Unlike that hot summer day when we were ten, sitting along the edge of his pool, I don’t want anything from him. I’m not using him.
I owe him.
And things can’t be over between us, for good, until I pay him back.
He’s having a hard time readjusting to being back. Feeling left out. And while I’d love nothing more than to be all vindicated and superior knowing he’s suffering even just a little bit, I can’t.
Because it’s Sam.
Because it’s my fault he left.
I’ll go with him tonight. Help him ease into being a part of the group he walked away from.
And we’ll be even.
He’s not parked in our driveway but across the street, in front of Whitney’s trailer, and when I go around the front of his SUV to the passenger-side door, a movement on her porch stops me and I look up. Whitney’s there on a wooden swing, gently swaying back and forth. Smiling, she waves, but in her eyes I see it, the same thing I saw yesterday afternoon when she stood in my driveway.
Loneliness.
The guilt I felt for declining her invitation, for not inviting her to my house intensifies. Mixes with shame.
Before I can decide what I’m doing, I start up the porch steps.
“Where are you going?” Sam calls after me.
“I’ll be right back,” I tell him. I cross the wide porch and stand in front of Whitney. “Uh…hey.”
“Hello, Hadley.” Her gaze flicks past me and I know she’s looking at Sam, that he’s probably standing by his car waiting for me, ever the gentleman. She leans forward, stopping the swing, and lowers her voice. “Is everything all right?”
“Yeah,” I say, wondering if she’s worried that Sam is a stalker or a kidnapper or, at the very least, an unwanted presence in my life. God, if only that were true. The problem is, he’s not unwanted. Not completely. “Everything’s fine. Sam and I” –I jerk my head in the direction of the SUV— “are going to a party.”
“Oh.” She sits back, sets the swing moving again with her foot. “That’s nice,” she says as if I came up here just to inform her of my whereabouts, my comings and goings. But I stay silent too long because she adds, “Ya’ll have a nice evening.”
“Thanks.” I shake my head. “I mean, no, that’s not why I’m telling you. I thought… Do you want to come? With us, I mean. To the party,” I add just in case she thinks I mean to the moon or something.
She seems to be having a hard time following me.
“You want me to come with you to a party?” she asks, stopping the swing once again.
Definitely having a hard time following me. “Am I talking too fast? I mean, I know you talk slowly, but does that mean you hear slowly, too? Or maybe you’re not quite getting my northern accent.”
“I understood you just fine,” she says, speaking so slowly a normal-paced talker could have given a dissertation in the time it took for her to say those five words.
I think she did it on purpose.
I like her even more for it.
She may have understood me, but she still hasn’t answered me.
“Well?” I ask, regretting this impulsive decision. But, hey, what’s one more added to the list? “Do you want to go or not?”
Pursing her lips, she studies me, her head tipped to the side so that her long fall of hair brushes over her shoulder.
I fidget. Glance back at Sam, who is still waiting ever so patiently for me. For us. The silence grows and sweat forms at the base of my back. I’ve never done this before. How pathetic is that? I’ve never invited someone to do something with me. Sam made all the overtures. Asking me to his house, seeing if it was okay if he came over to mine.
Once I became a part of his group of friends, Kenzie and Tori were the same way, including me when they went shopping in Erie or picking me up so we could go to a football or basketball game together.
I’ve never had to put myself out there in any way. In this way.
Not sure I’m going to make it a habit after this.
The waiting, the possibility of being rejected, is terrifying.
But when she speaks, it’s not to send me on my way. And it’s not to gleefully, gratefully accept my invitation, which was sort of how I’d pictured this whole thing going.
“Is this a joke?”
I frown at her. “What?”
“A joke? Or a prank? You invite me to a party where you and your friends get the hottest guy in school to flirt with me. He’ll talk me into going into a dark bedroom with him, tell me how much he likes me, and just when I’m tipping my head up, eyes closed, for our first kiss, the lights will turn on and we’ll be surrounded by people who pour pig blood over my head.”
