The Art of Holding On

by Beth Ann Burgoon

  22

  Mrs. McCormack is an older, curvier version of her daughter in a pair of black capri pants and a white T-shirt. Her dark hair is cut into a chin-length bob, her makeup perfect even at the ungodly hour of not-quite-nine a.m.

  She’s also, it seems, horrified at the sight greeting her on her porch this fine Saturday morning.

  Well, I didn’t bother changing, so my cupcake-themed cotton shorts, faded pink sweatshirt with the coffee stain and ratty flip-flops might give someone so well put together pause. And Taylor is screaming as if I’m trying to murder her, so there’s that. Plus, she has frosting from her donut smeared across her shirt, her cheek and chin, and even in her hair. Though the sprinkles sticking here and there give her a festive look.

  “Are you okay?” she asks, leaning out to look behind us. “Did someone hurt you? Is someone chasing you? Come in, come in. We’ll call the police.”

  I see where Whitney gets her wild imagination.

  “We’re fine,” I say, but I have to yell to be heard over the banshee in my arms and it comes across sort of aggressive, like I’m mad she’s asked about our well-being. My face heats. Parents—the normal kind, the ones who stick around and actually raise their own kids—make me nervous.

  I try jiggling Taylor to get her to calm down but that only makes her madder. She stiffens her entire body and lets out a howl guaranteed to have every dog on the block barking in commiseration. “She’s upset because she wants to watch a TV show.”

  Mrs. McCormack frowns. Glances at Taylor, who, for the first time, seems to notice we’re no longer in our own yard but on the porch of the house across the street and, yes, another strange person—though this time of the female species—is close by. She buries her face in my neck, her screams turning into sobs.

  Really loud, completely pitiful sobs.

  It’s not an improvement.

  “Looks like someone’s not used to being told no,” Mrs. McCormack says and now that Taylor is somewhat quieter, I can hear that her Southern accent is way more pronounced than Whitney’s.

  But not nearly as nice.

  I grind my back teeth together. Adults love sharing their thoughts on parenting, their rules and wisdom and, most especially, their judgment when they think you’re doing it all wrong. It’s so annoying. For one thing, Taylor’s not my kid. Even though I may not always agree with the choices Zoe makes regarding her, I keep my mouth shut. Which more people—especially the woman in front of me—should do.

  For another, I’m doing the best I can. God.

  And I’m seriously not in the mood for a lecture.

  “No is the single most used word at our house,” I assure her, trying not to sound bitchy, but come on. Taylor’s only two. “Is Whitney home?”

  “She’s eating breakfast,” Whitney’s mom says and steps back, opening the door wider. “Would you care to come in?”

  She’s as polite as her daughter.

  Or, you know, vice versa seeing as how Mrs. McCormack was here first and all.

  Taylor must have caught her breath—or remembered she’s mighty ticked off—because she chooses that moment to start screaming again, starting with a cry that reaches a high pitch unbeknownst to man before this moment.

  Mrs. McCormack and I both cringe.

  “We’ll just wait here,” I say, unable to even imagine what it would be like to have Taylor’s shrieks contained by four walls.

  The word torturous comes to mind.

  Mrs. McCormack gives me a quick, grateful nod. “I’ll send Whitney right on out.”

  She leaves the door open and I watch her walk through a tidy living room. Then I cross to the top step and sit down. Eggie—who’d been checking out all the new and interesting smells of the McCormacks’ yard—comes trotting up, circles three time to find just the right spot and lies down next to me. The rising sun is warm on my face and I close my eyes and tip my head back to soak the warmth in and try and get back to those few peaceful moments I had on my own porch before Sam showed up.

  Just a girl, her dog and her sweet, cuddly niece enjoying a nice Saturday morning.

  “I want Mickey!” Taylor wails, wiggling to be free of my hold. “No want you, Haddy! Want! Mickey!”

  I sigh. Okay. Not so sweet. Not so cuddly.

