The Art of Holding On

by Beth Ann Burgoon

  Turning slightly, I bent my left leg under my right one and opened my water while I let myself do something I normally avoided at all costs.

  I drank in the beauty that was Sam Constable.

  I had to. The boy was laid out before me like a free dessert buffet filled with my favorites, and the willpower I usually relied on melted away, taking along any resistance I might have felt with it.

  Sipping my water, I scanned his legs. Bits of grass clung to the hair on his calves and both knees had scabs—just like that day at his pool when our friendship began—though these marks were courtesy of him being knocked to the pavement during a vicious pickup game of basketball at the park. His khaki cargo shorts ended just above his knees, hanging low and loose on his waist, and the hem of his polo was bunched up, exposing the gray band of his boxers and an inch of his toned, tanned stomach.

  My fingers twitched. I’d never touched him there, that low on his belly, had never touched him anywhere on his bare stomach or chest or back, only casual, friendly touches to his arms or hands. What it would it feel like, to trace my fingertips along the elastic of his boxers? Would his muscles twitch? Would his skin be soft? Warm?

  Would he like it, me touching him?

  I wiped my damp palms down the front of my shorts. Those thoughts were dangerous. Dangerous and inappropriate and had been occurring way, way too frequently for my peace of mind. They left me jittery and uneasy, scared and confused.

  Jerking my gaze upward, I watched the steady fall and rise of his chest, my eyes on his interlaced hands as I counted each breath he took. Matched my own breathing to his until the jitteriness soothed. The uneasiness calmed.

  But the fear and confusion remained.

  They’d always been there, lingering in the background, coloring every moment I had with Sam. But lately they’d been pushing to the forefront, demanding more and more of my time. My attention.

  If I wasn’t careful, they’d take over and everything between us would be ruined.

  “Let’s go swimming,” I blurted and Sam twitched in surprise. Well, my words had been sort of sudden. And loud.

  After pushing his hat back on top of his head, he rose onto his elbows. “Now?”

  I couldn’t meet his eyes, not when I’d just been imagining what it’d look like, my hand on his stomach, so I hopped off the truck, kept my back to him as I pretended to brush something from my leg. “Yeah. We can swing by your house, go for a quick dip, then go to the McClains’.”

  “No time. Our lunch break is over in twenty minutes.”

  I turned, the dry grass prickly under my bare feet, as he pulled an apple out of his lunch pail and offered it to me. But it wasn’t the fruit that tempted me, it was him. Him and his stupid, sweaty ball cap, dark, watchful eyes and grass-stained clothes.

  Adam and Eve we weren’t. Though if I thought about it, the stereotypes fit.

  Wasn’t Eve the one who led Adam down a path of sin and rebellion?

  Not quite the same as trying to get Sam to take a few extra minutes at lunch, but still…

  I shook my head at the apple and he shrugged and bit into it himself.

  “That’s plenty of time. And no one’s home at the McClains’,” I pointed out. “They’ll never know if we’re a few minutes late.”

  The more I thought about it, the better my idea sounded. A swim would cool me off and clear my mind of any more thoughts about touching Sam.

  “Come on,” I said. “It may be eighty-six degrees now, but it’s only noon. It could climb into the hundreds within a few hours.”

  It probably wouldn’t, but it could. Anything’s possible, right?

  Even talking Sam Constable into stepping just one toe outside the lines of good behavior.

  “We’ll be quick,” I continued as he munched away on the apple, not the least bit enticed to go with my plan. This was so not how the whole Adam and Eve thing went in Eden. “Ten. Fifteen minutes, tops.”

  “Mr. G.’s counting on us to be back to work at one.”

  Why did he have to be so stubborn? So endlessly, continuously perfect?

  “Mr. G. doesn’t have to know,” I said, and yeah, I pouted a bit. Sue me. “No one does. And if we are caught—which isn’t going to happen—we’ll say we had trouble with the truck or that one of us wasn’t feeling well.”

  Sam looked at me as if I’d suggested we knock Mr. G. over the head with a shovel and hide his body in the compost collector.

