The Art of Holding On

by Beth Ann Burgoon

My eyes widen. Wow. He must really be nervous, or at least, anxious. Usually he’d give Devyn his whole charming spiel—asking her how she is, apologizing for showing up unannounced, offering to take out the garbage or mow the lawn.

  But tonight he got straight to the point.

  That can’t be good for me.

  I try to mentally link minds with Devyn. Tell him I’m not home. Tell him I’m not home.

  “Of course she’s home,” she says, her tone implying where else would she be?

  I hang my head. Well, the whole ESP thing was a long shot anyway but she didn’t have to say it like that.

  As if I haven’t left the house since Sam left.

  Which is basically true but she doesn’t have to let him in on that little detail.

  I shift Taylor onto the couch and stand, ready to bolt out the back door because you can bet your sweet bibbity, bobbity boo I wish I wasn’t here. I wish I was out, somewhere, anywhere with anybody, preferably an entire group of people who enjoy my company, laugh at all my jokes and hang on my every word.

  But I’m too late to escape. Sam’s already stepping inside thanks to my sister opening the door wide and gesturing for him to come on in.

  Even for Karma, this latest bit seems excessive.

  “Hadley,” Devyn says as she leads Sam into the living room, “look who’s here.”

  Ugh. Yes. I can see who’s here. You don’t need to use that fake chipper, this-isn’t-awkward-at-all tone. The boy is six feet tall and so shiny and pretty it’s as if a holy light is shining down on him.

  He’s hard to miss.

  And it is sooo awkward.

  For Sam, too, it seems, who is usually comfortable and at ease in any and all situations. His hands are in the front pockets of his jeans, and under the material of his green V-neck T-shirt, his shoulders are tense. Eggie, thrilled to have some reprieve in his life filled with estrogen, bumps his head repeatedly against Sam’s leg and Sam bends down to scratch behind Eggie’s ears, sending my dog into ecstasy.

  “Hey, Eggie,” Sam murmurs. “Hey, boy.” Still petting Eggie, Sam looks up at me, his gaze skimming over me, and I remember I’m in my Friday night outfit—soft gray gym shorts and a black tank top. No bra. He clears his throat. “Hi, Hadley.”

  My face burns and I cross my arms over my chest. I open my mouth but my throat is dry and nothing comes out.

  “Sam,” Devyn says a bit too loudly, as if her increased volume will somehow make up for my lack of verbal skills, “would you like something to drink? Chocolate milk? Or something to eat? Hadley made cookies last night.”

  I wince because, yes, my sister did just offer Sam milk and cookies.

  I look up at the heavens. Seriously. Enough is enough already.

  “No, thanks,” Sam says as he straightens. Eggie leans against him, his new favorite person. I glare at my dog. Traitor.

  Sam smiles softly at Taylor. “Hey, Taylor.”

  She squeaks in distress and clambers to her feet, her cup falling to the floor. “Up, Haddy!” Arms raised, she bounces on the couch cushion in frustration and fear. “Up, up, up!”

  I lift her and she buries her face in the crook of my neck, her legs around my waist. She’s like a python, squeezing the life out of me, but her little body is vibrating and she’s making small noises in the back of her throat.

  “Shh…shh…” Swaying side to side, I jiggle her. “It’s okay. It’s just Sam.”

  Her grip tightens.

  Taylor’s life is filled with women. Zoe and Devyn and me. Mrs. Richter. Rebekah and Christine, Devyn’s friends from the nursing home where she works as a CNA, who sometimes come over for a glass of wine and a we hate men bitch-fest. And Carrie, Zoe’s coworker at Top-Mart, a single mom of a four-year-old daughter, who Zoe and Taylor hang out with sometimes.

  Taylor’s aware the male species exists, but to her, they’re out there. At the store or park or McDonald’s. In cartoon form in her movies. They’re not here, in our house, taking up too much space, speaking in their deep voices, so much bigger than all of us. So different than we are.

  So confusing and heartbreaking and exciting and terrifying all at once.

  “Sorry,” Sam mumbles. “I shouldn’t…” He shakes his head. “Sorry,” he says again, then he turns and walks out.

