Did I mention he texted me last night just after midnight?
Hey.
That was it. One word. One word more than I’d heard from him in close to a year. Three stupid letters meant to remind me he’s here, in town. That he’s going to be here tomorrow and the day after that and all the days next week and for God only knows how long.
I didn’t need the reminder, thanks all the same. It’s not like I forgot seeing him a few hours before. Worse, memories had bombarded me all night, sneaking up on me when I least expected it. Memories of all the time we spent together.
I’d taken his friendship for granted. Had assumed he’d always be around, would always be a part of my life.
Lesson learned.
Long, painful lesson learned.
Now he wants…well…I’m not sure, but whatever it is, I can’t give it to him.
I can’t go back. I won’t.
So I deleted his text without responding and despite the three dozen freshly baked chocolate chip cookies on the counter and the fact that I had to get up in six hours, I made a double-layer devil’s food cake from scratch with chocolate Swiss buttercream.
Sometimes a girl just needs straight-up chocolate. Lots and lots of it.
Which I had in the form of two huge slices at three a.m.
And a third for my breakfast less than two hours ago.
Now that delicious breakfast cake is sitting like lead in my stomach.
Boys ruin everything.
We still have three miles before we get to Mr. Lucco’s house outside of town, and even though it’s less than ten minutes, I can’t take one more second of silence. Sam hasn’t said anything to me other than a quiet, “Morning, Hadley,” when I arrived at work.
He barely looked at me while Mr. G. told us we’d be assigned together, “Just like old times.”
What is with adults thinking old times were the best times? Does no one remember life before vaccinations, electricity, and the internet?
Reaching over, I turn on the radio. “Love Shack” is playing and I grind my back teeth together. The truck is ancient, older than I am, and only gets the local a.m. station, which plays what they like to call classics from the ’70s and ’80s.
Oh, well. As Devyn loves to tell me, beggars can’t be choosers.
Dev’s not big on the whole build your younger sisters up with positive affirmations and inspirational quotes thing.
She’s more of a tell them the harsh truth so reality doesn’t kick them too hard in the ass believer.
“Wow,” Sam says, “you’re more pissed at me than I thought.”
I stiffen. Tell myself I’m not going to respond because…ignoring him…but then hear myself ask, “What?”
I give an inner eye roll. Why do I even bother?
He nods toward the radio. “You hate this song but you’d rather listen to it—and get it stuck in your head—than talk to me.”
Folding my hands together in my lap. I stare primly out the windshield. “I’m not pissed.”
If I was, that’d mean he had the power to make me angry. That he still had the power to hurt me.
Not giving him that power, remember?
Besides, I’m over him, so nothing he says or does means anything to me.
Totally, completely over him.
“Liar.”
At Sam’s softly spoken word, my mouth dries. I feel caught. Trapped. Worse, I feel exposed.
But then I realize he can’t actually hear my thoughts, so he’s not accusing me of lying about being over him. About my feelings for him.
Thank God.
“You can always tell me the truth, Hadley,” he continues, glancing at me. “Always.”
I look down at my hands. No, I can’t tell him the truth. Not about this.
Not about a lot of things.
I reach over and turn up the radio until it’s so loud the singer’s Bang! Bang! Bang! reverberates in my head. Sam’s right. I do hate this song. And it is definitely going to be stuck in my head all day long now.
And it’s all his fault.
A lot of things are his fault.
But most of them are mine.
6
“If I join you,” Sam asks me on our lunch break, “are you going to run away from me again?”
“I haven’t run away from you,” I mutter, which is such a lie I look up at the sky in the hopes of evading the lightning bolt I’m sure is headed my way.
So I ran from him yesterday when he surprised me in the parking lot.
And, yes, I may have done my best to avoid him all morning, but it wasn’t running away. I was working. Push-mowing the flat part of Mr. Lucco’s yard while Sam tackled the hill. Running the Weedwacker along the edges of the driveway while Sam was in the backyard weeding the huge flowerbeds that surround the house.
Maybe I pretended to nap when we drove to the Sullivans’ house on the top of Rutherford Run, but only because I was up late baking, didn’t sleep well when I finally did go to bed and really was so tired I had to shut my eyes for a little while.
Is it my fault doing so conveniently meant I couldn’t talk to him?
Sitting on the open tailgate, I shrug. “I’m not going anywhere,” I say, “whether you’re here or not.”
Unlike him, I don’t have anywhere else to go. When Sam wanted away from his life, he moved in with his dad, a plastic surgeon out in Los Angeles.
I don’t even know where either of my parents are.
Have no desire to find out, to be honest.
Head down, the brim of my green, Nike ballcap shading my eyes, I watch Sam set his lunch pail on the truck bed next to the Weedwacker, then turn and, laying his hands flat on the tailgate, lift himself up to sit. The muscles in his arms flex and bunch and I jerk my gaze away, feeling overly warm and oddly breathless.
I shift ever so casually to the right, a tiny butt shimmy that puts a few more inches of space between us. He sighs, a soft, resigned sound.
He noticed my retreat.
