Written by: *C*

It had been the simplest of plans.

Come to Tennessee, Memphis specifically, find the post office where the box number she was looking for had originated, then use whatever information she could get to find the boy/man who'd disappeared abruptly from her life exactly one year ago.

When, she wondered, resting her head against the cool cement wall, had the simple become so complicated.

Oh, she'd made it to Tennessee without a hitch, hadn't had a problem finding the post office where the box had been located. That had been a simple process of elimination.

Simple…there was that word again. It could be defined with one word, easy. That right there should have been her first clue that this would turn out to be a disaster.

When, in the last year, had anything in her life been easy?

Perilously close to tears, she pushed herself off the bench, pacing from one end of the room to the other.

She wouldn't think about that now, she couldn't think about that now. Because if she did, she'd fall apart.

And falling apart was no longer an option for Samantha Hayes. She had to be the strong one now. She had to face the world with a straight back, proud smile, and fuck you attitude, no matter what.

She could never, ever show that inside she was so afraid. She could never let it show that there were times when she wondered if she'd make it through another hour, never mind a whole, entire day.

If she did, if she slipped, let the fear shine through, they would swoop down like the vultures they were, and they would take Mikey away.

She'd lost everything else; she couldn't loose him too.

He was her lifeline, her sanity. The only thing that made her get out of bed each day. If it weren't for him, she'd have shriveled up and died a year ago like she'd wanted to.

But she hadn't, couldn't, because he had been there, helpless and alone, a newborn with no one and nothing in the world but her.

It had taken but one look at him for her to know that she would do anything, go anywhere, be anyone to insure his survival.

That his being in the world would also insure hers, well, that she hadn't given much thought to.

She ate because if she didn't, she'd be too weak to care for him.

She slept for the same reason.

She got up each morning, went to work, put one foot in front of the other through days that at times seemed endless, because she knew, at the end, those steps would take her home to him.

They'd wanted to take him away.

Two months after he'd been born, after the nightmare of her parents death had taken them away, and left her and Michael alone in the world, they had come.

Sam refused to think of them by name, to acknowledge them as the family that they were.

Her mother had run from them, Sam had heard enough whispered conversations between her parents to know that her mom would never want them to have Michael.

So, she worked, when she should have been going to college, and she did laundry, washed dishes, scrubbed floors, when she should have been out at clubs dancing the night away.

She was strong, when all she wanted was to weep.

And she was alone.

All of her friends had disappeared, one by one over the last year. Including the one that she had come here to find.

They'd never met; she hadn't a clue what he looked like, if he were short, tall, skinny or fat.

None of that had mattered to her. She hadn't cared then, didn't care now what he looked like.

All she wanted was the connection. If they never met, if they never spoke, it didn't matter to her.

She wanted, no needed the bond that had been created between them from the very first letter they'd shared.

It had been a stupid English assignment. One that she hadn't wanted to take part in, but the teacher had made it mandatory.

Pick a piece of paper out of a hat, and write a letter to that person. Tell them about you, who you are, where you come from, your likes, dislikes, and what your future plans are.

Pen pals the teacher had called it. Sam hadn't had time for a pen pal. Her life had been too full. Cheerleading, softball, gymnastics, those were just a few of the things that she'd been involved in.

If it hadn't been for the fact that her teacher had made the assignment the equivalent of a test grade she would have skipped it.

It took less than two weeks for her to be thankful that she hadn't.

Justin Randall, the slip of paper had read. His age; 15, his interests; music and basketball. That was it, that was all the information she'd been given.

She'd decided to do the one thing that she already knew, at the tender age of fifteen, would gain his interest and make him write back; she'd asked about him.

Who are you, where do you live, do you have any brothers or sisters? Do you like other sports, or just basketball? What kind of music do you listen to? Do you play any instruments?

The letter had been question after question, with a few glib remarks thrown in here and there.

At the bottom, as a P.S. she'd written, "Isn't this assignment stupid?", then signed her name with a flourish.

Within a week, he'd written back.

Four years later they'd still been writing. They talked about everything and anything. School, families, boyfriends, girlfriends, hopes, dreams, and a wish that they would always remain friends.

