Now his hand goes to his heart and he stumbles back as if I’ve knocked him a good one. “Ouch. Hot Hadley, you sure do know how to hurt a guy.” He slings his arm around Sam’s shoulders, all brotherly solidarity and understanding. “Isn’t that right, Sammy boy?”
Sam shrugs him off, the move jerky and aggressive and very un-Sam-like, as he whirls on his brother. “Knock it off.”
A hard gleam enters Max’s eyes. So much for pot mellowing people out.
“Poor Sammy. All tied up in knots because Hot Hadley’s put you firmly in the friendzone. You know what they say about that, don’t you? Once you’re in the zone, you never get out.” He claps Sam hard on the back. “Take my advice, little brother, cut your losses.” Max looks at me long and steady. “Some people aren’t worth it.”
My head snaps back. My breath lodges in my chest.
Ouch.
Something’s going on with Max, something more than just sibling rivalry or him messing with Sam. He’s always been quick with a joke or a teasing comment. But he’s never been mean.
But now…he’s different. Harder. Angry.
And I’m terrified of what this new Max is going to do. What he’s going to say.
Someone calls Max’s name. Touching two fingers to his forehead, he salutes me and Sam. “Have fun, kids. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”
“Sorry about that,” Sam mutters as Max joins a group of kids he graduated with by the fire.
Ugh. That makes everything worse. This thing with Max, how he’s acting, the things he said, it’s not Sam’s fault.
It’s mine.
“Is Max all right?” I ask.
Now Sam looks at me. “Other than being stoned?”
“Yeah. Other than that.” Which isn’t anything new. He smoked pot occasionally when he was in high school. “He just seems…” Angry. Bitter. Lost. “Different.”
Sam shrugs, then clears his throat. “You didn’t correct him.”
“What?”
“What he said about…about me getting you back,” Sam says in a rush. “You didn’t correct him. Didn’t tell him you weren’t my girl.”
He’s right. For years people have said similar things to us, have called us a couple, had assumed we were boyfriend/girlfriend or, at the very least, hooking up regularly.
I always set them straight, as quickly and emphatically as possible.
I’m not Sam’s girl.
We’re not together.
We’re just friends.
But tonight, I hadn’t. And Sam noticed.
I lick my lips and open my mouth but no matter how badly I want to stammer out some lame excuse about it not mattering or a lie about how I hadn’t even realized Max had said that, nothing comes out.
“He was right about one thing,” Sam says.
Take my advice, little brother, cut your losses. Some people aren’t worth it.
I go still. And though it was what I thought I wanted, the idea of Sam cutting his losses, of him giving up on me, makes me sick to my stomach. “He was?”
He nods. “He was right about two things actually. I fucked up. And I’m going to do whatever it takes to get you back.”
15
I ran.
Okay, so I didn’t technically run. But it was close. More like speed-walking, complete with pumping arms and wiggling hips, all the better to put as much physical distance between me and Sam as quickly as possible.
What was I supposed to do? Stand there, gaping at him all night, Sam’s words playing over and over in my mind while he stared at me, intense and calm, as if what he’d said was no big deal?
I’m going to do whatever it takes to get you back.
It was a big deal. It was a huge, ginormous, gigantically big big deal.
Seriously. How’s a girl supposed to resist those particular words said in that particular deep, husky voice coming from that particular dark-haired, dark-eyed boy?
How am I supposed to resist?
I couldn’t. But I couldn’t give in, either. Could hardly jump into his arms with a huge grin and an all’s forgiven now let’s completely change the dynamics of our relationship and see how that works out for us!
I already know how it would work out. It wouldn’t. It would blow up in our faces and we’d be even worse off than we are now.
So, yeah, I took off. Right after I blurted out that I had to pee.
Not one of my finer moments.
I spent the next ten minutes locked in the bathroom. Would have stayed in there longer, staring at my reflection and trying to talk some sense into myself, if Katelyn Hainsey hadn’t knocked on the door.