  “I’ll remember you said that,” I tell her, “the next time you’re crying for me. Now knock off the bawling or I’m going to put you in timeout.”

  I should do so anyway, but trying to get a two-year-old to sit still and think about why their behavior is wrong isn’t easy. And when I put Taylor in timeout, it usually descends into a wrestling match with me trying to hold her still while she screams and does her best to get away.

  And she’s already doing that so what would be the point?

  “No timeout! No!” she says, pushing against my chest. See? With a huff, she glares up me. “I no like you, Haddy.”

  “Well, we’re even because I’m not all that crazy about you right now, either.”

  She frowns, tear stains now mixing with the frosting on her cheeks, as she processes my words. “No. You cwazy ’bout me. I a good girl.”

  Ah, to have her confidence.

  And delusions.

  “You’re not being good right now.” Zoe read that you’re not supposed to tell kids they’re bad because that damages their psyche or something.

  “I good!” Taylor screams. “I a good girl!”

  I guess I walked right into that one.

  Although it does prove Taylor’s psyche is just fine.

  Eggie gets to his feet a moment before Whitney walks out onto the porch.

  I jump up—okay, more like I lurch up. Hey, it’s tough to jump and do so gracefully while you’re holding a squirming thirty-pound toddler who’s yelling at you that she’s good and nice and pwetty and stwong and smawt and that you’re bad (Taylor obviously didn’t get the memo about fragile psyches) and mean and not pwetty or stwong or smawt.

  Why did we think it was such a great idea to teach this kid to talk?

  But I must look like a maniac, even without the jumping, because Whitney stops and takes a small step back when I move toward her. “I told Sam we were hanging out tonight,” I blurt. “You and me, I mean.”

  “Umm, okay,” she says, slow and careful, like she’s talking a jumper down from the ledge. “Why would you do that?”

  I shrug, feeling antsy and hot, my arms tiring from holding Taylor. “He asked me out.”

  Her lips thin and I’d bet money she’s holding back a smile. “I see. Here,” she continues, handing me a wet washcloth, “Mama said you needed this.”

  Of course she calls her mother Mama. They’re probably really close and do things together because they actually want to. She probably warns her that boys only want one thing and tells her she can do anything she wants with her life and asks her about her friends, her job, her dreams of the future, and never forgets her birthday.

  Or that she’s alive and living in the very same trailer where she walked out on her.

  Not that I’m envious or anything.

  When I try to clean Taylor’s face, she shrieks and wipes tears, frosting and snot across the front of my sweatshirt.

  And that’s it. That’s the moment I give up.

  “You win,” I mutter to the Fates, my throat tight with tears. “You broke me. Happy now?”

  “I win what?” Whitney asks, courageously edging closer even as she follows my gaze upward.

  “Nothing. I wasn’t talking to you.”

  “Are you all right? You don’t seem like the type of person who usually talks to herself.”

  I open my mouth to tell her I’m fine, that I have wonderfully deep conversations with myself all the time about the meaning of life and politics and the Kardashians. I’ll tell her all that then ask her to pretend I was never here at which point I’ll run back to my house, where I’ll be safe. Where I’ll be alone.

  Yes, I open my mouth to say all of that, but nothing comes out except
a small squeak.

  Because I don’t want to be alone.

  I don’t want to lie.

  Hey, there’s a first time for everything.

  And I can’t run from this. I’ve tried and all I did was end up right back where I started.

  “No,” I say, and unbelievably, after holding it all together in front of Sam, my voice breaks. “I’m not all right. I’m freaking out.”

  She nods as if she completely gets what I’m saying, even though I haven’t, technically, said anything, then lightly touches Taylor on the back to get her attention. “Hi, Taylor. Remember me?”

  Taylor lays her head on my shoulder. Sniffs loudly. “Moana.”

  From the moment Taylor first saw Whitney on the day they moved in, she’s insisted our new neighbor is Moana—the character from the Disney movie of the same name—in the flesh. It’s the long, dark hair, I guess.