They hadn't exchanged pictures. Justin had said he didn't want to spoil the image he carried of her in his head. Not, he'd hastily written, that I think you're ugly or anything, but I've gotten so used to this picture I carry of you, I'm not sure I'd be able to, even with a photo, see you as looking like anything else. So they'd gone on, each content with the descriptions sent by the other, and the mental pictures they'd created for themselves.

He'd been her best friend. The person she could always count on. A rock, when at eighteen she'd broken up with the boy she'd thought would be her love for life.

For four years, they'd written weekly. Sometimes long letters full of nonsense. Other times short, "I'm sorry, things are crazy now" letters, with promises of longer ones the next time scrawled across the bottom.

However long or short they'd been, they'd written. Until her parents had died, and then his had abruptly, permanently stopped.

At first she'd thought that in her grief she'd written the address down wrong, so she'd written to him again. And again, and again. It had taken five unanswered letters before she allowed herself to believe he wasn't going to write back.

Even then, she'd made excuses. He was busy; he didn't know what to say, he'd been thrown off by her request for them to finally meet, and hadn't known how to tell her it was something he didn't want.

She could understand that. They'd had a deal to remain pen pals only. Though somehow she'd always felt that if she'd ever really needed him, he'd be there.

She'd been wrong.

So, she'd let him go, as she'd let her hopes, dreams and parents go. There was no use wishing for what you couldn't have.

Samantha had learnt that lesson well in the last year.

What then, was she doing here? How, if she truly believed that, had she ended up in this eight by eight jail cell in Memphis, Tennessee?

More importantly, how was she going to get herself out of it?

God, if her mother's family found out, they'd take Michael away for sure. That couldn't happen, it just couldn't.

She'd rather die than live without the only thing she had left.

Think Samantha, think. Stop pacing, stop feeling sorry for yourself, and figure a way out of this mess.

If only she hadn't tried to break into his box. She wouldn't be sitting here now; she'd be…hell she'd still be staking out the post office waiting for a man who was never going to come.

It had been stupid right from the beginning. Had she really been naïve enough to think that she'd be able to walk into the post office, charm the man behind the counter into giving her confidential information, and walk out with Justin's address, his real address in her hand.

Yup, she was more than a little ashamed to admit, she had been. Maybe she really hadn't learnt anything in the last year.

Needless to say, it hadn't worked.

Had she honestly expected it to? No, but she'd been desperate. Desperate for contact with him, desperate for the boy she could talk to about anything. The one who had always understood.

She should have gone home after that, but she hadn't. Instead, she had hung around the post office hoping to catch a glimpse of him when he came to collect the mail in his box.

He never had.

After three days, she'd been out of time, so she'd done something incredibly stupid. She'd tried to break into it.

And here she sat, in jail, without a clue as to how to get herself out.

God, what a mess.

She'd called Haddie, her mom's best friend, and the person with whom she'd entrusted Michael's welfare, to let her know what had happened.

She'd been frantic, rapidly firing questions at Sam, but all Samantha had cared about was Michael.

How was he? Did he miss her? Would Haddie be able to keep him until Sam figured a way out of this mess?

Haddie had reassured her that her brother was fine. There was also no question that she would keep him for as long as necessary. She'd also reassured Sam that she would do whatever she could on her end to help get her out of jail as quickly as possible.

But Sam was realistic, Haddie was single, and though she had a good job, she didn't have the money to bail Samantha out.

Neither, for that matter, did Sam.

Which was why she was still here, halfway through her first night of jail.

It was close to two in the morning, but she couldn't sleep. Her stomach hurt so much that she hadn't been able to touch a bite of the food that they had brought her. Not that she'd been hungry anyway.

How could you eat when your life was about to completely fall apart?

"Miss Hayes." Samantha jumped a foot when the officer said her name. She'd been so deep in thought she hadn't heard him enter the cell.

Terrified, she nodded, unable to speak.

"Would you come with me please?"

She rose on legs she wasn't sure would hold her they were shaking so badly. In silence she followed him down a long hall past other cells, some occupied, some empty.

When they reached the door she finally found her voice, "Where are we going?"

"First we're going to the Property Room so that we can get you your belongings. Then I'm going to take you to the restroom so that you can change back into your street clothes, and after that we'll head back to my office so that you can sign the release forms. Where you go from there is up to you."

