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You could say Sam's had a helluva week. Reunited with Nate, discovered Libertalia, witnessed the sinking of Avery's ship with all the fabled treasure, and he even got to witness Rafe eating shit and dying. To say that those were some high stress situations would be somewhat of an understatement, but Sam would rather be trapped on a burning pirate ship with a huge plank of wood weighing his body down any day than go through with what he's about to do.
It all started simple enough, two years ago, Rafe busted him out of prison with a big you owe me attached to his freedom. For two years, Sam was leading Rafe in circles until he figured out a way to find and contact Nate. From there it was easy. Or so Sam thought it would be. Time and logic both proved that Nate had indeed moved on, swallowing down his emotions and pretending as if Sam had never even existed. He even got married. Sam had returned, and he had felt out of place immediately. Lying to Nate was wrong, absolutely, but what's a big brother who was robbed of his life for fifteen years to do?
But Sam got lost in all the glitz of the big Drake reunion that he forgot that at the end of every chase, of every treasure collected, there's a big gaping hole. One that can't be filled by gold, or any treasure, really. On the docks of King's Bay he was forced to confront that emptiness. Nate and Elena had packed up and they were heading home, leaving Sam and Sully on the docks.
Home. That's such a foreign word to Sam. For a while home was the orphanage, home was wherever he could put his head down for the night, and then home was.. is? Does Sam still have a home? Does anyone- does she miss him?
Sam's cigarette had burned down to the filter, the tingling heat from his cigarette a welcome sensation. He'd gotten so lost in finding Avery that he didn't even think about the after. Prison will really kill your calendar planning skills. But he was at a loss. Sully had offered him a job and he'd said no. Not yet, anyway. Were his exact words, verbatim. He said he needed to get back to someone and when Sully asked who, Sam couldn't bring himself to even be snide to the older man.
He didn't know if he wanted to hug or throttle Victor when he'd uttered her name to him and Sully had immediately clapped his hands and said, "I know her! Saw her once in Cairo, she was on a dig and I was, well... Let's just say she got me out of a tough spot with the law."
There were about hundreds of different emotions and sensations going through Sam's mind at that moment. Relief, joy, anger, sadness, melancholy, nausea. Questions were bubbling in his mind. Was she married? Did she even remember him? Would she want to see him if she knew he was alive and well?
What followed was more like an out of body experience for Sam. Thirteen years of imprisonment will halt a man's knowledge of the world wide web, that's for sure. The fact that Sully had to help him with technology was embarrassing, the fact that it was pertaining to finding a way to contact someone who Sam had kept so close to his heart that he never imagined that she could exist in someone else's let alone Sully's world was infuriating. But Victor had filled in a few gaps, eased a few anxieties. No, she wasn't married. Yes, she had a new apartment, same city though. And yes, she did go to Cairo, many, many times.
It's how Sam ended up here. Fists clenched, palms clammy. Thinking about how he'd tussle with Rafe, or moreso lay helplessly on a burning ship, any day of the week over this. He'd put so much into this, if, when, he knocks on her door and it gets slammed in his face, what's he gonna do? Sam was never really good at handling rejection. Any emotion that felt too big had to be clamped down, shut away. But he has to do it, doesn't he? It feels unfair to himself not to. Closure and whatnot.
He knocks on the door, gently. Once, twice. A soft third time, and still no answer. His face lifted towards the ceiling in silent prayer. Maybe she's not home, he can count his losses and join Victor on his next adventure. Drown himself in cigars and cheap booze. Buy himself a condo in the Caribbean. Become a surf instructor or whatever.
Sam's spiralling thoughts are interrupted by a giant thud behind the door. The sound of footsteps approaching and he swears his heart just fell into his ass.
"Sorry, sorry!" The sound of her voice, the locks unlatching. Sam's about to barf, he's sure of it. "How can I be of help.." Her voice trails off.
Sam's nausea is at an all time high. He wants to open his mouth, desperately to say something but he's afraid the bile will spill out instead. She's looking at him like he's a ghost and it breaks his heart. He wants to slap himself silly for ever putting her in this situation. It feels like hours before he sees her figure move from the door and envelops him in her warmth by wrapping her arms around his middle. He's hesitant to hug her, afraid she's gonna slip past his fingers the moment he does. But when he wraps his own arms around her, he feels safe. Feels warm.