Pig blood?
I glance at Sam but he’s looking at his phone, giving no indication he can hear our conversation.
Our very weird conversation.
“Wow,” I say. “That was oddly specific. What kind of lives do you people live down there in the South?”
She blushes. “I read a lot. And watch a lot of movies.”
“I guess. But you’ve got it wrong. For one thing, the people at the party aren’t my friends. For another, the hottest guy in school would never set you up that way.” Sam holds that title and he’s way too decent for anything like that. “And honestly, I can’t imagine anyone there going through all that trouble to do something so mean. And pig blood? Forget it. Look, there’s no joke or prank. I just thought maybe you’d like to go with me.”
“If they’re not your friends, why are you and your boyfriend going to the party?”
And wouldn’t that take all night to explain?
“They’re Sam’s friends. And he’s not my boyfriend.”
Words I’ve said hundreds of times over the years. But this is the first time they give me a pang. But not the first time I’ve wished things could be different.
Whitney is looking at me like I’m ten pounds of crazy in a five-pound bag. “You’re going to a party with people who aren’t your friends with a boy who is not your boyfriend?”
Well, when she puts it like it, it does sound a bit…off.
“That’s the plan.”
“You,” Whitney tells me, “are a very confusing person.”
“I’m trying to be nice, here,” I say, even as part of me thinks that if I was really being nice, I wouldn’t have to point that out. Then again, nice is overrated. Dangerous.
And a good way to get hurt.
But I’m not mean, either. And I want desperately to prove it.
“Look, I saw you sitting here and I felt bad for you. If you don’t want to go, just say so.”
To my surprise, her shoulders straighten. Seems little Miss Southern Sunshine has some pride. And a backbone. I can’t help but admire both.
“This is a pity invite?” she asks, her accent thicker in her affront.
“You are spending Friday night at home.”
No sense telling her that until Sam showed up, I was in the same situation. Had been in that same situation every weekend for almost a year.
Except Whitney’s dark trailer and empty driveway tell me she’s alone. At least my night came with Devyn, Taylor and Cinderella’s mice friends.
“And I’m going to a party,” I continue, “with people who aren’t my friends with a boy who is not my boyfriend.”
“Ah.” She links her hands together at her waist, a wise and sage Southern belle in a long, floral skirt and ruffled sleeveless top. “I’m a buffer.”
“That’s also part of it. But the main reason I came over here, is because I know what it’s like.”
“What what’s like?”
“What it’s like to be alone.”
To be lonely.
Once again she studies me but this time it’s thoughtful. Knowing. And I can’t help but think that, in that moment, something shifts between us. We understand each other.
I may not be nice, but I can be kind.
She may be sweet, but she’
s also strong.
Don’t judge a book by its cover and all that.
Another of those lessons learned.
“I’d love to go,” she finally says. “Thank you so much for inviting me. I’ll just run inside and leave my mom a note. Will I need a sweater?”
“Probably not, but you’d better grab some shoes. You don’t want to be barefoot around these people,” I warn her as I head back down the stairs. “God only knows what you could step in.”
The sad part? I’m being serious.
Sam straightens as I approach. “Everything okay?”
Yet more proof he’s not a normal guy.
He doesn’t get angry that he’s being kept from his friends and, if memory serves me correctly about Beemer’s parties, copious amounts of alcohol and weed. Sam doesn’t get upset about waiting for me—and now another girl, one he’s never even met. He doesn’t lose his cool or his patience.
My life would be so much easier if he did. If he wasn’t so freaking good all the time.
“Fine.” There’s a breeze, a warm one, but it could cool off before long. Maybe I should have told Whitney yes on the sweater. Maybe I should have grabbed one for myself. “Whitney’s coming with us.”
He shifts his gaze to the trailer, then back to me. “Whitney?”
