Eat Your Heart Out by Katie Boland Page A

sit on the curb, but Sam stops her, pulling her up gently, under her arms.
    â€œYou’re ridiculous,” he says.
    She takes a deep breath. “I think icicles are growing inside me,” she says.
    â€œTake my coat.”
    â€œBut then you’ll be cold.”
    â€œNot for long, I’m almost done,” says Sam, holding his cigarette to show her.
    He takes off his big brown coat and places it on her shoulders gently. He doesn’t want to hurt her. For some reason, he tells himself to be careful.
    â€œOh my God, thank you.”
    Grace shivers. Sam puts his arm around her, to keep her warmer. He looks down at her, drowning in his coat.
    â€œBetter?” he asks.
    â€œYes, better. Your arm feels nice,” she whispers.
    â€œThanks.”
    He never wants to move it.
    â€œSam?”
    â€œYes?”
    â€œDo you think I’m brave?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œGood. I think you’re brave too.”
    â€œI want to be brave,” he says again.
    They stand, so close together, for a few moments. Grace isn’t really present, but for Sam only this moment exists. He knows it will end soon.
    He puts his cigarette out.
    â€œC’mon, it’s fucking cold. Let’s go in,” he says.
    â€œI think we should take more shots,” says Grace.
    â€œAre you sure?”
    â€œOf course I’m sure, you puss.” She doesn’t need another drink. He knows he should stop her, but he doesn’t want to.
    â€œTwo tequila,” says Sam.
    â€œFour! I’ll buy,” she says, leaning over the bar.
    â€œOkay, four,” he says, looking at her softness. He lets himself look for longer than he would usually.
    â€œI think I should break up with Luke.”
    â€œYeah?” he says, not letting anything float to the surface.
    â€œYeah, I hate him.”
    The bartender slams the shots in front of them. Grace takes a twenty out of her bra and puts it on the bar.
    â€œIf you hate him, then you should,” says Sam.
    Grace slides two shots in front of Sam, takes the other two. She brings one up near her face, making a toast.
    â€œTo breakups.”
    â€œCheers.”
    They take the shots, in rapid succession, without breathing, without blinking.
    â€œMotherfucker,” says Grace.
    Grace winces. This surprises Sam. She never lets herself wince when people are watching.
    â€œNow who’s a tough guy, huh?” he asks.
    Sam doesn’t wince. The shots don’t even burn going down. They taste like water.
    â€œSam! I love this song!”
    â€œMe too.”
    â€œLet’s dance, Sam!”
    â€œI don’t dance.”
    â€œOh, come on, it’s me, and you’re drunk, and nobody’s here.”
    Sam looks around the bar. It’s empty. When did everyone leave?
    â€œPlease, Sam? I love this song.”
    When she’s standing there she looks so beautiful. Her hair has fallen, and she looks drunk, and happy, and finally relaxed enough to be herself. Sam is overcome with a furious desire to touch her, to hold her, to be against her. He wishes he could tell her how he feels. But words don’t ever fit how he feels for her. He thinks then that maybe some things are meant only to be felt, forever unspoken and misunderstood, lonesome and unfair.
    Then he looks at her again. He can’t stop himself.
    He grabs her and pulls her close. She falls into him. Her hands find his shoulders, and he holds her waist. They move with an intimacy usually saved for when they are alone. Grace rests her head on Sam.
    He thinks a new Sam is born when he holds her. The brave Sam. The Sam he wants to be. The man who doesn’t breathe in him alone. They continue to sway, now cheek to cheek.
    She feels so soft.
    When the song ends, Sam doesn’t let go of her. They stay, folded together, standing in the bar.
    She speaks.
    â€œSam, I think I need to sit down. Can we sit down?”
    â€œYeah, let’s sit down,” he