  “What?” I asked, that single judgmental look making me defensive and, I might add, seriously ticked off.

  Not quite the emotions I’d been hoping to get to, but I’d take them.

  “We’re not going to lie to Mr. G,” he said, sounding like my dad or something—if my dad had bothered sticking around long enough to use that disappointed tone, that is. The only things missing were a young lady and this is the end of the conversation.

  “It’s not lying. It’s a little fib about being a few minutes late.”

  If he’d stop arguing with me, we could be halfway to his house by now instead of wasting even more of that time he’s so worried about.

  “It’s lying,” he said, his tone quiet and final. And more than a little holier than thou. “And I don’t lie.”

  That was the problem. And part of the reason I didn’t want to let this go. Not because I wanted him to lie, necessarily. I just wanted him to be a little less perfect. Just once I wanted us to be more equal.

  Maybe then I’d stop feeling like I was so far beneath him.

  I snorted. Like that would ever happen. Sam was everything good—honest, trustworthy, responsible, kind.

  He was so much better than me.

  “Hey,” he said, getting to his feet. He ducked his head to see my face beneath the brim of my hat. “We’ll take water breaks every twenty minutes this afternoon. And I’ll let you work the shadiest parts of the McClains’ yard.”

  The goodness never ended.

  Was it any wonder my feelings for him were so confused?

  If he’d just be a dick every once in a while, I wouldn’t have this problem.

  My movements jerky, I turned and grabbed my backpack, rifled through it for my sunscreen. “So I can feel guilty when you’re burnt to a crisp, dehydrated and dying of heat stroke? No, thanks.”

  Putting the apple in his mouth, he lifted his hat off with one hand, ran his other hand through his hair, then turned the hat and put it on backwards, a few tufts of dark hair sticking out from under the edge. All the while he watched me, like I was one wrong word away from ripping his head off and drop-kicking it off the side of the hill.

  Which, yeah, wasn’t that far from the truth.

  After taking another bite, he took the apple out of his mouth. Chewed and swallowed. “Is something wrong? You’re acting…”

  I froze, sunscreen bottle in one hand, eyes narrowed to slits. “How am I acting?”

  I already knew. I was acting like a crazy person. A hot, sweaty, cranky bitch who couldn’t control her thoughts or feelings. I wouldn’t even blame him if he asked if I was PMSing.

  I’d go ahead with that head-ripping-off, drop-kicking thing, but I wouldn’t blame him.

  “Off,” he finally settled on because even when I was at my worst, Sam was at his best.

  And he deserved way better than me taking some weird mood out on him. It wasn’t his fault I wanted something I couldn’t have.

  I sighed, contrite and embarrassed to have lashed out at him for no reason.

  Well, no reason I could give to him, anyway.

  “I’m fine,” I said, my gaze on the sunscreen I squeezed into my palm. “Let’s just forget it.”

  Bending over, I rubbed the sunscreen into my calves.

  “We’ll go swimming after work,” Sam said, leaning one hip against the tailgate. “I’ll even let you pick what we get for dinner.”

  Friday nights we got takeout and while Sam’s choice was always pizza (and I mean always) I liked to vary mine.

  �
�You won’t let me pick,” I said, straightening and squirting more sunscreen into my hand, then setting the bottle on the tailgate so I could apply it to my arms, “it’s my turn. But it’s going to have to wait until next week because I’m not coming over tonight.”

  “What? Why not? Because I won’t take an extra-long lunch and lie about it?”

  I rolled my eyes, rubbing my arms so hard I was surprised sparks didn’t shoot off my skin. “Hardly. I have other plans.”

  “Plans?”

  “Yep.”

  “Care to share what they are?”

  I didn’t much like his amused, disbelieving tone, as if I was making the whole thing up to get him to give in to me or beg me to spend the evening with him or something.

  “Sure,” I said, squirting a small amount of sunscreen onto my fingertips. “I’m hanging out with Colby.”

  “Colby Bricker?”

  Dotting the sunscreen on my face—chin, cheeks, nose and forehead—I nodded.

