Page 14 of Maid of Dishonor
Level One is Sam’s sniffle cry. Mostly silent, nose a little red, could pass for a bad cold. And while Sam does cry a lot, mostly because of the sympathetic crying thing, Level One is actually her most common.
Level Two is your standard set of tears—red eyes, red nose, definitely audible. No hiccuping or hyperventilating is present. Level Two is known to occur primarily in instances of frustration or physical pain, sometimes also occurring with changing levels of hormones.
Level Three, though? Level Three is a doozy.
Level Three is what I would describe as—and I mean this in the kindest way—hysterical sobbing. Her whole face is puffy and red. Her shoulders are shaking. Hiccuping will be present, and she should be observed in the event that hyperventilation occurs—because it very well could. Though there are exceptions, Level Three tears are most frequently a sign of severe emotional pain.
(It should be noted that this tour guide is smart enoughnotto tell Sam that he’s created a tiered guide for her crying, lest he incur physical damages that may result in his own Level Two tears, which would wreak havoc on both his reputation and his overly dry eyes.)
So, needless to say, when I knock on Sam’s door only to find her crying Level Three tears, I panic.
“Sam?” I say, stepping inside and quickly closing the door behind me. “Sam, what is it?”
I watch, alarmed, as she drags herself away from the door, moving like a swamp monster out of an oldScooby Dooepisode, feet shuffling, arms hanging.
She sniffles loudly. Swipes at her eyes with hands fisted like a child. Then stares down, freezes where she stands, and drops.
Next thing I know, she’s lying face down on the floor, crying her Level Three tears again.
Face down.On the floor.Three feet away from the couch, like her misery is so extreme she couldn’t even make it that far. My heart suddenly races as I run through a mental list of things that could cause her to cry like this.
“Is it your mom?” I ask, getting straight to it. I crouch on the floor next to her. “Did something happen at the living center? Or your dad? The rest of your family?” I say. “Are they okay?”
“All fine,” she manages, and my insides uncoil as I breathe a sigh of relief. Before I can ask what this is all about, though, she goes on.
“It—it—it was just sogood,” she wails, her words muffled as she speaks into the carpet. Her shoulders shake as she cries.
“Okay, partner,” I say, my eyes wide. “Let’s get you off the floor, huh? You’re eating carpet.”
“So good,” she continues, ignoring me completely.
I try to be discreet as I lean in over her prone form, giving a sniff, but it’s as I thought—no alcohol was involved in the making of this emotional outburst. This is all Sam.
“Talk to me,” I say gently, rubbing her back.
She does not talk to me. Instead she lifts one hand and points in the direction of the couch, never lifting her face from the carpet, never ceasing her tears.
I lean over and look at the couch, my eyes landing on…
A book. A hardback novel.
“She was scared of love so she fled to America but he followed her because he loves her somuch!” Sam’s watery words are still muffled by the carpet, but I get the gist well enough.
A book. My adorable little closet romantic is sobbing facedown on the floor because of a book. A fictional relationship.
A tide of affection rises so powerfully in me that for a moment I’m struck dumb. I just rub one hand over my mouth so that none of my smile is visible, even though she can’t see me. I let my eyes trace over her golden hair, the sharp wings of her shoulder blades, her curves and the lean length of her legs. Then I give a little tug on her shoulder. “Come on, Sammy. Let’s get you to the couch.”
I manage to roll her over to her back without her help—she’s still blubbering about how good the book was—before helping her sit up. Then I reach up to her face, wiping her tears away.
“Tell me more,” I say softly as we sit there, because like a trauma patient, she needs to be stabilized before we attempt to move her. I’m still trying not to smile as I go on. “He followed her to America?”
She sniffles, looking up at me with wide, innocent eyes. Her perfect lower lip trembles, and though she doesn’t know it, this look she’s giving me is my kryptonite—she could ask me to chop off my left leg right now and I’d probably do it.
She nods, eyes watering again, tears renewing their trek down her face. “Yeah,” she says, taking a deep, shuddering breath. “He just upended his life and went—went—wentafterher!”
“And are they gonna live happily ever after?” I say. My thumbs swipe her cheeks slowly, catching her tears once again.
“I think so,” she sniffles, her voice thick. Her cries are abating into Level One territory now. “Pretty sure he’s going to kick her ex’s butt first though.”
