Chapter 2 - The Chemistry of a Secret
Three weeks slipped by in a blur of cast-iron skillets, early morning wholesale runs, and unexpected afternoon conversations under the cottonwood trees behind the Arroyo Civic Hall.
His name was Samuel, or "Sam," as he told me during our second encounter when I caught him red-handed eating a second helping of my green chile stew without paying.
"You're a menace to my profit margins, Sam," I told him one Tuesday afternoon, sitting on an overturned paint bucket while he leaned against the scaffolding rails, a cold bottle of iced tea in his hand.
"I'll pay double today," he offered, his dark eyes crinkling at the corners.
"With what money? You spend all your time hauling timber and pretending to check blueprints. I'm starting to think you're just a glorified gopher who talks too smoothly."
Sam laughed, a genuine, unguarded sound that made my chest tighten in a way it hadn't in years. "Let's just say my employer has deep pockets and a lot of patience."
"Must be nice. My employer is a cranky thirty-six-year-old woman who drives a van that sounds like a dying bird."
"Gull has character," Sam defended smoothly.
"Gull is a lawsuit waiting to happen."
We talked about everything, and yet, looking back, we talked about nothing that mattered. He asked about my cooking, my recipes, the way I found solace in the precise measurements of baking after my brief, failed stint trying to make it as a touring singer-songwriter in my twenties. I told him about the acoustic guitar gathering dust in my closet—a confession I usually reserved for people I trusted implicitly.
Sam listened. Really listened. When I spoke, he didn't check his watch, and he didn't offer toxic positivity or unsolicited advice. He just looked at me as if every word I uttered was the most fascinating thing he had ever heard.
And little by little, the walls I had spent five years building around my heart began to crumble.
It happened on a Friday evening, four nights before the news broadcast that would shatter my comfortable little world. We had met up after my catering route finished, walking along a quiet, adobe-walled path near Canyon Road as the desert sun bled into shades of violet and burnt orange.
The air was cool, carrying the sharp scent of piñon smoke from nearby chimneys.
Sam had stopped walking, turning to face me under the sprawling branches of an ancient cottonwood tree. The shadows played across the sharp angles of his jawline, and for a second, I noticed the way his tailored wool jacket—which he had suddenly started wearing during our evening meetups, claiming a friend had lent it to him—fit his broad shoulders with terrifying perfection.
"Megan," he said softly, his voice dropping into a register that made my breath hitch.
"What?" I whispered.
"I think I’m falling in love with you."
The words hung in the crisp night air, suspended between us like magic. My heart hammered against my ribs, a wild, terrified bird of its own. I reached out, my fingers trembling slightly as I touched his cheek, tracing the slight stubble along his jaw.
"I think I already did," I replied, my voice breaking on the admission.
Sam pulled me against his chest, wrapping his strong arms around me and burying his face in my hair. He held me so tightly it felt like an anchor in a stormy sea. But as I closed my eyes and breathed in the scent of cedar and expensive cologne, a tiny, nagging voice at the back of my mind whispered: You don't even know his last name.
May you like
I pushed the thought away, choosing to believe in the warmth of his embrace.
Four days later, that belief blew up on my kitchen tile.