I tense, waiting for him to call me on it. He doesn’t. Just reaches back for his pail and pulls out the foot-long Italian sub he picked up during our nine-thirty break, when he drove to Joey’s Deli.
He offered to buy me a sub, too—smoked turkey and provolone, my favorite. While I give three quarters of my paycheck to Devyn to use toward our expenses, Sam’s money is just that. His.
And he can spend it however he wants. Can buy takeout coffees and lunch every day. Can pitch in for beer for every party. Can go shopping any day of the week and buy new clothes or sunglasses or sneakers. Doesn’t matter whether it’s money he’s earned, cash that was given to him by his mom or the bank card his dad funds.
It’s his to do with as he pleases.
But even when we were still friends, I was always careful about not letting him spend too much on me. I didn’t want him to think I was using him or liked him because he bought me things.
I didn’t want to owe him, either.
Not when our friendship always felt so lopsided. Like he gave me way more than I ever gave him.
So when he’d offered to buy my lunch, I’d politely declined. Now I’m sneaking glances at him again, unable to believe he’s back. That he’s here, next to me, once again.
Unable to look away.
His hands are big and tanned, his fingers long, and I can’t tear my eyes from them as he pulls the sub out of the paper sleeve and unwraps it. He lifts the sandwich to his mouth and my gaze follows as he bites and chews, his eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses as he looks straight ahead.
“Not hungry?” he asks, as if only mildly curious.
As if he doesn’t realize I’m staring at him.
Heat floods my face but I keep my movements slow and controlled as I open a bottle of water and take a sip. Mr. G. makes sure each truck is stocked with plenty of water, Gatorade and sunscreen.
Though I’m the only one who appreciates the sunscreen. The guys don’t bother with more than a thin layer of the stuff o
n their noses and the backs of their necks, but I apply and reapply the SPF 50 on every inch of my skin not covered by clothes.
Just one of the joys of being a pale, freckled, redhead: higher risk of sunburns and skin cancer.
I set my water aside and get a piece of leftover pizza from my insulated lunch pail. Chewing my first bite, I follow Sam’s lead and look out over the valley.
I should have said something when he turned onto the old lease road instead of heading to our next work site. Should have told him to stop.
We used to eat lunch here whenever possible. Ten minutes from town, it cuts our lunch hour down to forty minutes, but it’s worth it. It’s like we’re on top of the world. Like this field overlooking town, surrounded by the lush rolling hills, is our private oasis.
Our spot.
I used to love it here.
Used to. Until that hot, humid day last July when, sitting in this same exact spot with this same exact boy, everything changed.
My throat threatens to close and I carefully swallow my bite of pizza. Take a sip of water to wash it down. There’s another slice in my pail, along with a banana, some chips and four chocolate chip cookies. But I’ve lost my appetite.
Sam’s fault.
All Sam’s fault.
“Want half?” he asks, holding out a huge orange.
We used to share our lunches all the time, would spread the items out on a clean dishtowel like a picnic. Sam always brought the produce section of our meal (Dr. Constable-Riester keeps their house stocked with an assortment of eat-a-rainbow fruits and vegetables) and I provided the cookies and brownies and cupcakes. Not exactly health food, although some of them had fruit in them. Banana bread. Apple fritters. Lemon cupcakes. That has to count for something.
“No,” I say, staring over the valley once again. “I don’t want half.”
He starts peeling the orange. I smell it, juicy and sweet.
I think of the chocolate chip cookies in my pail, and for a moment, I seriously consider eating one. Not because I want it but so I can purposely not offer any of them to Sam. That should make it super clear that our sharing days are over.
But even I’m not that spiteful. Or mean.
And I really don’t want to hurt Sam.
Not again.
“Is this how it’s going to be?” he asks quietly.
“How what’s going to be?”
He doesn’t look up, just picks at a small bit of peel still on the orange. Flicks it away. “You and me. Is this how it’s going to be from now on? This” –he looks up and gestures between us— “distance?”
I twist the cap off my water bottle. Twist it back on. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Bullshit. You won’t talk to me. You barely even look at me. Do you…” He inhales deeply. “I can tell Mr. G. we don’t want to work together anymore.”
That is an absolutely fabulous idea. But I can’t get the words out. Can’t even nod or make any sort of noise in affirmation.
“If that’s what you want,” I finally manage.
Not quite the emphatic declaration I intended.
“You know what I want, Hadley.”
His voice is low and gravelly and it rubs against my skin. Rushes through my blood. I tell myself I have no idea what he means. That after so long, after his silence and his easy dismissal of me, there’s no way I can possibly know what’s in his head. In his heart.
But I do.
Sometimes I think I’ve always known.
Unable to sit still, I jump off the tailgate, and he gets to his feet as well. I’m not sure what to do. Where to go, and I end up twisting this way, then that.
Looking for an escape.
Looking to run from him once again.
Leaning over the tailgate, I drag my lunch pail toward me. “We can’t go back to how we were.”
“I don’t want to go back.”
I whirl around to face him. “You don’t?”
