The Art of Holding On

by Beth Ann Burgoon

The rest of the day, Sam and I keep conversation to the bare minimum.

  I hate it.

  Hate having him so close and not being able to talk to him. Hate how things have changed between us. But it’s for the best. Talking sure didn’t help either of us feel better, so might as well quit while we’re ahead.

  Now, finally, after the longest day in history, it’s just past four and Sam pulls up to the huge two-story garage Mr. G. uses to store equipment. I open the passenger-side door before Sam even has the engine turned off.

  I practically run inside, relieved Mr. G. isn’t in his office so I can fill out my time card and leave it on his desk without having to talk to him. I’m even more relieved that Sam stays outside with Kyle and John, who both wave as I head toward my bike.

  Sam doesn’t even look at me.

  Which is good. Great, in fact. And exactly what he’d done all afternoon. What he’d done ever since walking out of my life last summer.

  Pretended I don’t exist.

  Perfect. Now I can go back to pretending he doesn’t exist, either.

  Is this how it’s going to be from now on? This distance?

  Uh, yeah, Sam. This is how it’s going to be. How it has to be.

  He had no right to ask that. No freaking right. He was the one who left. He doesn’t get to come back and act surprised I’m not falling into his arms.

  He doesn’t get to act like he’s still hurting.

  We’re both just going to have to deal with this new normal. Him being home and us not being friends.

  Hey, I got used to him not being here. I survived him leaving me.

  I can survive him being back.

  “What do we have here?” a male voice calls out. “Hot Hadley. In the flesh.”

  I stumble. Great. For the second day in a row, in almost the exact same spot, I’ve come face-to-face with a Constable boy.

  A Constable boy I was hoping never to see again.

  Which, okay, was stupid, me thinking I’d never see Max Constable again, that I’d only see glimpses of Sam all summer, but come on. At least these encounters could have been spread out a bit.

  What is with this parking lot? Is it some sort of weird portal where I’m destined to encounter the people I want most to avoid?

  I look over, squinting against the sun, and yep, there’s Max, home from his first year at Pitt, sitting behind the wheel of Sam’s SUV, grinning at me.

  “Actually,” I say to Max, my tone so dry I’m surprised dust doesn’t poof out of my mouth, “I go by just Hadley. Only my grandmother called me by my full name, and only when I was in really, really big trouble.”

  His grin amps up. I amuse him. Always have.

  Plus, he likes to toy with me.

  I think it’s because I’m a challenge.

  I wonder if that’s another part of the reason Sam worked so hard to earn my friendship for so long.

  After all, he’s like his older brother in at least a few ways.

  Though neither one of them would ever admit it.

  Max gets out of the Explorer, shuts the door behind him, then leans against it, arms crossed as he gives me the patented Max Constable Checkout: a slow up-down look that starts at the top of my head, then drifts down to the toes of my boots only to drag back up again, lingering on my hips…my breasts…my mouth. It’s blatant and sexual but at least it’s honest.

  With Max, you know exactly what he wants from you.

  “You look good walking toward me,” Max says in a low rumble. “Real good. Then again, you look good walking away, too.”

  I roll my eyes, and though I know I should do as he said, I should walk away, I don’t.

  I’m afraid to wonder why not.

  “And here I thought you’d learn something in college. Like a come-on that actually works.”

  Straightening, he laughs because, again, I am just soooo freaking funny and never fail to entertain the hell out of him. “My come-ons work just fine, Hot Hadley.”

  True. So very, very true.

  “I guess when you have the prettiest face around,” I say, “it doesn’t matter what you say.”

  He sighs dramatically, his expression all aw-shucks and innocent. He’s neither.

  Seriously, the boy should be in movies—his act is always on.

  “It’s a curse,” he says with a shrug. “But what’s a guy to do?”

  “Wear a paper bag over your head?”

  “And deny the ladies all this?” He circles his face then winks at me. “That’d be cruel.”

  I can’t help it. I smile.

  That’s the thing about Max. Yes, he’s egotistical and a player, but he’s also funny and can be charming.