I consider going back there, to that sink and mirror, and possibly never coming out again, when I rejoin the party and see Abby glued to Sam’s side.
He sees me, too, of course. There’s always been a sixth sense between us. An awareness. That hasn’t changed. The moment I step onto the deck, Sam looks over Abby’s head and meets my eyes.
I’m going to do whatever it takes to get you back.
I shiver at the memory of those words. The way he watches me now. How he looks at me, confident and determined. So differently than how he used to.
Head down, gaze averted, I skirt around Sam and Abby.
“Hadley,” he says softly, not letting me off the hook that easily. Not letting me keep running.
“I’m going to look for Whitney,” I say, still walking. “Make sure she’s okay.”
It’s as good an excuse as any and, better yet, one he can’t argue with, me checking on the welfare of our new friend. I make my way oh so slowly and super casually toward the fire. That’s me. Calm and controlled and not the least bit freaked out.
Maybe I’m blowing this whole thing out of proportion. Maybe Sam didn’t even mean it the way it sounded. How it came across.
I’m going to do whatever it takes to get you back.
Okay, so there aren’t that many other ways to take that, but it doesn’t make sense. He can’t get me back. I wasn’t his. Not in the way that implies. We were friends. Just friends.
Only friends.
Except we’re not friends. Not anymore. And that makes this whole situation even more confusing. More frightening. I need that label, that well-defined, easily understood definition of what we mean to each other. There are rules to friendship. Set lines that can’t be crossed. Firm boundaries that can’t be broken.
It’s that friendzone Max was talking about. Not that I agree with his assessment of once you’re in the zone, you never get out. Some do. But they shouldn’t. Friendship isn’t a punishment. It’s a neat and tidy box keeping everything where it’s meant to be. Safe. Secure.
Once you’re out of the box, out of the zone, it’s too much. Too much open space. Too much freedom. Too many chances for things to go wrong.
I want those boundaries. I need those rules.
Someone bumps into me and murmurs an apology. I shift to the right and glance at the faces around the fire. No sign of Whitney, but I spot Kenzie talking to Jeff Spittler near a wooden picnic table at the edge of the woods.
I walk up to them. “Where’s Whitney?”
“Who?” Kenzie asks, as if she’s never heard the name before. Never met the girl or dragged her away to share the wonders of her Southern accent amongst friends.
I sigh. Kenzie is wasted.
Thanks, I’m sure, to Jeff refreshing her drinks after Tori shut her off.
He’s a get-a-girl-drunk kind of guy.
“Whitney,” I say to Kenzie, hoping to jog her memory or maybe spark a few of her still-sober brain cells. “My new neighbor?”
She stares at me blankly.
Kenzie is beyond being any help to me.
But that doesn’t mean I can’t be of some help to her.
I take her cup.
“Hey,” she says, making a clumsy attempt to grab it back from me. “That’s mine.”
Holding the cup out of her reach—being five eight has its advantages, especially
when dealing with someone who’s barely five two—I dump the beer, then set the cup onto the picnic table.
I take her hand. “Come on.”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Jeff says, leaping to snag Kenzie’s other hand. New tug-of-war game. “Where’re you going, babe?”
I’m guessing he’s not talking to me.
Kenzie sways, though we’re all standing nice and still now. “I don’t know.” She looks at me. “Where are we going?”
“To find Tori. She wants to talk to you.”
“Oh. Okay.” She shakes her other hand but Jeff holds on. She leans toward me and whisper-shouts, “He won’t let go.”
“He’ll let go.” I keep my eyes on her face, but my words are for him. “If he doesn’t, I’m going to scream so long and so loud, not only will every guy here come running, but the neighbors will surely think a murder is taking place and call the cops. And won’t those cops find it interesting when they get here to discover a bunch of drunk teenagers and one, just one, mind you, guy over the age of twenty-one.”
He lets go.
“Kenzie and I are talking,” he says, getting in my face. “And you interrupted.”
