The Art of Holding On

by Beth Ann Burgoon

  “Hadley,” he says, his gaze intense, “last night…I lied to you.”

  My fingers tingle and I realize I’m squeezing them together too hard. I let go, straighten them. “What…” I lick my lips, and when I speak, my voice is hoarse. “What about?”

  I’ll come after you.

  I missed you.

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

  “I told you I wanted you to go with me to Beemer’s because I was nervous about being around everyone, but that wasn’t true.”

  “You weren’t nervous?”

  “No. I…” He scoots forward, sitting on the edge of his seat. Rests his arms on his thighs, his hands clasped loosely between his knees. “I told you that so you’d go with me because…because I didn’t want you to go with Max.”

  His confession comes out quick and fierce and my head snaps back. “What?”

  “He said he’d pick you up--”

  “He wasn’t serious.”

  “Yes, he was. He told me later, when we were home, he was going to stop by your house on the way to Beemer’s, see if he could talk you into going with him.”

  “He was messing with you. And even if he wasn’t, even if he had come here, I wouldn’t have gone anywhere with him.”

  “I couldn’t take that chance,” Sam says quietly. He lifts his head, his eyes locking on mine. “Not with you.”

  My breath escapes me in a soft whoosh. It’s as if his words are knives, slicing my skin, drawing blood. His confession slowly killing me, his guilt shredding me into tiny pieces.

  I should feel vindicated right now. Should be thrilled to discover he’s not always honest. Not always virtuous.

  Not always better than me.

  “It’s not that big a deal. It’s barely even a lie. The only thing you should feel bad about is letting Max get to you—which I’m sure is what he wanted and the only reason he even said he’d stop here. But,” I hurry on when he opens his mouth, because there’s no way I can take it if he apologizes again or, God forbid, offers up any more admissions of guilt, “if it’ll make you feel better, I officially forgive you of the one and only time you told a fib.” I give his knee a quick pat meant to convey forgiveness and acceptance of what this conversation means. The end of us. “Now, go on your way and sin no more.”

  The pat was a mistake. Because Sam—of the cat-like reflexes—grabs my hand before I can pull away. Stares down at it, where his dark fingers are joined with my pale ones. “That’s not the only time I lied,” he murmurs.

  The nape of my neck prickles. My fingers twitch in his. When I try to tug free, he holds on and my apprehension grows, turns into the premonition that I don’t want to hear what he says next.

  That it’ll change everything between us. Again. And my brilliant plan about letting him go will no longer be possible.

  “Sam…”

  “I lied all the time,” he says, still looking at our hands, his thumb rubbing back and forth across my skin. “Before. I lied when I said I just wanted to be your friend.”

  Oh, God. I wrench my hand free and stand up so quickly, my chair wobbles, almost tips over, but Sam reaches around me to steady it.

  Always steadying things.

  Except I don’t feel steady. I’m trembling, my skin prickling with heat. And Sam is too close, holding the chair, trapping me between his arm and the table.

  “I lied,” he continues, relentless and driven, it seems, to break down every one of the barriers I’ve built up over the past eleven months, “every time I pretended I didn’t care when you went out with another guy. Every time I ignored the jealousy eating at me at the thought of you being with someone else when what I really wanted was for you to be with me.”

  I feel them, those barriers that I built, brick by brick, crumbling under the weight of his words, the look in his eyes.

  But I need those walls. Need their protection.

  I can’t let him hurt me again.

  “Why are you doing this?” I ask hoarsely.

  He frowns as if he has no clue what I’m talking about but that, too, is a lie.

  Sam Constable doesn’t make a move without thinking it through, weighing the pros and cons.

  “Doing what?”

  “This.” I wave my hand in a huge arc, one large enough to encompass everything—us, every word he’s spoken, every action and choice he’s made since he came home—and he steps back to save himself getting slapped on the chin. “Confessing all this now. What’s the point? In a few weeks, you’ll be back in LA and I’ll be here.”

