you cannot be frightened of everythin' you don't know in this world

It's as if her daily routine is stamped in rubber.  Try as she might to hold onto that strange starlit other place and the time she spent with John there, the form of her life slips back to normal -- or what passes as normal, these days -- in almost no time at all.

Partly her schedule is to blame: Merlotte's is threatening to overrun her with responsibilites and there just isn't time to moon over lost possibilities when she's trying to balance Bill's displeasure, her tables and half of Dawn's, Andy Bellefleur's suspicions, and the alarming statement he makes about Tara and Jason sneaking around with a secret romance of their own.  In her confusion, she can't cover the way she ought to, and she catches the smugly triumphant thoughts that Andy crows to himself and loses her temper.  Again.

Sam's been watching her, those ocean-colored eyes of his tracking her movements as they get more and more erratic despite all her attempts to keep only her thoughts inside her own head, and she's concerned he's going to pull her aside again when he out of the blue asks her to the DGD meeting instead, a move so unexpected and unprecedented she is actually speechless for a full ten seconds after the words come out of his mouth.

It starts out innocently enough as she stands on one side of the bar and he stacks glasses on the other, sneaking looks up at her from underneath his eyebrows.  Arlene's off somewhere spreading the news that Sookie won't be going out with Bill again and she's just about regretting telling her anything when Sam comes over from where he's been checking the taps.  "You, uh," he starts, and licks his lip thoughtfully as she glances up at him, curious.  "You hear from that, um, guy of yours, again?"

Her eyebrows climb so far she thinks they must be disappearing into her hairline, but she keeps filling the ketchup bottles in front of her, concentrating on not spilling any.  "It's only been a coupla days, Sam," is what she says, as easily as possible, trying not to think about how impossible it might be to ever get back to that place, how she can't just pick up a phone and call him, how much she wants to talk to him.  It aches.  "And he's not exactly mine."

"Oh.  That's, uh, too bad."  He fidgets a little, wiping the counter, and though the words and his voice are sympathetic she could swear he looks pleased, his mouth moving into a handsome little smile that she normally finds cute as a button but which rubs her the wrong way just now.  "I hope you aren't too flipped out to miss the Descendants of the Glorious Dead tonight."

"Nope."  She flicks a look at him through her eyelashes, wonders just why he's looking so shifty all of a sudden.  "I gotta go, Gran's spent all week on it."

"Good, cause I was gonna ask if you wanted to go with me."  When she looks up at him, bottle suspended and eyes widening, she sees the shy little smile tucking into the corner of his mouth, the way he looks at her with undisguised hope.  Where did this come from?  Why is he all of a sudden putting his heart on his sleeve and giving her that disarming smile, that expectant look?  Incredibly, he continues.  "Thought maybe we could go grab a cup of coffee or something after."

"Sam Merlotte," she says, finally, at a complete loss.  "Are you askin' me out?"

"Yeah," he says, and wets his lip again as if he's nervous.  "That's pretty much how I do it.  Sometimes they even say yes."

All around them the bar has grown utterly still: her face heats as she glances around, feeling cornered and unpleasantly surprised before leaning towards him, something tightening in her jaw.  "Everyone's lookin' at us."

'"I know," he says, a breathless little laugh in his voice.  He leans closer, but where she'd just been trying to keep her voice low, he seems to be giving into some long-restrained momentum, meeting her eyes levelly with his own shining bright and patient.  He's always so patient, Sam, and she swallows, trying to smooth out the frown that threatens to wrinkle her forehead.  "You better say yes."

This isn't fair, it isn't what she wanted at all; she feels blindsided and backed against a wall and no matter how much she likes Sam -- and she does, he's cute and solid as a rock and he's never been anything but good to her -- he's Sam and not John, and she feels bad for drawing that distinction but can't help herself.  Part of it is a flare of annoyance at his timing -- why the heck would he wait so long, just long enough to make it impossible, to make some kind of move?  She can't pretend she's never thought about Sam in that way before, but before is the applicable word there and things have changed so irrevocably it's hard to remember that even just a few weeks ago she would have been flattered by this exact scenario.  Still, it's hardly Sam's fault that he's not tall and dry-witted with irrepressible brown hair and clear hazel eyes; neither is it his fault she found herself in a party somewhere impossible and leaned over to introduce herself to her neighbor because he looked so tired and blue; it's not his fault she'd gotten caught up in John's smile, lost her head and gone tipping straight into infatuation somewhere over iced tea or in that moon-drenched garden.  It's not his fault she can't drum up the enthusiasm he deserves.

