“It’s my phone number. In case you need anything,” Raul explained, tossing the pen back on the desk as Sam walked ahead.
“I won’t ever need anything from you, Raul.” Sam wanted this success on her own terms, by her own talents. Not by grabbing hold of the nearest coattails that waved past her.
“Just in case you do. That way you have it. So, what’s it called—your new column?”
The reality hadn’t yet set in until now. She had a column to name!
“I haven’t come up with one yet.”
Raul stopped mid-stride. “Hmm.” He drummed his fingers on his lanky thigh. “How about…” He raised a single finger in the air with an Einsteinian flare. “Samantha Says…!”
The name rolled effortlessly off his tongue and invitingly into her ear.
“It’s a bit simplistic…” Sam replied.
“It’s on-the-nose,” Raul countered.
“And you know I hate the name Samantha. I prefer Sam.”
“But then your readers might assume you’re a man, which would defeat the whole purpose.”
He had a point. A logical one.
“Samantha Says,” she murmured. “I think I like it.”
“Of course you do. Because it’s perfect, like you.”
Already Raul was imprinting himself on her skin, worming his way into her life, influencing her decisions, and now naming her column. Sam glanced down at his number etched across her body. No, this would absolutely not do.
With a swipe of her palm, Sam rubbed across Raul’s numbers, smearing them into a blur.
Raul’s jaw dropped open. “So just like that you want to wipe my number off of your arm and me out of your life?”
“I need to do this on my own,” Sam stated.
“And that means ending our friendship?”
“You’ll always be my greatest distraction, Raul. I need to focus on doing this myself, which is why I have to let go. It’s for the best.”
He could never understand how easy it was for Sam to ask of him simply because he was there. In the same way, she could never understand how easy it was for Raul to give to her simply because she was there. Both Sam and Raul knew—desperately wishing it didn’t have to be this way—that the only way their friendship worked was for there to be no friendship at all. It was the curse of being stuck between friendship and love.
And so the day that Samantha Says was born was the day Sam laid her feelings for Raul to rest.
Women’s House Magazine
May 1970 Issue
Samantha Says…
Q:Dear Samantha,
I wanted to open with a congratulations on your new column. I was thrilled to discover that the magazine’s dedicated readers will at last get a fresh perspective from a person who understands the discomfort of menstrual cramps and the release of removing a bra at the end of the day. Advice for women by women? Who would have thought we could offer anything more than recipes and cleaning tips, let alone real advice for real problems!
Speaking of real problems, I come to you with a marriage dilemma. My husband works in the steel mill and is always tired when he gets home. While I understand the hard labor and long days he suffers, it is taking a toll on our relationship. He is too exhausted to eat, too tired to talk, and too sleepy to… you know what. What hot-blooded man is ever too tired for that? As a result of our dry spell, he is not only weary but irritable with me!
I have suggested he quit and get another less physically demanding job, but losing his union benefits would bring on a whole other set of problems. Leaky roofs and empty fridges don’t remedy themselves.
As my children are getting older, my life revolves around his unpredictable moods, and I am at my wits’ end waiting and wondering how he’ll feel when he arrives home from work each day. Worry keeps me up at night with thoughts of “Can our marriage survive this?” and “What will happen if he leaves me?”
As the esteemed artist Vincent Van Gogh said: “I dream my painting, and then I paint my dream.” My dream is to stop those fears and help our marriage thrive. What can I do?
Sincerely,
Dry-spell Debbie