  “I’m not going back.”

  Everything inside of me goes still—all except my stupid heart which races with panic. And hope. “At the end of the summer--”

  “I’ll be here. I’m not home for just the summer. I’m back for good.” He once again closes the distance between us. “I’m back for you, Hadley.”

  21

  I’m back for you, Hadley.

  Great. One more emphatic statement I can add to my growing list of Things Sam’s Said To Rock My World and Keep Me Up At Night.

  I tip my head back and glare up at the Fates, who, it seems, have nothing better to do this morning than ruin my life.

  Sam follows my gaze.

  Probably wondering when I lost my mind.

  Which would either be the moment I saw him walking toward me two days ago or the day at his pool when I threw caution to the wind and became his friend.

  Sam being the common denominator in both situations.

  He’s why the whole point of this conversation has gotten away from me. I’m supposed to let him go, not have my feelings twisted and tangled like ropes, tying me even tighter to him.

  And I’m definitely not supposed to have any hope that somehow, someway Sam and I can finally work things out.

  That we can be together.

  I push past him and pace the length of the room. Once. Twice. Stopping, I whirl around to point at him. “Don’t say things like that to me.”

  “Why not?”

  Because it only confuses me when I’ve spent so much time trying to get over him.

  Because it makes me want things I can never have.

  “Because it’s too late.” From the living room, the soundtrack to our little drama is Taylor singing along to the Toodles song. “You said so yourself. On Christmas. Remember?”

  He blanches, as if thinking about what he said to me, how he treated me Christmas night makes him want to throw up.

  That makes two of us.

  “I shouldn’t have said that.” He moves toward me and I take a quick step back. No way can I let him get close to me again. He stops. “And I shouldn’t have stayed at my dad’s. I should have come back. I should have fought for you.”

  I shake my head, denying his words. Denying the way they make me feel because there’s that dumb hope again, floating around inside of me, trying to burst free. “But you did. You said it. And you left. You can’t take it back.”

  Just like I can’t take back the choices I made.

  No matter how much I want to.

  “You’re right,” he agrees so readily, I’m immediately suspicious because, as nice a guy as Sam is, he’s still a guy.

  And he hates being wrong.

  I eye him warily. “I am?”

  He nods.

  I sense a trap and yet I keep right on going, barreling ahead without thought or care about the snare that’s ahead.

  “Okay,” I say slowly. “If I’m right, then what’s all this about?”

  All this crazy talk about coming back for me. About fighting for me.

  “I can’t take it back,” he says, holding his hands out to his sides as if to show he’s harmless. He’s not. He proves that by once more closing the distance between us in his slow, confident way. “But I can move forward.”

  He’s doing that, all right. Literally. And with each step he takes, I take one back.

  Until the edge of the counter digs into my spine.

&nbs
p; “I want to move forward,” he continues, stopping a foot away. He sets his hands on the counter on either side of my waist, leans down so that we’re eye to eye. “With you.”

  Once more this morning I’m trapped by a guy, my stomach twisting with nerves, my heart racing. But unlike what happened with greasy, inked Axel, these nerves aren’t from fear, but anticipation. The fluttering in my chest from excitement.

  “We’re not going to be friends again,” I tell him and, unbelievably, my voice is steady. Firm. Like that of a woman who says what she means and means what she says.

  And how does Sam respond to my unequivocal statement?

  He grins. Like I’m the funniest thing ever.

  “No,” he says, an undercurrent of laughter in his soft tone, “we’re not going to be friends again.”

  His words from yesterday come back to me, how he said he didn’t want to be my friend. Or, more specifically, that he didn’t want to be just friends.

  I open my mouth but he rushes on. “Don’t tell me it’s too late. And don’t tell me you don’t feel the same way about me that I feel about you, because I know you do.”

  I cross my arms—not an easy feat when he’s so close, but it allows me to stick my elbows out, making sure he doesn’t get any closer. “Wow. Someone’s ego grew nice and big out there in the California sun.”