  And just when you think he’s the biggest dick in the world, that he’s all arrogance, selfishness and a complete horndog, he says or does something that has you reconsidering.

  Has you thinking maybe he’s not.

  Has you thinking maybe he’s not all bad.

  It’s what makes Max Constable so freaking dangerous.

  That and his broad shoulders, wide chest and too-handsome face.

  I nod at the SUV. “Stealing your brother’s car?”

  “Borrowing it while mine is being serviced. Contrary to popular belief,” he says in his silky, smooth tone, “I don’t want everything that belongs to my brother.” He edges closer, his voice low and intimate. “Especially not after I’ve already had it.”

  My head snaps back. Yep. Max Constable is definitely the biggest dick in the world.

  He looks up, free of care or guilt. Must be nice, not having a conscience. “Hey. You ready?”

  And I know without turning that Sam is behind me.

  I can’t face him. It ticks me off that I’m such a coward I can’t even look at Sam for fear he’ll see the truth on my face. Or worse, that I’ll see something in his eyes, in his expression that tells me he heard what his brother said.

  That he knows what it means.

  So, nope, not looking at Sam. Going to keep my gaze right where it is, on the ground. Huh. What do you know? There’re grass clippings on my boots. Better brush them off right away.

  I do, taking my time, even as I feel Sam watching me. Finally, he says, “Yeah. I’m ready.”

  But he doesn’t move, and from my vantage point, I see him shift his weight from foot to foot. I hold my breath, wait for him to offer me a ride home like he did yesterday. And wouldn’t that be a boatload of awkwardness? Me in a car with Sam and Max Constable. God, just the thought of it makes me sick to my stomach.

  Or that could be all the blood rushing to my head.

  “Were you waiting for me, Hadley?” Sam asks.

  “Nope,” I say, still brushing, brushing, brushing at my boots with my fingertips. “Not waiting for you.”

  I’m wondering if I can stay down here forever—or at least until they leave—but I’ve pretty much gotten the boots as clean as they’re going to get without a scrub brush and a hose and yet the brothers are still here.

  “Hot Hadley came over to say hi to me,” Max says, like the smug douchebag he is.

  I jerk upright fast, too fast, and sway.

  Both brothers reach out to steady me, Sam taking my left elbow, Max wrapping his hand around my upper right arm. And I have the stupid, irrational thought that one good yank and I’ll be torn in two.

  I shake them both off and step back, but though I’m no longer between them, I still feel stuck. Trapped with a grinning Max on one side and a solemn, watchful Sam on the other. They’re so similar with their dark hair and eyes, their straight noses and the shape of their mouths. But there are differences, too. Subtle ones in their appearances. Overt ones, bigger ones, in their personalities.

  Important ones.

  Max’s hair is a shade darker, his eyes more hazel than brown. Sam is an inch taller and a bit leaner. Max has a shallow dimple to the left of his mouth and there’s a slight bump in Sam’s nose from when he broke it during a basketball game in eighth grade.

&nb
sp; They’re both popular and well-liked, athletic and smart, but Max is more outgoing and loves being the center of attention. Sam is less showy. Friendlier. But the biggest difference between them is that Max has an edge, a sharpness to him that draws girls to him like a magnet.

  They all think they can change him.

  What they really want is for him to love them enough to change for them.

  Good luck with that.

  Max’s phone buzzes and he checks it. “See you later, Hot Hadley.”

  He climbs back behind the wheel and rolls the window up. A moment later the muted sound of Frank Ocean surrounds us. Sam is watching me, waiting for me to say…something. A confirmation of Max’s claim? A denial?

  Who knows? Boys are weird and mysterious creatures.

  Since I’m not talking, Sam gives me a nod—an all-encompassing boy gesture for yes, hello, what’s up? and goodbye—and gets in the passenger side.

  A moment later Max pulls up next to me as I head toward my bike and rolls down his window. “I almost forgot to tell you; Beemer’s having a party tonight. Sort of a welcome home for me and Sammy. You should come. No offense, Had, but you look like you could use a little fun.”