He shakes his head, the sunlight glinting on the dark strands. There are flecks of grass clinging to his shirt and the hair on his forearms. A tiny piece sticks to his cheek, just below his temple.
I curl my fingers into my palms so I don’t reach out and brush it away.
“I don’t want to go back,” he repeats, bending so he can see my eyes under the brim of my hat. “I don’t want to be your friend, Hadley.”
“Best friend,” I blurt, then press my lips together. “You were my best friend.”
He drops his gaze to the ground for a beat then returns it to my eyes. “I don’t want to be just your friend. Not even your best friend.”
There’s a rushing sound in my ears and I realize it’s my pulse. That I’m breathing shallowly. I suck in a deep breath and hold it. Count to five.
No. He’s not doing this to me. Not again.
He doesn’t mean it. If he did, he would have texted me at some point during the past eleven months. Would have called me. He wouldn’t have stayed away so long.
He wouldn’t have been with another girl at Christmas.
I cross my arms. “When did you get back?”
“What?”
“When did you get back to town? Yesterday? The day before?”
His mouth flattens. “Sunday.”
Sunday.
Five days ago. He’s been in town for days and didn’t text me. Didn’t come see me. I hadn’t even known he was home.
You know what I want, Hadley.
Obviously I don’t.
“Did you come to the garage yesterday to see me?” I ask.
He hesitates and I wonder if this is it, if this is the moment Samuel Joseph Constable lies to me for the first time.
I almost wish he would. It would make us more equal. Would make it so much easier for me to hold on to my anger. If he lied, I might even be able to let go of him. For good.
“No,” he says. “I didn’t go there to see you.”
I hate how much it stings, finding out he’s been home for days. That I wasn’t the first person he sought out.
That he didn’t seek me out at all.
“Why here?” I uncross my arms and wipe my damp palms down the sides of my shorts. “Why did you bring me to this spot for lunch? Was it to hurt me? To rub my nose in what happened?”
His brows lower and he steps closer. “You know I wouldn’t do that.”
“Actually,” I say, my voice quite calm and cool, if I do say so myself, “the past eleven months, along with this conversation, prove I don’t know you as well as I thought I did.”
I grab my lunch pail and water, then brush past him and climb into the truck. A minute later, he slides behind the wheel and turns on the ignition.
“I didn’t bring you here to hurt you or to try and get back at you,” he says, watching the movement of his thumb as he rubs it along the outer edge of the steering wheel. “I wouldn’t do that.” He shakes his head and puts the truck into Drive. “I really hope you believe that.”
I don’t respond. If I open my mouth, I’ll say something I shouldn’t, an admission I can’t take back. A truth that will give him even more power over me.
He has way too much as it is.
I do believe him. How could I not? He’s too honorable to have hidden motives. Too kind to set out to hurt someone. And he’s way, way too honest.
I’m the only liar in this truck and we both know it.
7
Sam and I were never meant to be friends.
Us, together—Sam and Hadley, Hadley and Sam—went against the natural order of things. Was in direct opposition of how society has run since the beginning of time. A fact of life I understood clearly even at the tender age of ten.
Royalty did not cozy up to the servants.
And the second-born, golden son of wealthy parents did not befriend the granddaughter of the woman his family paid to scrub their toilets.
But that’s exactly what Sam did.
Because he’s like that. Friendly. Personable. Kind.
Incredibly stubborn.
For some reason I’ve never understood, he’s wanted to be my friend since he moved here. The first day he joined Miss Melton’s fourth grade class, he walked up to me, introduced himself and asked me to sit with him during lunch.
I ignored him.
And sat by myself like I always did.
For the rest of that school year, I kept right on ignoring him while he kept right on trying to befriend me.
It wasn’t like he needed me to be his friend. Within a matter of days, he was buddy-buddy with most of our class. But that didn’t stop him from trying to get me to play with him and his new pals during recess. Or talking to me whenever he got the chance. Picking me for his team in gym class though I never gave much effort at sports and still never spoke to him. Inviting me to play kickball at recess, and asking me to be his partner in the math Olympics or reading competition despite my grades being nowhere near as good as his.
Either he felt sorry for me because I didn’t have any friends, or he couldn’t stand the thought of someone not liking him.
More than likely, it was a combination of both.
Eventually he would have seen me for the lost cause I am and given up.
I wish he had. I wish I’d kept right on ignoring him until we graduated high school and he moved away to some fancy, expensive college never to be seen in town again.
I wish I’d protected myself better.
Even as kids we’d been too different. He was cheerful, confident and optimistic—as people living blessed lives often are. And I’ve always been serious, skeptical and pragmatic. You know, the usual side effects of having both your parents walk out on you, being one of the few kids in your class to qualify for free breakfasts and lunches and always being aware that no matter how hard you work, how many jobs you hold and how hard you wish things were different, there’s never enough. Never enough money. Never enough time.
I’d known getting involved with Sam Constable in any way, shape or form was a bad idea.
I’d known I’d end up getting hurt.
What I hadn’t considered, what hadn’t even crossed my mind, was that he’d get hurt, too. And it would be all my fault.
The Art of Holding On Page 4