“Whitney McCormack. She moved here last month.” I realize how much Sam and Whitney have in common. It doesn’t sit well. “You’ll like her.”
He raises his eyebrows at my pissy tone. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” My voice is strangled and I’m blushing so hard I touch my cheek just to make sure my face hasn’t caught fire from it. No such luck. Guess I’m stuck finishing this conversation. “She’s…” Gorgeous, with her shiny hair and those big, brown eyes. But more than that, she’s sweet. Polite. Friendly. Everything Sam is. Everything I’m not. “Southern.”
He’s silent a beat. “Southern?”
I nod. Tug on my right earlobe, which has started to itch. “Right. She’s, you know, from one of the Southern states--”
“Hadley,” Sam interrupts, his mouth twitching from fighting a grin, “I know what Southern means.”
“Right.” I force my hand back to my side. Set it on my hip. Take it off. “Right,” I say again. “Well, anyway, like I said, she moved here—like you did. And she’s very polite—like you are. And she has an accent. A Southern one…”
“A Southern one, huh? Imagine that.”
I shut my eyes on a groan and wish a sinkhole would open and swallow me whole.
Of course Whitney’s accent is Southern. Hadn’t I just made it very clear she was from the Southern United States of America? What other kind of accent would she have?
“Are you okay?” Sam asks, a thread of humor in his voice.
I open my eyes. “Fine.”
And that’s what does it. My growly tone and do-not-mess-with me scowl. Sam finally gives me the full-out real smile I’d been missing only minutes ago. And it doesn’t matter that he’s laughing at me or that I sound like an idiot. An irritated, jealous idiot.
None of it matters because I really, really like his smile.
That, in a nutshell, is the problem with me and Sam, has always been the problem.
Liking him too much.
Wanting more than I can have.
And being unable to stop either one of them.
13
As I predicted, Sam has nothing to worry about.
The moment Whitney, Sam and I step into Beemer’s backyard, a cheer rises above the music.
“Hey!” Travis shouts, holding up his plastic cup in a victory toast. “Sammy is back!”
Yes, the conquering hero has returned. Let’s all get trashed and make bad choices in celebration!
Then again, at the time of my biggest mistake, I was stone-cold sober, so maybe they’re all onto something. Blame it on the alcohol.
“Sam…me,” Graham chants, like we’re in the stands at a basketball game and Sam has just won the game for us. “Sam…me! Sam…me!”
As most people don’t seem to be as drunk as him, only a handful of others join in but Graham keeps going, adding a hip gyration on the Sam and a pelvic thrust on the me.
“Eww,” Tori says, her face scrunched up. “God, Graham. No one should see that. Ever.”
“Amen,” I murmur as I walk between Sam and Whitney toward the crowd.
Whitney nods in agreement.
When it counts, us girls stick together.
Without missing a beat—or a Sam…me! Sam…me!—Graham turns his gyrating and thrusting on Tori, arms in the air Dirty Dancing style.
He’s never been one for picking up social cues, even when those cues are stated. Give him a few beers and all bets are off.
Luckily, Tori’s never been one for subtlety.
She gives him a two-handed shove, and he stumbles back. Would have landed in the fire if not for Travis, his perpetual wingman, catching him by the arm.
“Again…eww.” Tori jabs a finger in his direction. “Do not bring that crap around me.”
My lips twitch and Sam nudges me. “Guess not everything has changed after all,” he says softly and I can’t help but smile at him because he’s right.
Because, for a moment, being here with him, with these people we’ve known for so long…it’s like old times.
He smiles back, surprised and pleased, and I know he’s thinking the same thing I am. It’s almost like it was between us. When we did everything together, shared everything.
Except he didn’t share his secrets. Not all of them. He kept one from me, the most important one.
And now I’m keeping one from him. Two, but who’s counting?
I look away. Guess plenty’s changed.
Way too much for things to go back to how they used to be between us. I can’t get sucked in by Sam’s charm or memories of the good old days.