  “Don’t say no,” he continues as if I haven’t spoken. “Give us a chance.”

  I mean to tell him, clearly, concisely and calmly, that there is no us. The days of Sam and Hadley, Hadley and Sam are long gone. And that chance he wants has passed by. Instead, when I speak, my voice is thin.

  Unsure.

  “I can’t.”

  Sam, of course, notices my hesitation. “You can.”

  I don’t have his confidence. His courage. Or his belief that things will work out. Don’t have the strength to lose him again.

  “I’m sorry,” I whisper, unable to look at him.

  His arms next to me stiffen and he slowly lets go of the counter and straightens. I stare at his knees, peeking out from underneath the hem of his shorts, waiting for him to storm out.

  He steps back. This is it. The moment I’ve been waiting for since Sam and I first became friends. The moment when he realizes I’m not worth it—not worth his time, energy or feelings.

  The moment he gives up on me for good.

  My lower lip trembles and I bite down on it. Hard.

  I’d been prepared to let him go. That’d been the plan, right? To let him have his say as some sort of closure between us. I’d even thought it would somehow be easy, what with everything that’s happened between us. That it would be painless.

  It’s not. Not easy. Far from painless.

  And, it seems, the whole process is going to be dragged out way longer than necessary because Sam hasn’t moved. I can feel him watching me, his gaze on the top of my head. Why doesn’t he get on with the walking-out part, already? The least he can do is make this quick. God.

  But nobody can make Sam Constable do something he doesn’t want to do. And that includes leaving after his welcome has run out.

  “There’s one more thing,” he murmurs, his breath ruffling the hair at the top of my head. “One more thing I need to tell you.”

  “Remember our discussion last night? The one about how it’s not fair for you to always get what you want?”

  “I’m tired of being fair and always doing the right thing. I’m still in love with you, Hadley, and I’m tired of pretending I’m not.”

  My head whips up so fast, my neck cracks. Eyes wide, I stare at him, fingers touching my throat, silently begging him not to say any more.

  Secretly hoping he does.

  Sam loves me. He still loves me.

  In all my wildest fantasies, I never, not once, dreamed this could happen. That not only would Sam return to town for good, but that he could still have those feelings for me. But he does.

  How am I supposed to resist him?

  Am I an idiot for even trying?

  “I…I don’t know what to say,” I admit.

  “You don’t have to say anything,” he assures me quickly. “I’m not asking you to tell me you love me, too, or to make me any promises about…well…anything.”

  Okay, good. That’s good. Because I can’t do either. Not now, when I can barely think straight, my emotions going haywire. Possibly not ever.

  And that scares me, shames me, because Sam deserves the words. Deserves a promise or two. One more very good reason for me to end this here and now. To not say or do something that will take this any further.

  But I can’t. Not when what I want is there, right there, in front of me, handsome and honest and earnest. It’s heady stuff, knowing a boy like Sam feels that way about me. That he wants to be with me so much.

  I lick my lips. Take a deep breath. “What are you asking?”

  Small as it is, it’s an opening. One that tells him I’m listening. I’m considering what he’s saying.

  I’m not saying no.

  He realizes it, his eyes widening slightly as he straightens to his full height, encouraged and hopeful. “That you don’t push me away. That you let me back into your life so we can see where, if anywhere, this can go between us.”

  I hesitate, unable to find the words to tell him what’s inside of me. Too cowardly and selfish and self-protective to share what’s in my heart.

  “Don’t be scared,” he says, quiet and intense, and I’m right back to last summer when he kissed me.

  Don’t be scared, Hadley. I won’t hurt you.

  He had. Just like I’d known he would. And, like I’d also predicted, I’d hurt him, too.

  But maybe…maybe this time we won’t make those same mistakes. I won’t make them. I can be more open. I can give more of myself, my thoughts and feelings. I can be the girl he deserves.