  Or maybe it’s the bare feet. Moana never wears shoes, either.

  Plus, you know, they’re both gorgeous, so there’s that.

  Whitney smiles and holds up her phone. “If you stop crying and let Hadley wash your face, you can watch your television show on here.”

  Guess Mrs. McCormack filled her in on all the pertinent details of our quick conversation.

  Taylor, never one to turn away a good bribe, tips her head back for me to wash her face. When I’m done, she faces Whitney again. “I not cwying. I watch Mickey now.”

  “Good girl,” Whitney says and Taylor shoots me an I told you I was a good girl look. “What show?”

  I tell her and in less than two minutes we’re all sitting on the front step, Taylor on my lap watching Mickey and his pals, Eggie’s head on Whitney’s thigh. Peace reigns over the land again.

  The only problem with peace? It comes with silence. Lots and lots of heavy-duty, expectation-filled silence broken only by the occasional yuk yuk of Goofy and Taylor counting along with Mickey—at least until he gets to three.

  But I’m okay with that. I don’t need conversation filling in the gaps. Don’t want Whitney asking me a bunch of personal, nosey questions.

  Silence is good. It’s great. It’s just what I need to get a hold of myself, to gather my thoughts and dissect them, bit by bit. To figure out the crazy, messed-up feelings inside of me. I could sit here all day, just like this, and be perfectly content.

  All day or, you know, two minutes, which is approximately how long I last before asking, “Aren’t you going to ask me why I’m freaking out?”

  Whitney scratches behind Eggie’s ear. “No.”

  “The real Moana would’ve asked,” I grumble.

  Whitney smiles, but when she speaks, her tone is gentle. Understanding. “I’m not going to ask because I don’t need to. You’re freaking out because there’s something between you and Sam. Something complicated.”

  “It is,” I agree, because that’s the perfect definition of me and Sam. “It’s very complicated.”

  “Do you want to talk about it?”

  I’ve never been big on the whole let me tell you every thought in my head, every feeling inside of me thing so many girls my age live for. Not even with Tori and Kenzie. Sharing secrets with someone else is dangerous. Better to keep them hidden where no one can use them against you.

  Better, safer, to handle everything on your own.

  But I did tell myself not thirty minutes ago that I would try and be more open. That I would give more of myself. And while I meant I’d do all of that with Sam, for him, maybe it wouldn’t hurt to…I don’t know…practice a little.

  “I don’t know where to start,” I say, which is slightly less embarrassing than admitting I have no idea how to do this. That I’m afraid I’m going to be bad at it—because if I was good at it, wouldn’t Tori and Kenzie still be my friends?

  Or maybe I’m just afraid, period.

  “Why don’t you start at the beginning.”

  That’s a good idea. And makes perfect sense.

  I take a long, deep inhale and start the story of me and Sam.

  “We were never meant to be friends…”

  23

  I told Whitney everything.

  At first, the story came out in bits and pieces, starts and stops, but the more I talked, the more fluent I became. Don’t get me wrong, it was still terrifying, opening myself up that way. Letting someone other than my sisters in. Someone I barely even know.

  It was also a relief.

  And way more freeing than I thought it would be.

  I think the fact that Whitney is practically a stranger helped. Or maybe it’s because she’s new in town. She hasn’t known me her entire life like everyone else. Doesn’t have preconceived ideas about me based on what I was like in kindergarten. Hasn’t had a chance to observe me and Sam together other than a few hours last night. Never gave me a knowing, smirky oh, please look when I insisted Sam and I were just friends.

  That neutrality made it easier to tell her what really happened between us. How, when someone asked me why Sam left, I told them he wasn’t getting along with Patrick, his stepfather, and decided to live with his dad.

  When they asked what happened between us, I told them we drifted apart.

  When they asked how I was, I told them I was fine.

  That I didn’t miss him.

  But sitting on Whitney’s porch, the sun warming my skin, Eggie snoring softly, Taylor singing along to Mickey, I told the truth.