But maybe it's better like this: instead of always wondering if the next turn in the corridor is going to take her back to that strange place and -- maybe, only maybe -- to John, maybe it's better to just accept the impossibility of it, to concentrate on and enjoy the man standing in front of her instead of the one who only exists in her memory and in some far-off, unreachable place.  That would be the sensible thing to do: it's only been a few days but it might as well be weeks if she has no idea when she might be able to find her way back, and Sam is -- Sam is -- well, he isn't John, she doesn't get that electric spark when their eyes meet and she doesn't feel the need to touch him because she might spin right off the planet if she doesn't, but he's kind, and he's generous, and he cares about her.

No matter what she feels or thinks, though, there's only one thing to do with him waiting so expectantly and the whole room staring her down, so she tries a smile and shrugs as if this is anything but unusual for her.  "Shoot.  Why not?"

Just saying the words feels like a betrayal to John; they stick like peanut butter in her mouth and sink in her stomach, and she has to glance away again, no longer able to look at how lit up and satisfied Sam is without wanting to tell him she's changed her mind.

"Good," he says, and breathes out like a weight's been lifted, then shoots a glare around the bar.  "Eyes back on your food, people."

That's when she goes to take Andy's order, and in her fluster can't quite keep her walls up, is surprised when he tells her about Jason and Tara and has to flee with his half-full sweet tea like she's about to fall apart, pulled at from all directions, a kite that's been cut loose and is now being tossed and tangled in a violent wind.

The truth is that she never will be able to go with John to a DGD meeting, she'll never sit him in a booth and tell him to wait until she's off work, she'll never be able to introduce him to Gran or show him off to Tara.  She can't even prove he exists at all, except by the tie clip that was tangled in her curls and which could have belonged to anybody.  If she's ostracized for dating a vampire, what new humiliation will she endure if she insists on her connection to a man no one's ever met or will ever see?  Don't people already think she's crazy enough?  She's half-convinced Tara and Sam think she's making him up, out of what desperate fantasy she's not sure, but it stings.  She can't answer their questions with anything but evasive half-truths, and after all: a man who accepts her and thinks her disability isn't anything to be afraid of?  Even to her it sounds ludicrous.

One thing at a time: she can't worry about impossible parties and gardens and Air Force pilots with absurd hair and charming smiles when Andy's words burn in her ears; she asks Sam where Tara is and heads off almost before he's finished telling her.

Tara's in the ladies' room, and Sookie, her mind whirling, filled with longing and embarrassment and some indirect anger that she can't control, gets up in her face with almost no warning, only to be startled when Tara confronts her about her date with Sam: she had no idea Arlene could work so fast though in retrospect she shouldn't be so surprised.  "Why shouldn't I?" she says, temper rising, feeling like she has to justify her agreeing to go out with Sam but not knowing if she's really talking to Tara or to herself.  "He's perfectly nice, he's got a good job...and he's not a vampire, and...why do I have to justify this to you?"

Tara's taken aback, and she ought to know that means something, but she's too frustrated to care.

"I'm entitled to know what my girl's up to, ain't I?  And I thought you were seein' someone else anyhow."

She bites down hard on the inside of her cheek at that, and shakes her head, shaking off everything that comes surging up and allowing herself to only concentrate on Tara's defensiveness.  "Yeah, about that."  The door closes behind her like a sentence ending.

It turns out Tara's just trying to give Jason an alibi, and that sparks a fury Sookie hadn't even realized she was capable of.  Jason doesn't need an alibi, Jason didn't kill anybody, and she's so sick and tired of being attacked and her brother being accused that her temper flares before she can control it and she tries to find her way into Tara's mind without bothering to consider if she's welcome there, only to be shunted aside by a determined humming.  "What are you doin'?"  It bursts out of her in an angry flash, and Tara, hackles raised, flashes right back.

"Not every little detail of everyone's personal life is your business, okay?"

When she pushes by and slams the door open, Sookie doesn't stop her.  It's a full minute before she's controlled her defenses enough to go back out.