It took a moment for his words to sink in, when they did she grabbed his arm, "Release papers? Wait…how…when?"

He smiled at her, "All of the charges have been dropped Miss Hayes. Once we have all of the paperwork done, you'll be free to go."

"Dropped? But…I don't understand."

"Well, apparently whoever is the owner of that Post Office box doesn't want to press charges. I'm not sure why the Postal Service isn't, you'll have to ask them if you want to know that."

Samantha shook her head, there was no way she was going anywhere near that post office again.

The rest of the walk was completed in silence.

Once they'd retrieved her belongings he led her to a bathroom where she quickly shed the jumpsuit they'd given her to wear. Sam had never been so happy to see a pair of jeans and tee shirt in her life.

She wasted no time, quickly tucking in her shirt and donning her jean jacket. In less than five minutes, she was out of the bathroom and heading to Officer Harrison's office.

It took another five minutes for the paperwork to be filled out, and then she was free to go.

Grabbing the suitcase that the police had removed from her hotel, she quickly headed for the door, longing to be outside.

Two feet beyond the door, it hit her. She was free, by some miracle; she was out of jail free to go wherever she wanted.

Home, she wanted to go home.

"Excuse me, Miss Hayes?"

Samantha warily eyed the large man standing in front of her. "Yes?"

"I'm Randy Jones, Director of Security for…"

"It's okay Randy," Sam's eyes darted to the man walking up the steps towards them, "I'll take it from here, thanks."

She didn't recognize him, not at first. He was wearing a baseball hat low over his brow, and his eyes were covered, even at this late hour, with a pair of dark sunglasses.

"Hello Samantha," The rich timbre of his voice distracted her for a moment. She knew that voice, but from where?

"Do I know you?" The words barely made it past the tightness in her throat.

"Yes," He removed his glasses, then his hat, "And no."

Her eyes narrowed as she studied him. He looked so familiar, but she couldn't quite place where she'd seen him before, and then he nervously bit his lip. It hit her like a bolt of lightning. "You're…"

"Justin Timberlake," he held out his hand, waited until she touched it with hers, "Justin Randall Timberlake."

"Oh God," she sank down onto the steps, his hand still clasped in hers. "Oh my God." Hysterical laughter bubbled in her chest; she released it as a sob. She was powerless to stop it. All of the fear and terror of the last twenty-four hours came bubbling out as she buried her head against her knees, and let go.

"Sam," Justin dropped down next to her, but when he would have placed an arm around her shoulders, she violently shook him off.

"Do-n't t-t-ouch me."

"Okay," he held both hands up, "I won't touch you, I promise."

Slightly calmer, she dug in her purse for a tissue. "I-I don't b-b-believe your promises anymore."

Bitter laughter filled the silence; "You're the one who stopped writing Sam, not me."

Shocked, she lifted tear-reddened eyes to his; "I did not."

"Yes, you did. If anyone is guilty of breaking promises it's you, not me."

"How can you say that?" Her voice rose with each word, "You promised that you would always be there for me, but when I needed you the most, you…you bailed." She shoved his shoulder, hard. "You swore that you would always tell me the truth, but everything you ever told me was a lie."

"I've never lied to you."

"Oh please!"

"What did I lie about Sam, what? I told you my name was Justin Randall, it is. I told you that I loved music and basketball, I do. I told you about my sister and my brothers, my family. It's all true, every last word of it. I never lied to you."

"No, you just neglected to tell me the whole truth Justin."

It was the first time she'd said his name.

"I didn't know…"

"Don't you dare. Don't you dare sit there and say that you didn't know me. You and I both know better."

"I wasn't going to say that I didn't know you," Though in the beginning that had been the reason why he'd kept his identity a secret. He'd been given the assignment of writing to a pen pal, by his tutor, and like Samantha, had thought it a stupid idea. Until he'd gotten her first letter.

He'd had very little opportunity, even at fifteen, to converse with people his age. She'd been a breath of fresh air for him, someone he could tell anything to, who didn't judge him based on what he did, but who he was.

It had been the fear of losing that, that had held him back from revealing his true identity.

After awhile, he just hadn't known how to tell her, so he'd let her go on thinking he was Justin Randall.