  “You’re hanging out with Colby Bricker?” he repeated. “Tonight?”

  “I’m not sure what part you’re having a problem with,” I said, rubbing the sunscreen in, “but the answer to both your questions is yes. I’m hanging out with Colby Bricker. And that hanging out is happening tonight.”

  “Since when do you hang out with Colby Bricker?”

  “Since now.”

  Or, more accurately, since thirty seconds ago when I realized I couldn’t spend the evening with Sam. Not when my feelings were so confused, my thoughts twisted and tangled.

  What I needed was space. Time to find a little clarity.

  And what better way to ignore my confusing, twisted, tangled emotions for the boy in front of me than spending time with another guy?

  “You don’t even know him,” Sam said, as if he knew everyone I was, and wasn’t, personally connected with.

  Which, yeah, he did, but jeez. I can make new friends without him being part of the vetting process.

  “Actually, we’ve been texting since we hung out at Ryan’s party last weekend. So I do know him.”

  Sam turned and winged the apple core over the hill with enough force to have it landing in the middle of Main Street. “Blow him off.”

  “What?”

  “Text him and tell him you can’t hang out with him tonight.”

  I raised my eyebrows. “That would by lying. And as you so helpfully pointed out a few minutes ago, lying is a no-no.”

  His mouth thinned. He edged closer and there was a shift in the air, a change in the energy surrounding us, one that had goose bumps rising on my arms, apprehension climbing my spine.

  One that had me wishing I’d never brought up Colby’s name.

  “It won’t be a lie,” he said. “Tell him you’re with me.”

  “It’s one Friday night. You’ll be fine without me. And now you can have pizza two weeks in a row.”

  Watching me, he shook his head slowly. “No. Tell him you’re with me.”

  There was something in his soft tone, in the gruffness of his voice that had me on edge. That left me breathless.

  Tell him you’re with me.

  With him as in…as in…him and me. Me and him. Together.

  Not just friends but something…more.

  Panic swept over me like a wave and I scurried back, needing to get as far away from Sam—his words and the intent in his eyes—as possible.

  I stepped on a sharp stone, the pain making me gasp and stumble. Sam caught me, his fingers wrapping around my arms just above my elbows, and I knew there was no escape. No way to stop this.

  Because he didn’t let go. Didn’t give me a there-you-go-pal pat on the shoulder.

  He held on, his fingers tightening. He pulled me closer, tugging me ever so slowly, ever so steadily toward him, until my bare toes touched the tips of his work boots.

  “You ever wonder?” he asked, the soft rumble of his voice vibrating through my body, the heady thrum of it settling low in my belly.

  I stared at our feet, unable to look at him. Afraid of what I’d see in his eyes. More afraid of what he’d see in mine. “Wonder what?”

  Without meaning to, my own tone matched his. Low. Husky. Thick with longing.

  He heard it, he must have, because his hands slid up my arms. “Do you ever wonder what it would be like to be with me?”

  My head snapped up, my eyes wide.

  But he wasn’t done. Nope, rocking my world with that single question wasn’t enough for Sam Constable. Not nearly enough.

  “Do you ever wonder,” he continued, watching his left hand as he skimmed it down my arm, those wonderful work-roughened fingers gliding across the sensitive skin of my inner forearm, past my wrist and scraping lightly against my palm, causing my fingers to twitch, “what it would be like to hold my hand?” He settled his hand on my waist, his thumb against my hip bone, fingers spread wide at my lower back. “Do you ever wonder what it would be like to touch me?”

  I trembled, my body instinctively answering when I couldn’t.

  He inhaled sharply and widened his stance, drawing me between his legs. “Do you ever wonder,” he repeated, his voice going even softer, dark and seductive as he slid his other hand up to cup my head, his palm cradling the back of my scalp, his fingers delving into the hair just under my hat, tipping my face up as he lowered his, “what it would be like to kiss me?”

  The air shuddering out of me, my gaze flicked to his mouth for one long second before I wrenched it back up to his eyes. “No.”

  I didn’t give him the answer he wanted, but he already knew the truth. We’d both known it, had hidden from it, for six years.