It's well after noon when she wakes up, curled on her little white bed in a wrinkled dress and feeling as if she's moving through syrup.  Her hair is tangled and her eyes are red and bleary from exhaustion and the few tears that managed to squeeze their way out; she sits up and brushes ineffectually at her skirt, runs her fingers through her hair but is stopped by something cool and with the slight slippery give of thin metal, stuck in her curls.  It takes a little doing to untangle it, but when she does she turns it over and over, uncertain of anything except that she's seen this before, it was pinning John's tie to his shirt when she first saw him at that party.  It's proof positive that the encounter was real, and the thought is so relieving and so full of disappointment that she doesn't know whether to smile or cry: in the end she puts the pin gently on her vanity and heads to the bathroom to take a shower and clear her head.

When she comes downstairs tying her hair into braids, the windows are full of golden late afternoon light: it pools on the stairs and the old carpets in honey-colored swathes.  Gran's starting dinner, and the clang of pots and pans punctuates the music from their old radio, crackling lightly with static.

She looks up, pan in hand, as Sookie walks in, and her face falls.  "Why, I thought you were off tonight, Sookie.  I was going to make chicken-fried steak: that's your favorite."

"Not tonight.  I'm goin' in to help out, considering how short we are and all."  Sookie sits at the table, tying off one plait.  Her mind is still full of that strange other place; even a long hot shower didn't wash away the memory of John's hands on her skin, his arms wrapped around her so tight it was hard to breathe.

"Sookie?"

She starts; blushes and then wishes she hadn't.  Gran sits at the table, the pan forgotten.  Behind her the old wall clock ticks low and familiar and comforting.  "Is everything all right?"

"Fine," she says, smiling, and reaches out to take Gran's hand in hers, smoothing over her soft, wrinkled skin.  "Gran, I...met somebody.  I don't know how to explain it, but I feel all lit up and happy, and I want to cry all at the same time."

"Someone other than Mr. Compton?"

"Oh, Bill."  She can't help rolling her eyes.  "Yes.  But I don't know if I'm ever going to see him again."

"Well."  One of the many things Sookie loves about Gran is how she takes her time, picks words with care: an old-fashioned grace that's so far out of trend the world will probably never see it again (except from the vampires, who, when they have manners, seem to gravitate towards Victorianism, no matter what Bill might say).   "Why do you say that, honey?"

It's impossible to explain, and no explanations mean Gran can't give her the kind of sympathetic ear she needs right now, so she just forces a smile and tugs a braid into place.  "It's just a feeling.  Gran, I have to go.  I called Sam and he's expecting me."  At the door, she hesitates, hand on the frame, looking back.  

"I'll be back kinda late."

"I won't wait up," says Gran, and they both smile, knowing that she's going to anyway.

___


The evening crowd at Merlotte's is subdued, quieter even than the usual mid-week regulars, but Sookie's struck by a deep sense of unease and mistrust as she moves about, tray in hand, motions coming automatically, the efficiency of muscle memory sending her from back room to prep counter to kitchen to dining room, where she arrives without knowing how she got there.  It's almost strange to see the same familiar faces, to watch Sam wiping glasses behind the bar, hear Lafayette's singing echoing gently in the hall by the kitchen.  Arlene is cranky and Sookie wants to hug her for it; Hoyt Fortenberry sits by the bar looking too big to be allowed.  His thoughts about Dawn are so sad and sweet that Sookie has to stop and give him a quick hug and a peck on the cheek: out of the cacophony she can hear, only Hoyt seems to miss Dawn just because she was pretty and was nice to him.  The flurry of thoughts and laughter and talk and the continually cranking of country songs from their light-up jukebox are just as distracting as she could hope: it's hard to concentrate on the dull pang of disappointment that's taken up residence at her solar plexus when there's so much else to try and ignore.

During a lull in the evening she leans one hip against the bar, absently loading her tray with ketchup bottles, and tries to picture John coming through the door.  He'd sit there, she thinks: a booth near a window, but he'd take the opposite seat, the one with the good view of the room and the gentle glimmer of glasses at the bar.  She can just about see him there, leaning with one elbow on the table, smiling that crooked smile that lights up his whole face.  She loses herself in a brief daydream: she'd take a beer and a frosted glass over just like he was any other customer, go about her rounds pretending like she doesn't notice he's there, seeing how long she can keep her eyes from moving over to him.  She'd win a little every time she gave in.

