lost [editing/rewriting]

𝚜𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚎𝚗

After wasting 4 bucks in a worthless attempt at getting Sam to like me, we sit in a quiet corner of the café, as far away from the entrance as possible. It's in the mall, and since it's weekend and cold as hell outside, fucking everyone seems to be here, and it's loud. The blasting music isn't exactly helping.

I move my armchair closer to his and take off my jacket, letting it lay on my cold thighs. He's warming his hands on the cup, arms out of the coat but it's still hanging over his shoulders.

"Can I?" I ask.

He gives me a weird look, but takes the mug by the handle and reaches it out to me. My fingertips touch his hand, making me way hotter than the cup does. Well, maybe not, I think I burnt my hands.

"Ouch," I whisper and pull my hand back.

"Idiot."

You know those times when you sit with someone you like and you come up with the perfect flirting?

Well, maybe not perfect, but you come up with something. Like, I could ask Sam right now if he could warm my hands up instead. Sure, he'd think I'm a weirdo, but... I could. Just somehow indicate I like him without sounding jealous as hell, because he didn't seem to like that very much.

"Doesn't that much caffeine fuck with you?" I ask.

"Says the drug addict." He takes a tiny sip. "You build a tolerance. I'm sure you have too."

"My bank account wishes I hadn't."

Sam holds the cup over our connected armrests. "I can pay, if it's that much of a struggle with money."

"No," I say before he's even finished the sentence. "No, it's fine. My drug dealer told me to pay him whenever, so..."

Sam raises a brow.

"I am going to pay him, I just need to get paid first," I say. "I thought you were more... anti-drugs. You know, wouldn't want a drug dealer to get money for selling illegally?"

"I don't know what I am, but I don't want an asshole friend who doesn't keep promises and definitely not someone who steals a few years ago, pisses me off, and then does it again."

Is he still mad? I guess I don't blame him, but god, it's becoming frustrating. Which is entirely my fault, because I'm going with Leah's version of the story, the one I probably would've told anyway to protect Kieran, but...

I don't know. It's starting to feel like he's judging my entire character after that and...

Well, he wouldn't be wrong. I'm not a good person, and I especially wasn't in my late teens. When I still had a car, I probably drove under the influence of something more times than I drove sober. I have been arrested and I have taken up spaces and resources in the hospital over stupid decisions. I've stood by and watched people suffer the consequences of overdoses because I was too scared of going to the hospital (no one died because of that, thankfully, and I was only 16, hanging out with adults, so I guess it wasn't really my responsibility, but still). I kind of left my brother to die.

I scratch my neck until it hurts, realising I've been staring blankly out over the dark café for an awkward amount of time now. Still, I don't have any words, and I'm realising too late that taking a lower dose of Xanax and going this long without weed maybe wasn't the brightest idea.

"But you're not there right now," Sam says, "and I hope you don't reach that point because I will ditch you even if I don't want to."

He doesn't... he doesn't want what now?

I don't know why I'm so surprised, hearing him say that. It only takes a few seconds for my brain to consider if he's just saying that to be nice.

Apparently, coughing saves you from conversations, because I start coughing, and Sam changes the subject. "Are you sick too or are you smoking too much?"

"You're sick?" I say, mostly trying to steer the subject away from the health risks of weed, but in hindsight, that makes for a good, discreet you look good.

"I have a bad immune system. A constant cold six months a year" He takes another sip, and then two more, like he's actually disgusted by it, and honestly? I wouldn't be surprised if he only drank it for the caffeine, the man looks permanently sleep-deprived, almost worse than me. "So it's the latter."

"I don't think so, I mean, it's just weed."

"Weed can still fuck with your lungs, among other things. Don't pretend it won't." His eyes turn to his coffee, and mine do the same. "It's a problem, even if others will tell you it isn't."

I swallow. "I know." I force a smile. "But let's not discuss that now."

"What should we discuss, then?"

"We could, you know, discuss what we're going to discuss?"

"You suck at being funny."

"You're smiling."

"Because you're stupid."

"But you're still smiling." 

"At your expense, not because your funny." Sam drinks the last of the coffee and puts the cup on the table. 

"As long as you're smiling." 

There's this short freeze when Sam leans back in the chair again, and I feel the same freeze mentally. What the fuck am I saying? I mean, yeah, that could be friendly, but I'm not that open with people I've known for less than a few years. And Sam's smart, so maybe he figured out that the Emmett thing was partially jealousy, and maybe he figures out that that wasn't said platonically, and maybe he fucking hates me for that, and—

"Well, thank you for that," he says, pulling his coat around him as a blanket. 

If I were just a tiny bit stupider, I'd have asked him if he wanted some warmth. Thankfully, if I'm a 100 in stupid, asking him if he wants warmth is a thing a 101 says, so I'm not there. 

"And thank you for the coffee," he says.

"Well, I needed to coerce you somehow." I pause. "That's the word, right?" 

"Yes." He's smiling bigger now. Who knew a lack of vocabulary could make people smile? "I would've accepted if you annoyed me a bit more, though." 

"Really?" 

"Don't try to use that some other time." 

"Swear I won't, Sammie-boy." 

He rolls his eyes and sighs. "God, I hate you."