The Art of Holding On

by Beth Ann Burgoon

  Because two-year-olds are known far and wide for their logic.

  Taylor’s logic tells her that the tiny plastic toilet next to the bathtub is a torture seat that will suck her soul from her body if she sits on it.

  I gave Taylor a quick bath, changed my shirt and stripped my bed, throwing the sheets, Taylor’s pajamas and my tank into the washing machine before getting Taylor her juice and finally letting Eggie back inside.

  Now Taylor and I are on the top step of the porch, Eggie lying next to me. It’s not so awful, sitting out here on a warm Saturday morning, Taylor’s tiny body curled against me.

  Morning Taylor is my favorite. She’s cuddly and sweet and it reminds me of when she was a baby.

  Morning Taylor is only around for a limited time, though. Like a Shamrock Shake. You have to be quick or you’ll miss it completely. After thirty minutes, forty tops, she wakes up enough to start talking.

  Right now, though, she’s content to stay quiet, the back of her head resting against my chest, the fingers of her left hand idly stroking my arm as she sucks down her second cup of juice.

  Eggie lifts his head and looks down the road, his tail thumping against the wooden floor boards. A moment later, a car approaches and I think it’s our neighbor, Mr. Keane, but as the vehicle gets closer I see I’m wrong. It’s an SUV.

  A black Explorer that slows then stops in front of my house.

  I’m not even all that surprised. Not after everything he said last night.

  I’ll come after you.

  I missed you.

  I’ll do whatever it takes to get you back.

  Nope, not surprised Sam’s at my house, bright and early on a Saturday morning to have his say.

  Problem is, I’m not exactly unhappy about it, either.

  The bigger problem? I’m way too interested in hearing him out.

  I tip my head back and glare at the sky. “Seriously?” I mutter while the stupid Fates laugh their butts off at my lot in life. “You haven’t messed with me enough so far today?”

  Guess not, because when I lower my head, Sam is strolling up the sidewalk. Eggie races down to give him a proper, enthusiastic greeting, which includes running in circles around him three times, then shoving his nose into Sam’s crotch.

  Taylor whips around, whacking me so hard in the chin with her sippy cup, my teeth clack together.

  “Ow.” I rub the spot then take the stupid cup from her. “Be careful.”

  Paying no attention to my stern tone—like her mother, she only hears what she wants to hear—her knees dig into my stomach as she turns and stands, her bare feet on my thighs. Capturing my face between her two sticky hands, she leans forward until our noses touch. “Who dat?” she whispers.

  “That,” I whisper back, sensing him getting closer and closer and closer, “is Sam. He was here last night. Remember?”

  She jiggles my face side to side as she shakes her own head fiercely, her face scrunched up in a tiny scowl. “No, Sam, Haddy. Don’t want Sam here.”

  Taking both her wrists in one hand, I gently tug her hands from my face. “You and me both, kid. You and me both.”

  This is as good a time as any for Taylor to learn the most valuable of all life lessons: You don’t always get what you want.

  I sure don’t.

  Especially when it comes to Sam Constable.

  Except, when he stops at the bottom of the steps, his hand on my adoring dog’s head, I’m not sure what that is anymore. What I want from him.

  All I know is that he’s here, looking way too good with his hair still damp from his shower, his face clean-shaven, his eyes clear and bright and studying me in that searching way of his. Like he’s trying to read my mind. Wanting to know my every thought. My feelings.

  Everything I can’t let him see.

  “Good morning, Hadley,” he says and the sound of his deep voice causes Taylor to squeak and put me in a chokehold as she presses her face against my neck.

  Since speech is beyond me—what with my trachea being crushed and all—I nod in greeting.

  He shifts his weight from one side to the other. Looks so nervous, so unsure, I can’t help but soften toward him. And isn’t that what makes him so dangerous to me? How easily he can get to me. How I feel about him even after everything that’s happened between us.

  “Do you want to go to out?” he asks. “Get some breakfast?”

  I reach back and loosen Taylor’s grip. “I can’t. I’m babysitting.”

