It's quite easy to discern that he'd thrown Theo off with his preparation, giving off the impression that he'd put much more thought into this impromptu gathering. Samuel hadn't expected things to go this when the communication began, though it'd been a pleasant surprise, but he'd begun to prepare when the texts started navigating in this direction.
More than anything the writer had desired an opportunity to sit and talk about everything with his ex. To explain to her his reasonings for leaving and staying gone. Even if there was no forgiveness for his silence or his actions, the man was desperate for the lawyer to understand that it truly had nothing to do with her.
None of this was her fault.
What she'd received out of his actions wasn't deserved.
That was the important message to convey. Along with the simple fact that he still loved her all the same. The New Yorker knew that was incredibly difficult to understand given that the thoughts, feelings, and actions didn't all line up perfectly nor did they match.
Life was never that easy. Never that simple.
"Yeah," he answered among his movements in her kitchen, "I started prepping during our texts. It's why some responses took longer than others." A small laugh followed and adoring umber eyes found Theo standing near, appearing hesitant and as though she might flee at any moment.
"I wanted to," Sam began to explain, "no takeout really hits the same outside of New York so I've turned to cooking even more than before." The writer had always enjoyed the whole process of making something from scratch with his bare hands. It felt more whole, more enriching, more personal. There was also the unspoken part that him cooking even more had to do with a boy named Ben.
Nostalgia hit the author hard. Seeing her standing by, ready for conversation as she watched him move about what had once been a shared kitchen in a dwelling that had been their own as a couple. He tried his best to ignore the pit in his stomach, to not let the moment grip hold of him too strongly. If he'd learned anything it was that living in the past was dangerous and would lead to disappointment.
"You have any beer?" Brow lifted, it had only been then that he'd wished he'd brought a pack or stopped along the way. Wine had never really been his go-to but he'd drink it in a pinch. "Or we can jump to the whiskey and start softening things up," he'd suggested feeling it could help ease some anxieties.
With the pizza finally in the oven, Sam rested the heels of his palms against the edge of the countertop and leaned into it. Gaze fixed on Theo's he'd give a penny for her real thoughts and what was going on behind those beautiful eyes he'd often sank into for comfort.
How was he supposed to get through this?
A front row seat to further hurting the person you loved most felt like hell.
"You shouldn't cry, but I'm sorry ahead of time if anything I tell you hurts you that much." For a second he only peered down at his ex and wondered if she knew that he'd never intended to hurt her. That the entirety of the last few years felt like some sort of out of body experience for him.
"Do you want something in your stomach first or do you want me to justâ start?"
Which Sam had no idea how to do that or where that point was. He'd find it, of course, but he already had a feeling of trudging through thick, knee deep mud.
"You have a beautiful home, by the way."
No matter how much it was all his fault that things were the way they were now, it didn't take away from the pain of seeing how well someone moved on from you.
Regardless, Sam was proud of her.