28. Sam

My eyes blur with tears as I scramble to distinguish my clothes from Tilly's in the shared chaos of our closet. I hastily shove anything that might be mine into my duffel bag. Then, reaching into the top shelf, I find the old shoebox where I've hidden cash in all denominations—probably amounting to a few thousand dollars. Underneath the cash, the real prize: the passport. Penny's passport, with her joyful, hopeful face beaming up at me. She never got to fulfill her dreams of living abroad, life taking her down a different path instead, mostly because of me.

I stuff the money into my bag, then slip the passport into my pocket.

As I zip up the bag and turn to leave, I'm stopped short by Tilly in the doorway, her eyes wide with shock and confusion. "What're you doing, Sam?"

"Oh, you know, just throwing everything I own into bags for shits and giggles." I know she's not in the mood for jokes. Hell, I'm not in the mood for jokes.

"Sam," she says, her voice full of emotion. I close me eyes and let out a breath. This is Tilly. I owe her the truth.

Pushing past her, I head for the door, my voice steady even as my heart breaks. "My name's not Sam, it's Elaine Samantha Archibald Williams. Look it up." I don't dare look back; if I catch Tilly's gaze, I might crumble.

But Tilly's voice chases me down the stairs. "You're Sam to me! And I don't give a fuck what happened. You can't leave like this, Sam!" Her pleas fall on deaf ears; I can't afford to stop, not now.

Greg waits at the bottom, his face a tumult of emotions. "Sam, listen to her. I'll leave. You'll never see me again. I'll tell them I have no idea where you are, I already have. Please."

I've heard enough. Dropping my bag, I turn around, my anger shaking my very core. "Did you know it was me?" His retreat, his hands raised in a futile gesture of peace, only fuels my rage.

"Sam, I... I was wrong. Just listen to Tilly," he tries, his calm voice infuriating me further.

But I'm in his face, barely containing the urge to hit him. "You knew! You seduced me in the dance club and pretended to…" My sobs cut me off, my grief overwhelming any anger. "You never loved me. It was all to get me home!"

I don't wait for his denial, grabbing my bag and storming towards the back door.

"Sam!" Tilly's voice rings out.

The door slams behind me, a final barrier between me and the life I thought I had. Everything in the world is off kilter. Like the entire globe has suddenly tilted the wrong way. Looking down the alley, I see nothing that can help. No one that will help. For the first time in eight years, I'm alone.

The thought squeezes my chest, and I'm bent over, trying to breathe. All it would take is Tilly by my side. She could slide up to me and convince me to go back into the surf shack.

But she doesn't come, and I'm almost glad. I don't want to go back. No, scratch that. I need to leave, whether I want to or not. It's time.

There's one other person that I trust, maybe even more than Tilly. Only because he would never try to manipulate me to do what he wants, not that I fault Tilly for it, but this decision is mine, not hers.

Pulling out my phone, I click on Tommy's contact, and he answers immediately. "Hey Sammy girl. You lookin for a surf?"

"Tommy…" My voice is thick with tears.

I can almost feel his worrying come over the line. "What's wrong?"

"I need help." It's difficult to get the sentence out. The last time I uttered those words, it was to Penny on that horrible night.

"Of course, Sammy. Anything," he says.

My gaze shoots around me, trying to figure out what I should do and where I should go. "Can you drive me to Nicaragua?" I ask suddenly. It's the closest country but far enough away that I don't think Benito or Greg will be there quickly.

"Where are you?" he asks without hesitation. I'm surprised he doesn't ask what's going on, but that's part of the reason I knew I could call him.

"Leaving the Surf Shack."

He promises to be there in five minutes but stays on the phone. We don't talk as I listen to him jog down the road. And true to his word, he's beside me in flash, breathless and worried.

"Nicaragua?" he asks, his face full of more questions I know he won't ask.

So I nod, my lips still quivering from the chaos of everything. "I need to leave Costa Rica. Now."

He stands up straighter. "Okay." With concern still on his face, he tucks his hands into his pockets and looks at the surf shack door. The contemplation on his face slowly fades. "My buddy Calvin has the car. His place is on Liberia Street. Come on." With a stoic expression, he holds out his hand. I take it and feel the confidence in his touch. He won't hurt me, won't ask questions, won't beg me to stay. Tommy will help. It's what he does. We walk in silence, each step taking me further from the life I've known.

Arriving at Calvin's, we find him on the porch, a serene picture of calm that contrasts sharply with the storm inside me. The soft strumming of his guitar and the mellow tunes he hums are a stark backdrop to the turmoil of my escape. When Calvin sees us, his face brightens.

"Sir Thomas! You wanna surf?" Calvin calls out, seemingly oblivious to my trembling hands and the pallor of my skin. He's too high to notice a Tsunami, much less my distress.

"Naw man. Just came by for the Geo. You cool?" Tommy asks.

"All good, bruh. Keys are inside." Tommy gives his friend a fist bump as he passes by and opens the front door. I've never been to Calvin's place before, probably because I don't have patience for the kind of perma-fried Calvin seems to be, and Tommy knows that. Still, I try not to look too desperate as I wait with the man.

Neither of us speaks as Tommy retrieves the keys. In fact, I think Calvin has already forgotten I'm here. He is plucking away at the guitar strings, trying to find the lost chord as he sings. I resist the urge to cover my ears with my hands. Thankfully, Tommy is back in an instant, his return marked by the jingle of metal. "Thanks again, Cal!" he shouts, a semblance of normalcy in his voice that I can't fathom feeling myself right now.

"No prob, Tommy. See you outside the break," Calvin says, not lifting his head from where he is staring at the guitar.

We head to the back alley, where the car waits. When we get to the old beater, Tommy opens the door for me. I slide into the passenger seat, my body on autopilot as he hurries around and fires up the engine.

But after it's started, Tommy stares at the steering wheel. He seems to be lost in thought for a few minutes before he takes a deep breath and looks at me. I can see the begging in his eyes. He doesn't want me to leave; he doesn't want to be the one to take me away from Costa Rica and the small family I've built.

Finally, he speaks, his voice soft. "It's like five hours. Can you pick some music?"

I swallow down the hurt. Not my own this time, but Tommy's. I'm doing this even though it's killing my friends. I lean forward, hitting the stereo without a second thought, indifferent to what tunes fill the void between us.