“Sure did. And now, since we’re narrating this little scene, let me say, we’re leaving.”
“Bitch,” he calls after me.
I don’t turn back, don’t stop walking, just raise my voice. “Dude. You’re twenty-three. Stop coming to high school parties. It’s sad and pathetic. Find people your own age to hang out with.”
Kenzie leans heavily against my side. “Jeff’s a creeper.”
“Yes,” I say, wrapping my arm around her waist—the better to help her stay upright and keep her moving at a decent clip. “And what do we do when a creeper gives us alcohol?”
She looks up at me, big-eyed and earnest. “We just say no.”
“That’s right. Next time, just say no.”
“I will,” she vows, giving me her drunk word. Hooray. It’ll be carved in stone. She lays her head against my arm. “I didn’t want to hurt his feelings. Boys are sentasive, you know.”
“Sensitive.”
“That’s what I said. Sentasive.”
I can’t help it. I laugh.
And it hits me, how much I’ve missed her. Her and Tori. And for a moment, I let myself wish things could be different. That they could go back to how they used to be, at least between the three of us.
But like I told Sam, there’s no going back.
Not for any of us.
We walk around the crowd gathered at the fire. “Tori’s over there,” I say, pointing to where Tori and T.J. are plastered against one another near the above-ground pool. “Do they ever come up for air?”
Kenzie squints in the direction of my point. “No. They’re like animals.”
“Think you can make it to them by yourself?” I ask, not wanting to come face-to-face with Tori and her sharp tongue. Not tonight.
“Of course.” She takes one careful step, wobbles, but catches her balance and turns to look at me. “You’re not a bitch, Hadley. You’re just…”
I wait, breathlessly anticipating the great wisdom of the badly intoxicated.
“Hard,” she settles on as if that’s the nicest thing she can come up with. Which, if it is…ouch.
“And sort of,” she continues, wrinkling her nose, deep in thought for another long moment, “cold. Not, like, temperature wise,” she clarifies, “but feeling wise, you know?”
I wince. Double ouch.
Drunk or not, she hit the nail on the head. My head. “Gee, thanks.”
She nods solemnly. Like toddlers, sarcasm is lost on the wasted. “You’re welcome.”
I watch as she bobs and weaves her way to Tori and T.J., waiting until she arrives safely at her destination—like I do when I take Taylor to Mrs. Richter’s, standing by the door to make sure Taylor is happy and safe before I leave.
Kenzie says something to Tori and gestures my way and they both look at me.
I turn and walk away.
Consider not stopping until I’m home.
First Abby hanging on Sam, then Max and his thinly veiled insults and now Kenzie telling me I’m hard-hearted and emotionally cold.
The fun. It never ends.
I wander the yard for another five minutes before going around the garage and onto the porch, then in through the front door. It’s a quiet search. I get a few curious glances and a couple of Sam’s buddies give me the guy nod, but no one slows me down with a friendly greeting or stops me for a quick chat.
Whatever. We hard, cold, unworthy people don’t need that kind of validation to feel good about ourselves. We have inner acceptance.
I step into the kitchen and finally find Whitney.
With Max.
Her back is against the counter, a cup in her hand and a stunned, how-did-I-get-this-lucky look on her face. Max is towering over her, one hand on the counter next to her side, allowing him to show off the play of muscles in his arm every time he moves. He’s in full guy-on-the-make mode, leaning close to speak in her ear, trailing the finger of his free hand down her arm, giving her long, soulful looks.
Blech.
She’s eating it up, lips parted, eyes wide as she takes in the glory that is Maxwell Constable.
I really, really, really don’t want to go over there, don’t want to talk to Max, not after he goaded Sam that way earlier, as if trying to pick a fight. Not after he was such a prick to me.
Some people aren’t worth it.
I’m in no hurry to put myself through that awkwardness again, thanks just the same.