Time moves at an odd pace, he can't quite recall how long the hug lasted, or when she dragged him into her apartment. Can't even say when she sat him down at the table in the kitchen, and started brewing coffee. He sat in silence. Taking in her new home. There was no dining room, no grand sitting room. It was just like their last apartment, but more spacious. The kitchen and living room were a joined space, the kitchen had one table and two chairs. The living room walls were covered in art and maps, two lounge chairs on either side of a modest couch. The coffee table was littered with books, and history magazines. Down the hallway, to the left was a big glass door. Past that door you could see wall to ceiling bookshelves, a genuine in-home library.
But what intrigued Sam the most was the entryway. The small end table by the door. Littered with framed pictures of landscapes, places, people. Not just any people, there were pictures of her and Sam on there as well. Surrounded by little artifacts she'd found on her trips, it was a shrine almost. As if every trinket was for him, and he just didn't know it.
She placed a steaming cup of coffee in front of him. Sat down opposite, elbow on the table, her palm cradling her cheek.
Sam speaks first. "I'm sorry."
"For what?"
He shrugs. He can't come up with a reasoning. It's not like he planned to almost die in Panama, get locked up for thirteen years and then get two years of pseudo-freedom under Rafe's thumb. "Guess I'm just sorry for leaving." He toys with the spoon in his cup, swirling it around. "I didn't mean to disappear, y'know. I'm no Houdini."
"Did you find it, at least?" Her question takes him aback. "The treasure, I mean. Fifteen years is a long time to be chasing some dead guy's tail."
"Yeah, we did. I'm- I'm sorry, are you not upset with me, like at all?"
She scoffs, places both her hands on the table and looks at him. But there's no anger in her gaze. "'Course I'm upset. You died. For fifteen years, I thought you were worm food. I thought that weirdo rich kid cut his losses with you and Nate and left you for dead. I had to go digging to find anything on the how and why. And then you know, our mutual friend, Victor and his big mouth. Telling me about the Drake brothers and what a loss it was. He talked about you and I had to pretend like I had no clue who you were."
Sam wants to open his mouth, interject, apologize, but she cuts him off. "And you know, I tried. I tried so hard to just let go but I had so, so much love for you and I had nowhere to put it. And you're sat here, in front of me, and you're apologizing and it's not even you I'm mad at. But I had no one to talk to about you for fifteen years and now I'm just." She sighs, rubbing her nose bridge between her fingers.
He outstretches his hand towards her. Palm engulfing hers. "I know. I mean, not, really. Not the part where y'know, I died. But the love part, the grieving alone."
"You're a real wordsmith, Sam. You sure you didn't think of a new career path in the clink? Publish a few poetry books?" There's a smile on her lips, and Sam's grateful. Grateful that he's the reason for it, grateful that he's witnessing it even.
But it feels short lived. This moment, this conversation. Sam feels like he’s on borrowed time. Like any second she’s going to clap her hands together and tell him to get the fuck out, get a move on. So he’s sitting there, at the kitchen table, holding his breath.
She turns her palm in his hand upwards, holding it. “We’re really bad at this. I mean we were bad at it in our twenties but now,” she lets out a low whistle “we’re fucking terrible.”
“If it’s any consolation, I would’ve done things differently had I known.”
Sam’s words hang in the air, and she doesn’t respond. A pensive look on her face. He casts his eyes down at the table, staring aimlessly at the wood. He hears the scrape of her chair against the kitchen tiles, hears her footsteps. She approaches his side of the table slowly, arms outstretched as she grasps his cheeks in between her hands and angles his face towards her.
“I forgive you.” It’s a soft whisper. In a way, Sam knows she’s saying it because she knows it’s what he wants to hear, what he needs to hear. But he fears at the end of it hangs a farewell. He wraps his arms around her waist, trying to make this moment last forever. Waiting for when the rug is pulled out from under him.
But the horrible pang of rejection never comes. Instead, as softly as she forgave him she whispers into the crown of his head, “I’m glad you’re home.”
And Sam is too.