  Maybe, for once, I can have what I want most.

  No, I don’t have his confidence or his courage. But I can try and have at least some of his faith. Can choose to believe that things will work out.

  And if we don’t, if I lose him again, I’ll deal with it then.

  In the meantime, I’ll hold on to him for as long as I can.

  “Okay.”

  He frowns. “Okay you won’t be scared?”

  I wince. Okay is an extremely lame response to everything he’s said. And it tells him exactly nothing as to what I want.

  Giving him more of my thoughts and feelings is harder than it sounds.

  “I…” Much, much harder. “I’m still scared.”

  His expression softens. “Me, too.”

  His admission is quiet. Gruff. And makes me realize I’m not alone in this. In my fears.

  It helps. It helps a lot.

  “Maybe we could go out sometime,” I say, but I can barely hear myself over the pounding of my heart. “Uh…get something to eat or…something…”

  More lameness. Well, at least I’m good at it.

  “Tonight?” he asks.

  Tonight? As in twelve hours from now? Like a date?

  Yes, yes, I realize that what Sam wants, what I’m agreeing to, isn’t for us to be just friends and that going out together, as more than friends, will likely be a part of that. I just hadn’t realized it would happen so quickly.

  The panic I’ve been trying to pretend doesn’t exist rears its head as if reminding me it’s there, burrowed nice and deep inside of me, but is more than happy to pop out any time.

  Great. Good to know.

  “Uh…maybe not tonight,” I say.

  “Why not?”

  “Because we need to take our time with this. Not rush things.”

  He grins slowly and I’m glad the counter is behind me because I feel a real-live swoon coming on. “Had, we’ve known each other since the fourth grade. Have been friends for seven years. If we went any slower, we’d be going in reverse.”

  He has a point.

  “I can’t tonight,” I say. “I…uh…alr
eady have plans.”

  His grin fades, his expression darkens. “With a guy?”

  I roll my eyes. Trust that to be his first thought.

  Teenage boys. Such fragile creatures.

  “No. With Whitney.” Before he can ask what we’re doing or if I can ditch her, before he can break me down with his persistence and charm, I hurry on, “What about tomorrow afternoon? We can go to the Tastee Freeze.”

  It’s a bit sooner than I’d prefer, but I did say I was going to try.

  This is me trying.

  But the gleam in his eyes tells me he knows exactly what I’m doing. Getting ice cream on a Sunday afternoon is a very non-date-ish, non-sexy thing to do. And a good way to ease into this.

  “I’ll pick you up at three,” he tells me. He checks the time on the microwave. “I’ve gotta go. Coach scheduled a conditioning session at ten.”

  “You’re trying out for the team?”

  Though basketball tryouts aren’t until late fall, the team does conditioning all summer and most of the boys play on a travel team. All of the coaches at our school like their players to prove their dedication by forgoing other silly pursuits like jobs, family vacations and sleeping in on Saturday mornings.

  Eggie, sensing that his good buddy is about to leave, pads over to us and butts his head against Sam’s leg. “Yeah,” Sam says, giving Eggie a few pats. “Not sure how it’s going to go. I haven’t played for a year. Well, nothing other than a few pickup games in my dad’s driveway.”

  It’s so unusual for Sam to be worried about…well…anything, to have anything less than total confidence in himself, I give his arm a quick squeeze. “You’ll do great.”

  He flushes. “Thanks,” he says, straightening. “I’ll…uh…see you tomorrow then.”

  He makes it sound like a question, like he’s worried I’m going to back out.

  “At three,” I say, wanting to reassure him—and myself—that I won’t. “I’ll be ready.”

  He smiles, gives me a nod goodbye and walks out of the kitchen and past Taylor who is hypnotized by the antics of Mickey and his gang. I count to twenty, then go into the living room and look out the front window. Watch him pull away from the curb. Count to twenty again.

  Then pick up Taylor and hurry out the door.