  Why do people say no offense when they’re purposely trying to offend you?

  Glancing at him, I keep walking. “Shows what you know. My life is one endless joyride.”

  He smiles and it’s different than the other times. More open. Real. He’s only a year older than Sam and me and I remember when we were younger. Chubby and goofy, Max spent most of his time entertaining the other kids, making sure everyone liked him. He was fun and funny and, as hard as it is to believe now, nice.

  Then puberty set in and Max grew taller, started working out more, and suddenly, he went from class clown to class heartthrob. He became That Guy. You know, good-looking, confident and cocky, but also a bit lost.

  The most enticing combination ever.

  Ah, adolescence. The end of many of a perfectly decent boy.

  “I bet you’ll have a great time,” Max says, trying to sell me on going. He turns to Sam. “Tell her she’ll have a great time.”

  He doesn’t even look at me. “She doesn’t want to go.”

  “Sure she does,” Max argues.

  “No,” I say, stopping because walking and talking wasn’t working for me. Maybe the movement interfered with how clearly and concisely I enunciated. “She doesn’t.”

  But the word no isn’t one Max hears very often. “If it’s because you don’t have a ride, no problem. I’ll pick you up.”

  Sam’s expression darkens, his jaw works but he keeps silent. Doesn’t look our way.

  “At least think about it,” Max continues when I don’t jump at the chance at arriving to the party on his arm.

  “It’ll be hard to think of anything else. After all, it’s not every day I get invited to a party by the great Maxwell Constable. What a treat for little ol’ me. Wait until all my friends hear. They’ll be so jealous.”

  “Ha! Now I know you’re joking.”

  I wrinkle my nose. “The part about you being great gave it away, huh?”

  He shakes his head. “Nope. It was the part about you having friends.”

  With that and a salute, he takes off, dust billowing behind the tires.

  Leaving me standing in the middle of the parking lot, an odd ache in my chest.

  Max knows just what to say to inflict the most damage.

  The truth usually does.

  8

  “How about Beauty and the Beast?” I ask Taylor that night, holding up the DVD and giving it a little wiggle, you know, to make it more enticing and all. “It has a talking teapot,” I continue, my tone indicating there’s nothing better than—and not the least bit terrifying about—inanimate objects walking and chatting amongst us. “And there’s singing. Lots and lots of singing.”

  “No, Haddy,” Taylor says, her little face scrunched into a frown, and God help us all, even the scowl is cute on her. Especially with her being fresh from her bath, her hair curling into ringlets, her pajamas a cute pink-and-white-polka-dot short set. “The beast is bad.”

  I feel desperation take hold. I have to come out ahead in this battle of wills. Have. To.

  After the day I had, I deserve a win.

  “He’s not really bad.” Although he does hold a young woman captive for weeks on end, won’t let her touch his precious rose and flies into uncontrollable rages at the drop of a petal. Nope. Nothing scary, mean, abusive or misogynistic about any of that. “He’s nice. At the end he even stops being a beast.”

  Yes, yes, it all happens after a particularly violent scene where he gets stabbed, and okay, handsome Gaston does meet a gruesome end, but hey! Belle and whatever-the-beast’s-real-name-is kiss! Love conquers all! Happy, happy, joy, joy!

  “Please, Taylor.” There’s a whine to my voice. Clearly, I’ve lost my mind. It’s humiliating to admit but I am, indeed, pleading with a two-year-old. “It’ll be fun. You’ll like it.”

  Devyn comes into the living room, carrying a sippy cup of chocolate milk for Taylor, and looks at me like I’m one step below Gaston on the creepy, evil scale.

  “She can’t watch that,” my sister reminds me. “It gives her nightmares.”

  “I’m the one who’s going to have nightmares if I have to watch Cinderella again.” I flop onto the couch with a rather dramatic sigh. A prince and a peasant girl? Please. “If I have to listen to those talking mice squeak ‘Cinderelly! Cinderelly!’ one more time, I’m going to dig my eardrums out with a fork.”