Tara, behind the bar, is giving her a furrowed look, the rag in her hand tossing and flipping as she cleans a glass.  "Look at you," she says, sauntering over as Sookie takes a deep breath, waking from her little reverie.

"What?"  She's painfully aware of the smile that's found it's way to her mouth without her notice, but tries to direct it down towards the tray.

Tara sucks at her teeth, cocks her head over her shoulder.  "Lafayette!"

His bandanna-covered head appears in the hatch.  "What, bitch?"

"Don't Sookie look different to you?"

"Tara," Sookie protests, laughing.  "Leave me alone."

"Well, hey now, hey now, Miss Sook."  That's Lafayette, leering her with such blanket laciviousness it's anything but offensive.  "You do look all kind of bright and shiny.  I know that look.  Whatsa matter?  You get a new fella?"

She leans both arms on the bar, lets her eyes sparkle at him.  "You always think it's always about a man, don't you, Lafayette?"

"Oh, honey chile."  He tips back, tosses his bandanna as if it were hair.  She likes Lafayette and his flamboyance: at least someone around here says whatever he likes and acts however he wants.  "It always is about a man."

"Preach it," says Arlene, on her way past with a pitcher of Bud.  Further along the bar, Sam's been wiping the same glass for the last minute and a half.  His smile looks strained.

"Ain't the vampire, is it?" 

She rounds on him, the smile fading.  She's on edge and moody: Lafayette's teasing is gentle enough to laugh at but defensiveness raises her hackles.  Sam's just protective, but it grates on her now, for no reason she can solidly identify.  "Not that it's any of your business, Sam, but no.  It's not 'the vampire,' and I wish y'all would stop calling him that.  Bill's just trying to get along with everybody."

"So there is someone," Tara presses, and she shakes her head, feeling pink and flustered; she wants to fight and wants to laugh it off all at the same time.  "Come on, now, Sookie.  We're all friends, here."  No one wheedles like Tara: maybe it's because she's so often nothing but sandpaper and biting sarcasm, and Sookie's never been able to resist her long.

"I may have met someone, yes," she admits with a feeling of annoyed helplessness, finally, tossing her head in the hopes of keeping some remainder of dignity.  Lafayette waves a hand at her and smiles; she flashes him a quick one in return.

Sam's eyebrows are climbing higher and higher, but he manages a grin when he says: "Well, ain't you gonna introduce him?"

She picks up her tray and directs her comment and flat look at him from over her shoulder.  "Not tonight."

___

They're busy for the rest of the night and there's no more time for daydreams or for snide remarks: she loses her temper at Andy Bellefleur and has to go to the back room to take a breather, feeling as though she's about to fly into a million pieces, and takes the tie clip out of her pocket to remind herself of reality.  She's so distracted that she never hears Sam coming, jumps at the touch of his hand on her shoulder, and shoves the clip into her apron, feeling oddly guilty.

"I want to apologize."  Sam's got his best kicked-puppy look on his face, the one he has when he's been too harsh with the waitresses, and she gives him a quick nod and a flicker of eyebrow.  "For before.  If you -- you know, if you met someone you really like, that's great for you.  We shouldn't tease you."

"Thank you, Sam," she says, pulling her shoulders back, leaning on the counter behind her.  "But don't worry about it.  Probably nothin's gonna come of it anyhow."  She can feel the old plastic smile start to stretch across her face; it's tense and painful.  His eyes go hurt seeing it, and he reaches out a hand to touch her chin.

"Aw, cher.  Don't think like that --"  He trails off as she jerks away from his touch, presses his lips together, shoves that hand back in his pocket.

"Do you mind?"  She tips her chin up, takes a deep breath.  "I have tables waitin' on their food."

He steps aside, silent, lets her brush by without another word, and says nothing but orders to her for the rest of the night.

That's all right by her, and when she gets home, she's glad to see that Gran's asleep in bed with a book open on her chest and her bedside lamp glowing gentle and golden: talking is the last thing she wants right now.

Still, it's a long time before she gets to sleep, and when she finally does, her dreams -- so vivid and saturated with every emotion and color imaginable -- give her no rest at all.