Whitney seems smart enough. Capable of taking care of herself. I’m sure she can decide on her own whether to give a guy like Max the one—the only—thing he wants from a girl.
I’m not the moral police, for God’s sake. Not even close. If Whitney wants to hook up with Max, well, that’s her right. Her choice.
I already jumped into someone else’s business tonight, making sure Kenzie was free of creeper Jeff. I should just buff the imaginary gold star on my chest and go on my merry way, content that my good deed for the day is done.
But I can’t, in good conscience, leave Whitney at Max’s mercy.
The least I can do is make sure she knows what she’s getting herself into.
I walk toward them when Whitney tears her attention from Max and smiles at me.
“There you are,” she says. “I was looking for you.”
I glance behind me, but nope, she’s not talking to someone else. “You were? Why?”
“Because I came with you. I can’t just abandon you. That would be rude.”
She and Sam must have read the same party-etiquette rulebook.
“So you decided to look for me in Max’s eyes?” I ask.
“Actually, Maxwell suggested it would be better if I stayed in one place and let you find me.” She beams at him, proud that so much pretty also came with half a brain. “He was right. And he’s been kind enough to wait here with me.”
“Yes,” I say, tone flat, eyes narrowed on Max. “Well, that’s Maxwell for you. A regular Boy Scout.”
If the Boy Scouts are into getting high, drinking to excess and hooking up with as many girls as possible.
Max sips his drink, watching me over the rim, not quite as buzzed, it seems, as earlier.
Give him time and he’ll get that high back. Give him time.
“It’s like you don’t really mean that, Hadley,” he says, no Hot to be found before my name.
Yep. Definitely on the make.
“Listen,” I say to Whitney, “I get that this” –I gesture from the top of Max’s perfectly tousled, dark hair down to his sneakers then back up to circle my forefinger around his face— “is nice to look at. He really is all kinds of pretty--”
“Flatterer,” Max murmurs.
“And,” I continue, “I realize you and I don’t know each other that well, but I feel it’s my duty as a female and the person who is ultimately responsibl
e for you being here and therefore responsible for you meeting him--”
“This,” Max says, eyebrows raised, “him. I’m not just a sexual object, here for you to ogle and fantasize about. I have a name.”
I roll my eyes and barrel on. “I feel it’s my duty to warn you that Max” –I glance at him and he nods— “is not the guy for you.”
There’s a beat of silence while that all sinks in.
Silence broken when Max laughs, long and low.
Once again, I’ve amused the heck right out of him.
Still chuckling, still holding his cup, he raises his hands as if in surrender. “No need for warnings. I was just keeping Whitney company until you showed up. And now that you have, I’ll just take this all kinds of pretty and get myself another drink.” He tips his cup to Whitney in a toast. “Nice meeting you.”
He gets only halfway across the kitchen before a pretty junior in a crop top is by his side.
The Constable brothers. Never lacking for female attention.
“I don’t know whether to thank you,” Whitney says, her expression unreadable, her tone mild, “or pick you bald-headed.”
My hands go to my head, as if she’d reached up to start yanking out strands. “You should thank me. Unless you’re totally into players who get trashed every weekend.”
“No,” she says slowly, thoughtfully, as she watches Max pull the same moves on Miss Crop Top that he’d tried with her—the leaning, light touching and deep looks, “I’m not into players.” With a deep and what I’m thinking is a cleansing inhale, she turns to me. “Thank you.”
It’s a moment of sisterhood. Of female empowerment. And possibly, of budding friendship. For once, I don’t run. For once, I don’t mess it up.
I smile back. “You’re welcome.”
16
As soon as Sam pulls to a stop in front of Whitney’s place, I unbuckle with one hand and grab the door handle with the other, ready to jump out and dart across the street to the safety of my own home. There’s only one teeny tiny problem.
The door won’t open.
Sam has engaged the childproof locks. It’s almost as if he read my mind. Sensed my need to escape.
This boy knows me way too well.
The Art of Holding On Page 10