  “Or,” Dev says, handing Taylor the cup, “you could not watch it. You could stay in your room--”

  “It’s too hot in there,” I say, the whine in my tone increasing with each passing moment.

  “What about that new pie recipe you wanted to try?” Dev puts Cinderella in the DVD player. Pushes Play. No win for me. Not today. “You could bake it while we watch the movie.”

  I cross my arms, realize I’m still holding Beauty and the Beast and toss it onto the coffee table. “It’s too hot to bake, too.”

  Dev straightens and raises her eyebrows at me. Dev not only looks the most like Mom, but they also share an intolerance for whiners and complainers.

  “Go sit on the porch then,” she suggests. “It’s a nice night. Take a book out there and enjoy it.”

  “I don’t feel like reading and I don’t want to enjoy anything.” I sink farther down into the cushions, tip my chin to my chest. “I’d rather stay right here and be miserable, thanks all the same.”

  “What’s going on with you?” Dev asks, not unkindly but with more than a little exasperation. Then again, her life has pretty much been one major irritation after another, especially after Gigi took off. She threw away her own future to become my and Zoe’s legal guardian so we didn’t go into the system.

  She stepped up. Devyn always steps up and does what’s right. What needs to be done.

  So I can hardly complain that I’m a pathetic nobody who’s spending yet another Friday night at home with my two-year-old niece and my sister when that sister should be going out herself on one of the few nights she has off.

  She shouldn’t even be here.

  “Nothing’s going on,” I say, pretending great interest in the movie I just said I never wanted to see again. “It was just a long day.”

  Her expression softens and she nods in commiseration. Long, sucky work-days she understands.

  And it’s enough of a believable explanation for her not to ask any more questions.

  No, I didn’t tell her or Zoe about working with Sam today.

  They have more than enough on their plates without worrying about me.

  Especially Devyn. She’s given up way too much for me to add to it, even a little bit.

  I’ll figure this thing with Sam out. On my own.

  “They mean sistas,” Taylor tells no one in particular—or possibly everyone in the universe—in her angry voice which, again, sup
er cute. On the screen, Cinderella’s nasty stepsisters are teasing her and that is an injustice Taylor cannot stand. She snuggles back against me and whispers, “I don’t like them sistas. I like Cinda-ella.”

  I brush back Taylor’s soft hair. Kiss the top of her head. “That’s because you’re a good girl.”

  Taylor nods, still watching the movie. “I good and nice and pwetty and smawt and stwong.”

  Well, she’s got all the bases covered.

  Not sure the order’s correct but whatever. Dev, Zoe and I will work on that with her.

  Strength has to come first.

  A girl has to protect herself. Her physical self, yes, but just as important, she has to protect her heart.

  While Devyn curls up on the armchair with a thriller she picked up at the library and Taylor continues to alternately narrate the film and give her own commentary on the characters, I tip my head back against the couch. Stare at the ceiling.

  This—my feeling so down, so unsettled and, well, left out, I guess—is my punishment for hurting Sam last summer. For what I did at Christmas.

  That’s the thing about Karma. It doesn’t play favorites. And no one escapes it.

  It’s life’s way of keeping things balanced. Sam and I never should have been friends in the first place and this is Fate’s way of showing us the error of our ways.

  Mess with Fate and you get slapped upside the head.

  In the movie, Cinderella’s fairy godmother is making all her dreams come true when someone knocks on our front door. Eggie races over, barks, then runs back to us, quivering with excitement at this unexpected occurrence: a visitor on a Friday night!

  Then again, a visitor at any time, on any day, is cause for surprise and wonderment.

  One of us really needs to get a friend or two.

  Devyn gets up and crosses to the door and opens it. Eggie darts out to greet whoever’s on the other side.

  “Hey, Dev,” Sam says.

  Sam! Sam is here, at my house. Now.

  Crap.

  “Sam,” she says, and I hear her surprise. Her suspicion. “Hello. Haven’t seen you for a while.”

  “No, uh…” He clears his throat and I imagine him shifting uncomfortably. “Is Hadley home?”