Can’t waste time wishing for those days to return.
We’re passing the huge wooden deck when the sliding glass door leading to the kitchen opens and Abby O’Brien steps out.
“Sam,” she breathes, stunned by her good fortune and the beautiful boy at my side. “Sam!” she repeats, this time on a squeal because she’s a squealer, the type of girl who hugs her friends (of which there are many) each time she sees them, then again when they say goodbye. Who jumps up and down and gives a high-pitched girly yell at the slightest bit of good news.
Abby is a very excitable person.
She runs toward us—runs—racing down the steps, boobs bouncing beneath her silky V-neck tank top, shoulder-length blond hair flowing behind her, and then throws herself into Sam’s arms.
Arms, I note, that go around her and hold her close, his large hands just above the waistband of her tight dark jeans.
Whether the squeal was some sort of call to the herd or if she proved with her hug that Sam really was here and not a figment of everyone’s alcohol-muddled imaginations, a stampede starts.
No, really, it’s a rush of people, a wave of them surging toward us, drawn together in their zest for life and their zeal to welcome home the prodigal son.
Whitney and I both step back. Then back again when Danielle Webster totters by, almost dumping her beer on us.
We walk up the steps to the empty deck. Stand at the railing and watch the scene below. Guys slap Sam on the back while girls line up to hug him, shooting hopeful, please-look-at-me-in-that-special-way glances at him from under heavily mascaraed eyes.
Whitney tips her head as she takes it all in. “Your friends--”
“They’re not my friends,” I mutter as Jackson thrusts a beer into Sam’s hand.
“Excuse me,” she says, not the least bit sarcastic, which is a feat unto itself. “Your not friends seem very happy Sam’s here.”
“He was gone for a while,” I explain, though honestly, even when Sam lived here, he always had quite the warm welcome wherever we went.
One of the many, many perks of being a golden boy.
“Gone on vacation?”
Below us, Abby presses against Sam’s side and lays her hand on his chest, all the better to bat her eyelashes at him as she gazes adoringly at his handsome face.
I wish I’d stayed home.
Regrets. Yeah, I’ve got a few.
And they just keep on piling up.
“No,” I say, turning away from the sight of Sam and Abby. “He lived with his dad in LA. Went to school out there last year.”
He and Max had gone out there for their annual summer visit two weeks after Sam stopped talking to me. At the end of the month, only Max came back.
“I see,” Whitney says softly, sympathy in her tone, understanding in her eyes. She gets it. What I’m feeling. What’s going on in my head.
Sam left. He left me and his mom and stepdad, his brothers and his friends.
He. Left.
And I’m the only one who can’t forgive him.
I really, really wish I’d just stayed home.
“What are you doing here?”
I turn as Mackenzie Porter steps out of the house, her scrunched-up face reminding me of Taylor’s ticked-off expression, her anger toward Cinderella’s mean sistas.
The scowl looks just as cute on Kenzie, with her short, spiky white-blond hair and delicate features, as it did on Taylor.
Life is so unfair sometimes.
Though it’s not even nine o’clock, Kenzie’s already on her way to being trashed—her words slurring, her steps extra-cautious as if the ground keeps shifting and rolling under her feet. At barely 105 pounds, she’s a complete lightweight.
She’s the first person to acknowledge my presence here, but there are no shouts of joy or beer toasts. No cheerful greeting, happy back slaps or warm embraces.
No one is happy to see me.
I firm my mouth when my lower lip wants to tremble in self-pity. Nope. Not going there. I knew this would happen if I came. I can handle it. I’d gotten used to Kenzie and Tori looking through me when we passed each other in the hall during school. Had become as good at ignoring them as they were at ignoring me in the two classes we shared. Told myself I didn’t care when I rode my bike home and they drove past, music blaring as they sang along, laughing and smiling and having a grand old time.
The Art of Holding On Page 8