  “It’s okay,” I tell Taylor as the door shuts behind him softly. “He’s gone.”

  I rub her back and she lifts her head. As soon as she sees for herself that the living room truly is male-free (not counting Eggie, of course), she wiggles to be put down.

  “I wanna watch Cinda-ella, Haddy! Cinda-ella,” she calls, as if Cinderella is going to step out of the TV and beat me with her ugly glass shoe until I obey the two-year-old tyrant. “Cinda-ella!”

  Talk about ungrateful.

  I set Taylor on the couch, where she settles back, queen of her castle once more. “Next time a boy shows up here,” I tell her as I pick up the sippy cup, “you’re on your own.”

  But the joke is on me because…ha ha!... this is probably the last time a boy shows up here. I sure don’t plan on inviting one over any time soon.

  I look at the door. No boys for me, at least not in the foreseeable future.

  Just as soon as I get rid of the one who’s here tonight.

  9

  “I’ll be right back,” I mumble, avoiding Devyn’s eyes as I head toward the front door.

  “Hadley…”

  But I pretend I don’t hear her. I know she has questions—and, knowing Devyn, many, many thoughts, opinions and suggestions she wants to share—but I can only handle one thing at a time.

  First on that list is seeing if Sam really is gone.

  In the hall, I grab Zoe’s black hoodie and put it on, tugging the zipper up as I step into the muggy night. Sam’s standing at the top of the porch stairs, his back to me, his hands once again in his pockets.

  I exhale soundlessly.

  He’s still here. He didn’t leave.

  He didn’t leave, and instead of being disappointed, instead of being resigned that I have to deal with him, I’m relieved.

  My fingers tighten on the zipper. This is all wrong. I’m not supposed to be relieved he stayed. I’m not supposed to be the slightest bit happy he came to see me. Not the least bit curious as to what he has to say.

  But I am. I am all those things. I’m also nervous and frustrated and angry.

  Boys. They sure know how to mess with a girl’s head.

  The only way to resolve this, to get him out of my head, is to send him on his way as quickly and painlessly as possible.

  I pull the door shut with a soft click and he stiffens but doesn’t face me and there’s something in his posture, the tension in his neck, the way his shoulders are rounded, that gives me pause. He looks so dejected. So alone.

  He’s not, of course. He’s Sam Constable, friend to everyone.

  Everyone but me, that is.

  His decision, I remind myself. Everything that happened between us was his doing. His choice.

  But only after you’d made yours, a small voice inside reminds me.

  I lick my lips. “Sam--”

  “Taylor’s scared of me,” he says, his voice a low rumble.

  There’s something in his tone, a note of self-disgust or maybe self-pity, and I can’t send him on his way yet.

  “It’s a phase,” I tell him. “She’s been nervous around guys…men…boys” –yep, that should cover the entire human, male species— “for a few months now.”

  Across the street, past Whitney’s trailer, the sun sets behind the rolling hills, leaving streaks of pinks and purples in the sky. Sam seems to glow where orange light touches him—his head, his shoulders.

  Great. Just what I need. Yet another reminder that Sam is all light and goodness and everything right in the world.

  Everything I don’t deserve.

  Finally, he faces me but he looks over my head. His expression is unreadable. Or maybe I no longer have the ability to rea
d him. To know what he’s thinking, what he’s feeling, by looking at him. That thought gives me an odd ache in my chest. Makes me feel hollowed out and empty.

  And this, this right here, right now, is another reason why he shouldn’t have come back. Should have left me alone. Every time we’re together, every time it’s not like it used to be, it’s as if I’m losing him all over again.

  “It’s not you,” I continue. “I mean, it is, but it’s not personal.” I push the sleeves of the sweatshirt up but I’m still sweating, itchy and uncomfortable from the heat and Sam’s silence. “She’s just not used to guys coming to the house, that’s all.”

  Now his gaze meets mine, seeking and intense. “You haven’t hung out with any other guys?”

  That’s not what he’s asking. He’s asking if I’ve gone out with anyone. If I’ve hooked up with any boys since he’s been gone.

  I think about that cold night last winter when I made such a huge mistake. How desperate I’d been. How broken.