A blush stained his cheeks when he noticed her staring at him, waiting for him to continue. "Anyway," he cleared his throat, "what I was going to say was that I didn't know how to tell you. What was I supposed to say, "Hey Sam, by the way, I'm famous."

"How about, "Hey Sam, guess what, the most amazing thing is happening in my life right now."

"I was afraid to," his blue eyes met her brown, "I was afraid it would change things, and I didn't want to lose you."

Tenderly, he wiped a tear from her cheek. "I guess I should have just done it huh? Cause I ended up losing you anyway."

"You didn't lose me Justin, you walked away." Wearily, she turned away. "There's a difference."

"I never turned away from you Sam. I wrote, you never wrote back."

Fatigue settled over her like a wet blanket, she couldn't do this. Not now, maybe not ever. It was too painful.

"I have to go," She rose, made a grab for her suitcase, but he stopped her.

"Where are you going to go?"

"I don't…" she paused, she really didn't have a clue.

"Sam," he took the suitcase from her limp fingers. "You're in no condition to go anywhere right now. Let me take you to my grandparents' house. You'll be able to sleep there, and tomorrow we'll figure out how to get you home."

She was about to say no, he could see it in her eyes. "Please Sammy," he was the only one who had ever called her that, "Please, let me help you."

She was so tired. Physically, mentally, bone weary tired. Tired of having no one to lean on, tired of handling everything, always, on her own.

"Okay." The word was barely audible, so she tried again, "Okay, I'll let you help me, but only with a ride to a hotel. I'm not staying at anyone's house."

If that were all she'd give him, he'd take it, and hope that somehow, someway, on the way there he'd be able to get her to talk to him.

Wordlessly he motioned to the long black limo waiting at the curb, indicating that she should go ahead of him.

In a way, he was glad that she had broken down, not that he wanted to see her cry, but it had given him time to recover from the shock of seeing her.

It was as if the picture he'd carried of her in his mind had come alive when she'd walked out of the Police Station.

In all of the times that he'd imagined what she really looked like, he'd never once expected her to be a carbon copy of the image he had in his head.

Small, fine boned, delicate, all of those words could be used to describe her. In sneakered feet, she barely reached his chest, and she didn’t look like she weighed more than a child.

Her shoulder length hair was a burnished, golden brown, and her eyes, huge, chocolate brown; they had made him feel as if she'd been looking into his soul.

It had taken everything in him to not pull her into his arms. He'd dreamed of doing just that so many times he'd lost count.

It hadn't mattered that he'd always known it was something he'd never get to do. It hadn't stopped him from wishing, hoping, and yes, dreaming, that someday they'd meet and he'd be able to take her into his arms, hold her close, and tell her how he truly felt about her.

Had it been a fantasy? Probably so. They had agreed to be pen pals, and pen pals only. But a part of Justin, the part that he kept hidden from most of the world, had held on to a secret hope that someday, the remainder of his dreams would come true.

There was no chance of that happening now, for whatever reason she thought he had bailed on her, she'd never let him in, not now.

What had happened, how could she not have gotten the letters he'd sent her? Why was she so adamant that he had been the one who had stopped writing, when it had been her? And if she hadn't, what had happened to the letters she'd sent him?

There was only one person who would have the answers to those questions, Amanda. She'd been his secretary, as well as his girlfriend at the time. It had been her who had mailed his letters to Sam, and also she who had been in charge of picking up the ones that were forwarded from his post office box.

If anyone would know what had happened to them, she would. It was way too late to get hold of her tonight, but first thing in the morning, he'd be at her door, asking questions he had a sickening feeling, she'd have the answers for.

Sam did her best to ignore him. In all of the times she'd imagined them meeting, she'd never imagined this.

He'd obviously been the one to save her from the predicament she'd found herself in here in Memphis. Something that she needed to thank him for, though she wasn't sure that she could just yet.

He'd lied to her. All of those letters, all of those years, all that they had shared, and throughout it all he'd lied.

She'd written all of those things and his answers, while not outright lies, hadn't told the whole truth.

He'd bent the truth, slightly, each time.

"Sam," his voice jolted her out of the trance she'd fallen into.

"What?" The last thing she wanted now was to talk.

