as much contact with him as possible. We roll, stretching out, a tangle of limbs, skin on skin, heaven.

My mouth is on his skin—there’s not an inch of him I leave unexplored. He tastes like secrets. His warm body melts trustingly against mine.

He shoves a tube of lubricant roughly into my palm, making me laugh at how insistent he can be.

“Fuck me,” he mouths, spreading his legs.

I let the tip of my cock rub against his hole and feel his whole body shake. Anticipation drives him crazy. He holds his buttocks apart and bites the bedsheets. I close my eyes and think about the rain hammering against the window, about the moon and the stars, but it doesn’t work. I just want to press inside him. I just want to come.

“Calm down, it’s okay,” I whisper, my palm flat on his back as though he is the only one losing it, and Sam glowers at me through slitted eyes.

I stretch him gently with my fingers and he squirms restlessly, lifting his hips and dragging his cock against the sheets. I couldn’t be any more turned on.

I flip him over and, leaning down, I press my lips against his as the heat of him envelops me. He pulls me down on top of him and I feel so connected, so much a part of him, that I never want anything else.

For a moment neither of us breathe. Neither of us move.

Sam turns his head so we can see each other and mouths suddenly, “This.”

I nod.
Yes.
This.

“You are my field, my sky, my flowers,” he carries on silently. “Being with you is everything. I don’t need more.”

I pull him close—he’s right. I’ve been holding on to something, too afraid to let it go.

Sam is not going to die in a field. Our journey is not going to end there.

We are the field of wildflowers, we are the sky, we are the sea, we are this moment, and this moment is ours. And it always will be.

If we don’t write our own story, the words will pull us under.

I rock my hips, pull out and plunge into him, over and over. We can’t even kiss; we just breathe each other’s air in short, sharp gasps.

We are now. We are this.

“More,” he mouths, shaking.

“More,” I echo back.

I know he’s close. Those beautiful dark eyes lock onto mine, and I want to close my eyes but I won’t. It’s like a promise; it’s like I want him to see me seeing him, the both of us reflecting in each other on and on until we are nothing more than a moment of pure intensity, shattered and shuddering and… gone.