  “She can come. We can go to the bakery.”

  The Davis Bakery is my favorite place to go and breakfast is my favorite meal to go out for.

  Which Sam darn well knows.

  I’m more tempted than I should be. All part of his dastardly plan.

  Just because he’s pretty doesn’t mean he’s a dummy.

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” I say, my self-protection instincts kicking in.

  Better late than never, right?

  He nods as if he expected no less than my refusal. As if he came all this way just to give it a shot and now that he has, well, he tried. No harm done. “Okay.”

  He turns and walks away.

  And I bite my tongue so I don’t call him back.

  Maybe he’s not so stubborn after all.

  Or maybe he’s gotten smart and is finally giving up on me. For good.

  Which was what I’d wanted. What I’d always known would happen.

  But knowing it and experiencing it are two totally different things.

  Taylor lifts her head. “Him leaving?”

  “Yeah,” I say, as Sam waits for a car to pass before stepping onto the street, leaving Eggie at the curb. “Him’s leaving.”

  Though it’s already in the seventies, I’m suddenly chilled. I want nothing more than to go inside, curl up on the couch under the blanket and hide there for…oh…the rest of the summer should do the trick. But that would be admitting how disappointed I am that Sam is getting into his SUV. And if I admitted that little nugget of honesty, then I’d also have to admit how, deep down, I’d secretly hoped he meant everything he’d said last night.

  I’ll do whatever it takes to get you back.

  Stupid, silly, delusional me. I know better than to believe the pretty words some guy spouts. Boys will say whatever it takes to get what they want.

  They’ll say whatever a girl wants to hear.

  Actions speak louder than words. Which is why I don’t go inside and hide under a blanket. I force myself to sit there so I can watch Sam drive away.

  Actions over words.

  Except, he doesn’t. Drive away, that is. Oh, he opens the driver’s-side door and even climbs in, but he doesn’t turn on the ignition. Instead he leans down as if reaching for something then straightens, slides out of the vehicle and shuts the door.

  And once more, heads my way.

  This time carrying a bakery box.

  I stand, settling Taylor on my hip. “What’s that?”

  “I stopped at the bakery on the way over here. In case I needed something to convince you to talk to me.”

  He doesn’t. Isn’t that obvious? He doesn’t need to bribe me—or any girl—to talk to him. To listen to that deep voice of his. To spend time with him.

  That’s only one of the many, many reasons why he’s so flipping dangerous.

  He opens the box’s lid. There are half a dozen donuts, three scones, two muffins, two pieces of apple strudel, two croissants, and a huge, frosted cinnamon roll.

  I try to play it cool but it’s not easy when my stomach is rumbling and my mouth watering. Even Taylor has lifted her head to goggle at the wonders before us. “Wow,” I say, “when you bribe a girl, you go all out.”

  He shuts the lid. “I didn’t want to take the chance of you saying no.”

  As if that would even happen. This boy knows the way to my heart—through my stomach.

  I shouldn’t give in. No matter how badly I want one of those scones.

  “I d
on’t know,” I say, as if thinking it through. “I didn’t see any bear claws in there. That might be a deal breaker.”

  “It’s not.”

  “No? Because you’re hiding one in your pocket?”

  He shakes his head. “Because you don’t like bear claws.”

  True. And trust him to remember that.

  He’s sneaky. Knowing me better than anyone, bringing treats here to lure me into conversation.

  Sneaky and smart.

  But the donuts, scones, muffins and cinnamon roll aren’t what get to me. It’s him.

  He’s always gotten to me.

  “Let’s go inside,” I grumble, a less-than-gracious hostess to my uninvited company, way less than grateful for the box of sweets I’m dying to dive into like a pool. “If we’re going to talk, I’m going to need some coffee.”

  20

  Making coffee with a two-year-old clinging to your neck like a spider monkey isn’t easy but, like so many Jones’ girls before me, I do what I have to.

