Re: Motel 77: Cris & Sam
"It's always about her to her, baby. I don't think you or me can change that, no matter what we say, nice or not. And, in that vein, I'll tell you—my hand, ain't about you either. I did it, not 'causea you. I'm just—I'm tryin' to work on it." So, he wasn't real articulate, but he tried. He didn't feel like he was making much headway, but he had to say something, seeing as the silence was affirmation in Sam's coke-cracked mind. It was slipping through his fingers, alla it, and Cris knew he was saying the wrong stuff. He really, really wanted to help, but he couldn't help but feel he was digging them deeper, like maybe he'd done better just writing to Sam, than trying to actually talk, and he couldn't parse why that was. He knew he couldn't change her mind 'bout stuff, but he could try and show her it wasn't all just one perspective. But, she was sick, and it made it hard to wrest the blame from her hands when she held it so tight, no matter how calm his voice was.—In the end, he just resolved to be there if she needed or wanted him. He'd say stuff, 'cause he couldn't not, but he had to just let being there be enough or he'd go into overdrive, trying to hold on tighter, he knew it, and that wouldn't help eithera them. "You don't gotta be the one to make stuff better, mami. Whatever happens, 'tween other people, it's not your fault. Neil and Lou will work it out. Lou's too invested in his brother not to, huh?"
The lights in the room caromed in black eyes brown, and Cris looked down at Sam when she said she hit Meredith, that Meredith said Sam wanted to fuck Neil, and Sam said Meredith wanted to fuck him, and his stomach turned. Tongue against the backsa his teeth in seal-shine pink, and he blinked without breathing. He knew it wasn't just the redhead calling him an asshole that had Sam swinging. It was just icing on a large cakea shit.—And it was good he didn't know Sam compared her worry 'bout Neil with her worry for Cris, 'cause he couldn't handle that now. He couldn't deal with being stood next to the guy, not when Sam still didn't know if she loved the gringo and when she couldn't say the words back at Cris. He was hanging on by a thread 'cause he had to, and it was good she didn't snip him free with words like that just then.
In the bed, he laid, until he remembered, like some fissure of mind-reading, though it was really just him remembering Sam specifically asking for meds, and he was ready to get up to get them when Sam rolled over and touched his jaw like he was nothing more than some statue, marble, and nothing living, like he was something drowned in her lighthouse, and she was sorry about that, even if it was just how it was. He curled his own warm fingers over hers.
"Does that make me a selfish cunt then? 'Cause you can't deal with my shit too, but me, I don't wanna go anywhere. I'll kill myself trying, and I—" Cris moved Sam's touch to his lips, both their hands bruised, and he breathed hot onto them. "You can help. You do help." He didn't ask if he helped her. "Mami, I always been messed up, huh? The Meredith thing, that's not on you. But you help. Like you'da stayed in that motel if I hadn't come, I'da stayed in that bar and I'da done somethin' bad if you hadn't come. Don't you see that? Isn't that somethin'? Just 'cause I'm not healed, like some guy Jesus laid hands on or somethin'—I mean, I can try to help you, but the baggage you got, I can't heal it over night, no matter how many times I kiss you or say how I feel, yeah?—I dunno why you think you gotta do it for me and if you don't, you're bad for me, you've failed. Same with Neil and Lou and everybody. You don't make my shit worse. Maybe I'm s'posed to be selfless like you are and tell you to scram for your own good, but I'm not that guy. I don't want that. That's—that's the last thing I want."