  I can’t lie to Sam. Not again.

  But I can’t tell him the truth, either. Not ever.

  Besides, what I’ve done, who I’ve been with—or haven’t been with—is none of his business.

  “That’s not the point.” Avoidance. My favorite coping mechanism. “The point is that you haven’t been around for almost a year. That’s a long time. I mean, it’s, like, half of Taylor’s life. She doesn’t even remember you.”

  “Yeah, that’s clear.” He sighs. “She’s grown so much.”

  “Life went on without you,” I say, shooting for an easy tone, one with just a hint of smugness because, hey, all those months ago, I’d told myself he’d regret leaving. It’s nice to be right once in a while. “Did you think it wouldn’t?”

  “No,” he says, all quiet and gruff. “I knew it would.”

  All my righteous vindication shrivels up and dies at the pain in his eyes. As I’d predicted, he regrets his choice, but I can’t enjoy it. I don’t feel victorious. Just small and mean.

  Damn him.

  “Charlie’s four inches taller,” he continues. “How the hell did that even happen? I just saw him at Christmas…” He trails off, obviously not wanting to talk about that specific time in our lives. Guess I’m not the only one in love with avoidance. “He’s pissed at me for leaving, too. So you don’t have the market on that cornered.”

  I doubt that. Charlie, Sam and Max’s twelve-year-old half-brother, worships them both. “I can’t imagine him ever getting mad at you. And even if he is, he won’t stay mad. Not for long.”

  “Yeah, well, like you said,” Sam says, his mouth curving into a soft, sad smile, “life goes on. Things change.”

  It’s the smile that gets me. It’s so unlike Sam and I realize I haven’t seen him smile for real, haven’t seen him happy since he’s been back. That I can’t remember the last time I heard him laugh.

  I move toward him without meaning to, without conscious thought or decision, hand raised to touch him, to offer him some comfort. Except, that’s not my job anymore. Not my place. And I stop and curl my fingers into my palm and lower my arm.

  I stare at the porch floor, the wood cool beneath my bare feet, my heart racing. “Why are you here, Sam?”

  He’s quiet so long I don’t think he’s going to tell me, but then he blurts it out, his words quick and pleading and not at all what I’d expected. “Come to the party with me.”

  “What?”

  “At Beemer’s,” he clarifies though I know what party he’s talking about. “Come with me.”

  He hasn’t moved, isn’t crowding me in any way, shape or form, but I need more space, so I take a step back. “I’m not exactly a part of that social group anymore.”

  Not since Sam left.

  “Neither am I.”

  “Please. It’s being thrown in your honor. Everyone is going so they can see you. Hail the conquering hero and all that.”

  “I was in LA. Not fighting terrorists.”

  “Ah, but you survived your junior year at a private school, surrounded by the sons and daughters of the rich and famous. All those super-white, super-shiny teeth! The spray tans and fake boobs.” I give a fake shudder. “The horrors.”

  “Some of the teeth really were blindingly bright. It was a risk just to go to calc class without sunglasses.”

  “Wow,” I deadpan. “So brave.”

  He tugs on his ear. “But the…uh…the boobs weren’t so bad.” He grins. Shrugs. “I mean, if you’re into that sort of thing.”

  I fight my own smile because he is not getting to me. “Well, seeing as how at least half of your friends are guys and all but one heterosexual, then I’d say you’ll have plenty of people who’ll be thrilled to hear all about your exciting, boob-filled life in LA. Me? I’ll pass.”

  “Come with me anyway,” he says when I turn to go back into the house. “Mackenzie and Tori will be there. Mackenzie says she hasn’t seen much of you lately.”

  I whirl around. “You talked to Kenzie about me?”

  “I just asked her how you were doing. That’s all.”

  “As you can see, I’m doing just fine. No need to discuss me with anyone else. Ever.”

  I turn back to the door.

  “She said she didn’t really know how you were,” Sam says, stopping me once again. “That you two haven’t been hanging out.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Why not?”

  Tucking my hands into the sweatshirt pockets, chin lifted, I face him. “Because after you left, it became crystal clear that our friends were really your friends.”