  Sam offered to make it but I’m not in the best headspace to have him moving around our tiny kitchen like he belongs here, familiar with where we keep the coffee and filters and cups. It would just remind me of…well…everything. How much time he used to spend here. How he used to pitch in to help me do the dishes or fetch and grab ingredients while I made cookies or cupcakes.

  How it was between us.

  Bad enough he’s at the table, sitting the way boys do, taking up too much space with his legs wide, his feet planted on the scuffed floor, watching me. I wonder what he’s thinking. If he’s planning what he wants to say or if, now that he’s gotten his way, he’s changed his mind and doesn’t want to go through with an early-morning chat.

  “Juice,” Taylor says. Seeing Sam, a real live actual boy, looking at us, she tries to bury her head in the crook of my shoulder. Her words are muffled against my hair. “Mowah juice, Haddy.”

  I shift her higher. “No more juice. You already had two cups. I’ll get you some water.”

  This is an injustice that will not stand. She lifts her head to glare at me. “Don’t want watah.”

  Sam snorts out a laugh.

  “Don’t encourage her,” I say. “She already thinks she’s a princess and you laughing will only give her the idea she’s a funny one.”

  “Sorry,” he says, trying to hide his grin behind his hand. “But she sounds like Mark Wahlberg in Ted.”

  Huh. He’s right. “You been hanging out in Boston lately?” I ask Taylor. “Is that where you left all your rs?”

  She’s not amused. Then again, she hasn’t seen that movie. “Juice, Haddy! Juice!”

  “The first step in getting over an addiction is to admit you have a problem. You need a twelve-step-program for juice-aholics.”

  “No pwogwam,” she says, not the slightest bit fazed. This is not the first time we’ve had this conversation. “Juice!”

  I shouldn’t give in. If I let her have her way now, it will only make it harder to tell her no the next time.

  But I’m tired. And honestly, I’ve already dealt with enough today. I glance at Sam. Still have more to deal with.

  Sometimes a girl needs to take the easy way out.

  “What do you say,” I ask Taylor, “when you want something?”

  “I say please,” she tells me, switching from demon child to angel baby. “Juice, please, Haddy.”

  I pour her more juice. “Want a donut?”

  Already sucking down her drink, she nods.

  “You have to sit in your chair at the table to eat it.”

  She glances at her booster seat. Then at Sam. Shakes her head. “No, donut, Haddy. No, thank you.”

  Well, at least she’s being polite.

  Good to know a few of the things we’re teaching her are getting through.

  “You don’t have to be afraid of Sam,” I tell her. “He’s nice. Look, Eggie likes him.”

  Understatement of the year. Eggie lies on his back at Sam’s feet, belly exposed. You know, in case Sam should feel so inclined to give it a good rub.

  My dog has no pride.

  Taylor studies the boy and then the dog as if gauging Eggie’s trustworthiness on this issue, then turns back to me. “You like him.”

  I blink. Blink again. Try to figure out if that was a question or statement. Sam’s watching me, hands fisted on the table, waiting for my response. “Uh…”

  Taylor sighs because I haven’t answered her and am straining her patience. Ha. Welcome to my world, kid. “Haddy, you like him?”

  Definitely a question. One that makes my palms sweat. One that’s a lot harder to answer than it should be.

  “Sam’s nice,” I repeat lamely and he drops his gaze. He caught what I did there—how there had been no admission of my liking or disliking him. Yep, that’s me. Super clever. “He brought you a donut.”

  He gets the hint and opens the bakery box, taking out the frosted donut covered in rainbow sprinkles and putting it on one of the paper plates I set on the table earlier. “I got this one just for you,” he tells Taylor.

  “See?” I say, hooking my hands underneath her bottom. But when he holds out the plate to her, she whimpers and turns her head to my shoulder.

  Sam slowly lowers the plate.

  He’s not used to people—the female population, especially—not liking him.

  Poor baby.

  “How about we turn on Disney Jr.?” I ask Taylor—a rhetorical question as there’s only one way she’d ever respond to that.

  “Yes, Haddy! Yes. Disney Junaw.” She kicks her legs in excitement, starts bouncing in my arms. “Mickey! Goofy! Pluto! Dai--”

  “No need for roll call,” I say, before she can list every character she knows. “We get it. The gang will all be there.”

