Finding a Voice

Chapter 29: Without Love

Rachel rapped sharply on the door of Sam's motel room, her knock sounding as strong and rejuvenated as she felt. She was more steady and sure of herself than she had ever been before.

Ever since she and Finn broke up, Rachel had had one thing on her mind: the future. And surprisingly enough, it wasn't her future with Sam that she obsessed herself with. Maybe it was because there was a tacit certainty in that – that he was who she was meant to be with, and no matter how much it made her feel like a schoolgirl to say so, it never dwindled in its truthfulness – or perhaps because her newfound freedom had brought new worries into the light.

Once upon a time, Rachel had spent every waking hour concerned with Finn; whether her inclinations were positive or negative, regarding her quiet fear of him or the painful yet all-consuming nature of their romance, he was always in the vanguard of her mind.

Now, in retrospect, their relationship just seemed like a device: almost some kind of sick, twisted acting strategy, carefully designed to keep her in character at all times. When Rachel could think of nothing but Finn, she was stuck in the persona of the person she had become with him: the Fake Rachel who had the same unrelenting ambition and Broadway dreams as her mother, who was actually worth that mother's attention. It was a role she was comfortable with, and Finn was a person she had become strangely soothed by. To be frank, her feelings for Sam were so terrifying that she'd seen no solution but to avoid him, to deny them, and to marry Finn, forcing her to bury any feelings she'd ever had for another man.

Rachel wasn't scared of Sam anymore. She felt enlightened. Rather, what terrified her was where her life was headed without her marriage, without the cushion of Fake Rachel's own desires to fall back on.

The love she felt for Sam wasn't the same kind of love she'd coerced herself into feeling for Finn. With Finn, she was afraid not to think about him all the time, afraid to come to the right conclusion: that without the superficial façade floating on the surface of her thoughts, the truth would be revealed, and she would know in her heart that she didn't love him, that she wasn't Fake Rachel, and that Shelby Corcoran was never going to give her a chance, whether she went into musical theatre or journalism.

But with Sam, it was a quiet love, one that wasn't tumultuous or complicated. She didn't have to make it the focus of her life to know that he was the light of it, that he made her happy, and that none of that was ever going to change. With Sam, she didn't need the constant thought of him to comfort her, to reassure her that she still felt the same as she did yesterday and that she would still feel the same tomorrow: she just knew. And she couldn't explain how she knew, or why she loved him so, but simply understanding that the feeling would never die was enough for her. Sam was enough for her.

Without the certainty of their relationship to worry her, a psychological phenomenon had ignited itself in Rachel's brain. Suddenly, she felt the need to find a new worry to replace the old one: a placebo that was just as obsessive as her love for Finn had once been. And that worry started with a big ol' capital "C": College.

Rachel once expected to live in New York City with her mom, who had once been working there as an actress and later, in the schools. She'd looked at schools like NYU, NYADA, and Julliard, pronouncing that anything lesser was condemned as "not good enough for her." Her Daddies never questioned it.

Fake Rachel had an ego. But Real Rachel was much more humble. She was completely different. And that was why she had to start all over. Her previous college application essay simply wouldn't do.

She already had an idea in mind: to replace her old essay with the exposé she was writing about Sam. After all, the best way to share her passion with the world was to write about the one person she loved just as much as the act of writing itself. But first, she had to pick a new college – a new dream. That dream was Northwestern University in Chicago.

And that was why she came here today: she had a new dream. Now she just needed someone to share it with. More than anything, she wanted that person to be Sam.

Her greatest fear was being met with disapproval. The look in his eye when he found out she was about to marry a man she didn't love was the most terrifying thing she'd ever seen. But she knew Sam, and she knew that he liked to reciprocate the favors that were done for him: if she could accept him for who he was, maybe, just maybe, he could accept her.

She clutched her notebook in her arms and waited.

To be honest, Sam had been sitting in a fold-up chair behind the door, waiting for her to come a-calling. He knew her so well that he'd had no doubt in his heart that she would. Waiting had been torture, but now that she was here, pretending he hadn't been waiting was the worst agony of all. It was like being the first one up on Christmas morning – having to wait for the last groggy person in the family to stumble down the stairs so you could open presents. It was like being the first one up, and already knowing what your presents were, leaving you sitting before them, hands hovering over the wrapping paper, just waiting.

Waiting.

Sam had waited long enough. In one swift motion, he folded his chair, hid it in the closet, and opened the door.

He cleared his throat. He ran a hand through his hair. Both nervous habits of his, Rachel recognized.

"Um, hi," she said.

"'Sup," Sam mumbled in reply, looking down at his toes. He seemed mad at her – was he mad at her?

No, he wasn't mad. He was just impatient. He knew what she was here to say already – I'm sorry, but we can't be friends anymore; Finn just won't let me.

"Can I come in?" Rachel asked.

A sharp pang hit Sam's chest. Did she really have to ask? Could she not just let him down easily, from a distance? "Sure."

He stepped out of her way and Rachel stepped into the motel room. The place was cleaner than it was when she had last seen it. That was because Sam had spent the last two hours of his impatience throwing away pizza boxes and frozen dinner trays, folding up their sparse clothes and stacking them neatly in the drawer. An anal sense of order was a habit he'd learned from rehab.

"Look, Rachel – whatever you have to say, that you and Finn are getting married no matter what and I can't stop you, just make it quick. I have to pick Stevie and Stacy up from school."

That was a lie, and Rachel knew it: it was three thirty, and the twins got out at three. Wherever they were, Sam undoubtedly knew exactly where it was and who they were with. He would never leave them, his two little joys, in less than magnificent hands.

Rachel took a deep breath, her hands shaking. All of her previous certainty was gone. Whatever inkling of courage she had had buried itself, deep, in her heart, never to be found.

"Sam Evans, I love you."

Sam just blinked. He waited for the part where she said "Platonically, of course," and let him down gently, but the moment never came.

"As in…?" he asked, facilitating his disappointment.

"As in, I'm in love with you. Not just as friends."

"Rach-"Sam started, thinking she must have been beside herself.

Before he could say anything else, to knock her off her high horse, Rachel blurted, "And you might think I'm crazy, but I mean it. I'm in love with my best friend." She laughed nervously. "And….and you were right about Finn. And whatever else you want to hear. I'll say it a thousand times if I have to, to make you believe me. I love you."

"Rachel, are you feeling okay?" he asked, pressing his lips to her forehead to check her temperature the way his mom had taught him before he started babysitting Stevie and Stacy. Warm, but not hot.

He felt her shiver. Sam recoiled and jumped away, his heart racing. It hit him like a pound of bricks: she wasn't kidding. She was sure. She must have thought long and hard about this.

She loved him back. She loved him, too. She loved him.

He'd thought waiting had been torture. But now that she had said those three little words, eight letters, four syllables, the greatest torture of all was wanting to hear her say them again.