  “What does that mean?”

  It means that Sam brought me into his world of friends and parties and group outings.

  Then he took it all away.

  “When a couple gets divorced,” I say, “their friends have to decide which side they’re on. And Mackenzie and Tori and T.J. and Jackson, all of them, they chose you.”

  He steps closer. “Hadley, I swear, I didn’t say anything to any of them.”

  “Well, then, I guess they figured it out.”

  “Figured what out?”

  My throat tightens. “That I’m the reason you left. They figured it out,” I repeat, “and they blame me for it.”

  He blinks, but he doesn’t deny I’m the reason he moved in with his dad. “I didn’t know.”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “It matters to me,” he insists because he’s too honorable to let any insult go unchallenged. Any hurt to go unhealed. Any except the ones he caused, that is. “I’ll talk to them--”

  “No.” God, it’s bad enough he feels sorry for me. Poor Hadley, friendless and alone since he left. I don’t need the entire school to know it. I mean, I’m sure they suspect, but having him confirm it? Gah. “Don’t say anything to anyone.”

  He watches me for a moment, then exhales harshly. “Fine.”

  But that mutter didn’t exactly sound reassuring. “I mean it, Sam. Not a word. To anyone.”

  “I won’t say anything.” But he must see the worry on my face because his tone softens as he adds, “I promise.”

  Before, I never would have doubted him. Before, I trusted him with everything.

  Things change.

  Still, I don’t have much choice. He’ll either keep his mouth shut or he won’t, and like everything else that Sam does or doesn’t do, the choice isn’t up to me. What I want doesn’t matter.

  “Okay,” I say, the only answer I can give. I almost add thank you but stop myself in time. “Have fun at Beemer’s.”

  “I don’t want to go alone.”

  I frown. “What?”

  “I don’t want to go the party alone,” he repeats, “but more than that, I don’t want to go without you.”

  “You’ve been to plenty of parties without me. Or are you going to try and tell me you sat home every weekend while in LA?”

  “That’s different.”

  “Yeah, because unlike out there, you’re goi
ng to know every single person at this party. Have known them half your life.”

  “It won’t be the same. Nothing’s the same,” he says and his voice cracks like it hasn’t done since he was thirteen. “I knew if I came back, things would be different, but nothing is how I thought it would be. Charlie barely speaks to me, Mom stares at me as if I’m going to disappear if she blinks and any time I try to hang out with Max, he brushes me off. I’ve only seen Jackson once since he’s with Fiona now—and how did that even happen? And all Travis and Graham talk about is what a hardass the new basketball coach is and the girls they met at some party they went to a few weeks ago… Everything’s different now.”

  He’s right. Things are different. His choice. And he doesn’t get to be all frustrated and irritated by it now just because he feels left out. Left behind.

  Welcome to my world.

  So why do I feel bad for him?

  Oh, right. Because I’m an idiot where Sam is concerned.

  “My going with you to Beemer’s isn’t going to magically change it all back,” I tell him.

  “No, but if you come, if we go together, things will be like they used to. At least for one night.” He stops and I watch his throat move as he swallows. “We both know we can’t go back, but we can move forward, right? And maybe for one night, a few hours, we can pretend…”

  “Pretend what?”

  “Pretend things haven’t changed. That I never left.” His voice drops to a low, rough note. “We could pretend you don’t hate me.”

  “I don’t hate you,” I say, the words tumbling out of my mouth in a heated rush. I snap my lips together. I shouldn’t give him even that bit of truth, not when he can turn it around, use it against me. “I don’t hate you,” I repeat because I can’t lie. Not about this. “I wish I did. It’d be so much easier.”

  He holds my gaze. Nods. “I know.”

  It hits me that he does know. He understands exactly what I’m going through. What I’m feeling. He gets me. Always.

  But it’s more than that. He knows, he understands, because it’d be easier on him if he hated me, too.

  My throat burns with unshed tears and I find myself weakening. Waffling. I can’t go to that party with him. Shouldn’t go anywhere with him. Spending time with Sam will only remind me of what I’ve lost. Of how much it hurt when he turned his back on me.