  I take the plate without looking at Sam and carry Taylor into the living room. Set her up in front of the TV, her juice and donut on the coffee table. I shouldn’t use the TV as a babysitter, blah, blah, blah, but…

  Drastic times and all that.

  It takes approximately thirty seconds for her to be transfixed by the crazy—yet educational—shenanigans of Mickey and his gang and I go back into the kitchen.

  I pour my coffee, add vanilla creamer to it then fill a tall glass with milk and carry them both to the table. And realize as I set the milk in front of Sam that I didn’t ask him what he wanted to drink.

  “Sorry,” I say, my face heating. “You don’t have to drink that if you don’t want it. You can have coffee or apple juice or--”

  “This is good.” He pulls the glass toward him. “I’m just…I’m surprised you remember what I like.” He lifts his gaze to mine and I can’t look away. “I’m glad you do.”

  “It’s no big deal,” I say, shooting for cool and casual when it’s so hard being either around him now. “I mean, we were friends for a while.”

  His mouth thins and I feel bad, like I’ve dashed some high hopes he’d had. But I don’t take anything back. Don’t assure him that I remember more than just his preference for milk when he eats something sweet.

  I remember everything.

  I pull out a chair, move it as far from him as possible—which is about six inches but hey, give me a break, I’m working with a tiny square table in a small kitchen here—and sit down. Wonder if he sat where he did, across from Taylor’s booster seat, on purpose, taking away my ability to put the table, and even more physical space, between us.

  Feeling him watching me, I choose a cinnamon scone and break it in half. I take a bite and, as much as I’d love to just enjoy its melt-in-my mouth, buttery, sweet deliciousness, I can’t. I’m too anxious about what Sam has to say.

  It hits me that once I’ve heard him out, that’ll be it. Things between us, our friendship, and that tiny possibility of more I could never even admit to myself I wished for will be over.

  We’ll be over.

  The scone turns to dust in my mouth. My heart starts racing and I’m having a hard time c
atching my breath. Which is stupid. And makes no sense. Us being over is what I want.

  I’m not Zoe. I don’t fall for guys I can’t have.

  I’ve always known I can’t have Sam. Not forever.

  So I have to let him go. Now. While I still have the strength to do it.

  I set the remainder of my scone on my plate and link my fingers together in my lap. “You…you wanted to tell me something?”

  He nods. Wipes his palms down the front of his shorts. “I owe you an apology.”

  There’s a lump in my throat, something small and hard, like a pebble. Something suspiciously like disappointment.

  I take a sip of coffee to wash it away.

  I’m an idiot. That’s the only explanation for feeling this way. For thinking Sam was here to convince me to take him back. For being terrified I wouldn’t be able to resist him if he did.

  I’ll come after you.

  I missed you.

  I’ll do whatever it takes to get you back.

  Words. Nothing but meaningless words said in the heat of the moment. He’s not here to renew our friendship. He’s not here to win me back. He’s here to clear his conscience.

  Of course Sam wants the one thing I said I’d never give him.

  Forgiveness.

  But maybe I should. Maybe, instead of it making me weak, it’ll give me the power to move on.

  Maybe it’ll free me from our past, from our mistakes, as much as it does him.

  I open and shut my mouth—twice—before I finally get the words out. “It’s okay.”

  He frowns, which, can I just say, is not the reaction I expected. A little gratitude wouldn’t be uncalled for. I’m being magnanimous here. God.

  “What’s okay?” he asks.

  Now I’m frowning, too, and completely confused. He wants me to spell it out when he didn’t even get to the I’m sorry part of his whole spiel? Seriously?

  Wait…that’s right. He didn’t say what, specifically, he wanted to apologize for. And here I am, tossing forgiveness at him all willy-nilly. “Whatever you did. It’s okay.”

  That should cover him ruining our friendship, leaving, not calling or texting me, and for being so mean to me when I went to his house Christmas night.

  All-encompassing absolution.