  How our friendship started.

  How we used to do everything together.

  How much I counted on him. How much I trusted him.

  I told her I was the real reason he left his family, his friends and his home.

  That he kissed me and changed everything between us.

  That losing him was the hardest thing that’s ever happened to me.

  I told her everything.

  Well, almost everything.

  Some secrets are too private, to shameful to share. Ever.

  Like what happened at Christmas.

  Some secrets aren’t mine to tell.

  Like Sam telling me he was still in love with me.

  And some secrets are too precious, too intimate to put into words.

  Like how I felt when he said those words to me this morning. How my skin prickled with heat, my heart raced with excitement, my stomach tumbling with fear.

  Just like the first time he told me.

  The night after Sam and I kissed, I stood on the sidewalk in front of my house and watched the taillights of Colby’s car disappear down the dark road. My entire evening had been a freaking disaster.

  And it was all Sam’s fault.

  Do you ever wonder what it would be like to be with me?

  Ever since he’d said those words to me at lunch, I hadn’t been able to think of anything else—not even when I’d been with another boy. All night, instead of paying attention to Colby, I was distracted and out of sorts, thinking nonstop about Sam and the way he’d looked at me. The way he’d kissed me.

  He’d kissed me. And I’d kissed him back.

  I wished I could do it again.

  But there could be no more kissing. No more remembering the things Sam said. No more wishing for things to be different.

  Not if I wanted to keep Sam in my life.

  Hugging my arms around myself, I headed up the sidewalk, my steps dragging, my legs heavy. The air was still, the night dark with thick clouds hiding the stars. Mosquitoes and moths danced and buzzed around the porch light as I walked up the stairs and pulled my key from my pocket.

  “Hadley.”

  I whirled around with so much force the key flew out of my hand. I pressed back against the wall, my heart racing, fear coating my mouth.

  “Don’t be scared.”

  The scream I’d been holding back died in my throat. Hadn’t I heard those exact same words spoken in that exact same soft tone just a few hours ago?

  Don’t be scared. I won’t hurt you.

  I straightened and, eyes narrowed, p
eered into the darkness. Didn’t work. I couldn’t see a thing. But I heard him take one step. Then another, the sound seemingly loud in the night.

  Ominous.

  And though I knew it was Sam, when he appeared, stepping out of the shadows like a ghost, his dark hair and clothes blending in with the night, a chill gripped me.

  “Sam!” Remembering how late it was and really, really not wanting either of my sisters to come out and see what was going on, I lowered my voice to a harsh whisper. “You scared the crap out of me. What are you doing here?”

  He shrugged. The boy shrugged—like it was no big deal he’d been skulking around my trailer at midnight—and leaned against the wall. “I’m waiting for you. Like always.”

  I raised my eyebrows at how bitter that last part came out. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Another shrug, though only one shoulder lifted in a quick, ticked-off jerk. “It means exactly what you think it means.”

  His breath smelled like beer.

  “Have you been drinking?”

  He straightened, and while it wasn’t exactly graceful, he remained upright, if a bit unsteady. “I had a couple beers.”

  His tone was belligerent and challenging, his voice slurred enough that I knew he’d had a few more than a couple.

  This was bad. This was really, really bad. And I had a feeling—and a horrible fear—it was only going to get worse.

  I grabbed his arm. “Did you drive here?”

  The Sam I knew would never drive after he’d been drinking, but this wasn’t that Sam. This was some continuation of the new version I’d encountered at lunch. A version who asked questions I couldn’t answer. Who said things he had no right saying. Who kissed me and left me reeling and breathless.

  He shook his head. “Jack dropped me off.”

  That at least was good, but the rest? Not so much. Sam Constable was at my house drunk, skulking, shrugging and muttering.

  It was like the end of the world as I knew it.

  Because it was so unlike Sam to be this way—moody and grumpy and just a little bit scary. Because I had a feeling him acting this way was somehow all my fault.