  Yes. Yes, I’d wondered what it would be like to be with him. Just as I knew he wondered, that he wanted to be with me in the same way. We were never meant to be just friends.

  But it was all we could be. All I could give him.

  And now that he’d brought it all out into the open, he wanted more. Sam would always want more.

  “Don’t be scared,” he murmured, his breath brushing against my cheek. “I won’t hurt you.”

  I shut my eyes against the sudden sting of tears. Of course he would hurt me. It was unavoidable now that he’d said too much, had changed things between us by touching me this way.

  If I didn’t stop this, I was going to lose him.

  Worse than that, I would hurt him.

  “Sam…”

  My words died in my throat, my hands going to his chest as he lowered his head, ducking under the brim of my hat before hesitating, his mouth inches from mine. Eyes open, breath held, I waited, the sound of my pulse beating in my ears, my body tight with tension until, finally, he brushed his mouth over mine.

  He raised his head, just far enough to meet my eyes, his forehead bumping my hat. “Kiss me back, Hadley.”

  I shouldn’t. It went against everything I needed to do to stop this madness from going any further. Would only make it that much harder for us to get past what had already happened, what had already been said.

  But his voice was so quiet, his tone almost a plea. And when he lifted his hand to tug off my hat and toss it aside, his fingers were unsteady. Under my palms, his heart beat wildly, as did the pulse at the side of his neck.

  He was nervous. Scared. Maybe as scared as I was, but he wasn’t going to let fear stop him from going after what he wanted. He was so much braver than me.

  For once, he was reckless.

  “Kiss me back,” he repeated in a whisper right before he settled his mouth against mine.

  His lips were soft and warm and firm and he tasted like apple—crisp and tart. But his kiss was sweet and edged with a need I couldn’t refuse.

  Rising onto my toes, I linked my hands behind his neck, pressed against him and kissed him back. He made a noise deep in his throat and held me tighter, one hand tangled in the hair at the nape of my neck, loosening my ponytail, the other dipping under the hem of my shirt, his fingers skimming over my skin.

 
Heat wound its way through my system and I stroked his shoulders and down his arms. He was broad and solid, the light scrape of the sparse stubble on his cheeks and chin a wicked contrast to the softness of his mouth. He deepened the kiss, his tongue stroking mine, and my mind blanked to everything but Sam. The feel of his mouth. The strength of him under my hands. His touch on my back, slow and sure and hypnotic as he trailed his fingers up my spine to my bra strap and then back down to the waistband of my shorts.

  But it wasn’t enough. Now that this moment was finally happening, I was greedy for more, my body working purely on sensation and instinct. I wiggled against him, trying to get closer. Wanted to tug him to the ground and pull him on top of me.

  Slipping my hands under his shirt, I pressed my palms against his stomach, against that band of skin I’d been so tempted by only minutes ago, finding it as soft and warm as I’d imagined. His muscles quivered and I curled my fingers slightly, scraping my nails against him. Drew them lower…

  Lower…

  His belly hollowed as he captured my wrists and tugged my seeking hands away. Lifted his head. We stared at each other, both breathing hard. In his grip, my hands shook and I cursed that telltale sign of weakness. The proof of how far gone I was over him.

  How far gone I’d always been.

  Sam smiled at me, that wonderful, crooked smile of his. “Guess that answers my question.”

  Do you ever wonder?

  All. The. Time.

  Except, now I didn’t have to wonder anymore. I knew.

  And knowing, having a taste of what I’d been missing, of what I could never have again, was so much worse.

  I stepped back. “Take me home.”

  Instantly, his smile was replaced with concern. “What’s the matter?”

  Sidestepping him, I headed around the truck. “I don’t feel well. I want to go home.”

  He sighed the drawn-out and patient sigh of the long-suffering. “Hadley--”

  “I want to go home,” I repeated, shrill and desperate and on the brink of tears. I sniffed and yanked open the passenger-side door, then reached in for my phone in the console. “If you don’t want to take me, I’ll call Devyn. Or Zoe.”