"If I can find proof to show you that I did write, will you let me show it to you?"

"What would it matter now Justin?"

"I don't want you going on thinking that I broke my promise to you."

"Why do you care what I think? Everything we ever had together was based on a lie. We can't go back. It's too late for that now."

They were pulling up in front of the hotel, what he wanted to say would have to wait.

Sam was out of the car in a flash.

"Wait," Justin grabbed her arm, forgetting his promise to not touch her. "Please don't leave tomorrow until we can talk again."

"I…"

"Please."

The second his tongue darted out to nervously lick his lips she knew she was going to say yes.

"Okay. But Justin," she hastened to add, "it's not going to make a difference, whatever it is you think you're going to find out. It won't matter. All that matters, is that you lied."

And now, standing in front of Samantha's hotel, those words were keeping him from going in and showing her the packet of letters he held in his hand.

Letters that Amanda had deliberately kept from him, from both of them.

He hadn't opened any of them. For one thing, he knew exactly what was in the ones he had written, and for another, he was very much afraid that if he did, Sam would never believe that it hadn't been him who'd had them all along.

"You're not going to get anywhere standing out here in the rain boy." Randy had been watching him for the last five minutes from the car. "If you want her, you have to go in and get her J."

"She doesn't want to hear what I have to say."

"Are you sure of that?"

"Pretty sure, yeah. She told me enough times, didn't she?"

"Yup, she sure did; she's also still here, Justin." Randy touched his back, then left him to stew over that a bit.

"Fuck it." Justin bit out. He was going to go up, say his piece, and if she still wanted to be stubborn after that, so be it.

Samantha jumped at the knock on her door. She'd been expecting it, had in fact, been sitting waiting for what felt like hours, but that hadn't stopped her from being startled when she'd heard it.

Walking to the door, she smoothed a hand down the skirt she'd chosen to wear. It was pale pink, flowered, and flowed down to her ankles. The sleeveless sweater matched perfectly, the pink lending color to a face that was way to pale.

"Come in Justin," She grudgingly offered as she opened the door.

He let his eyes travel the length of her, marveling again at how small she was. "You look nice," he said when the silence had dragged on a little too long.

"Thank you." She linked her hands in her lap, "I wanted to thank you for last night too. If you hadn't dropped the charges I'd still be…."

Covering her hands with his, he stopped her, "You don't need to thank me Sammy."

"Please don't call me that," she lifted her head, "I don't want you to call me that."

"What about what I want?" He held the packet of letters out to her. "I went by an old…friends this morning. She used to work for me, and she was the person who handled all of my mail. I confronted her about what you said, that I had stopped writing to you. At first she denied being involved, but when I pushed she gave me these." He pulled one out of the pile, "I wrote you six times before I finally gave up Sam. I didn't break my promise."

"Justin…"

"Let me finish. Please, let me finish."

"Okay."

Justin closed his eyes for a moment. What he said next would determine whether he left here alone, or with her by his side.

"I know that you think I lied to you. That my not telling you who I really was means that you don't know me, but Sam, you do know me. You know my hopes and dreams. What makes me laugh, and cry. You know how I lost my sister, and how much my parents divorce hurt, even though I've said that I was okay with it. I know I should have told you. There were so many times that I wanted to but I was afraid to."

"Why? It was just me Justin, how could you be afraid of me?"

"Because I loved you," his breath clogged in his lungs at the look on her face, "I still love you, and I was so afraid that if I told you who I was, what my life was like that I'd lose you."

"Justin…I don't know what to say to you. Why didn't you ever tell me how you felt?"

"We were pen pals Sam, falling in love wasn't supposed to be a part of that. Hell, I'd never even seen you. I guess I thought that if I told you what I felt you'd think I was crazy."

She reached out, and touched him for the first time. "How could I have thought that you were crazy, when I was feeling it too?" With gentle fingers, she traced the curve of his jaw. "I fell in love with you too."

"Sammy," her name fell from his lips before he slowly lowered his head to hers. It was like coming home. The moment his mouth touched hers the pieces that were missing from his life clicked into place. "I don't want to lose you. Will you give me a chance to show you that the person you know is the real me?"

"I think," she touched her mouth to his again, "that I have too."