The Art of Holding On

by Beth Ann Burgoon

  Realizing I was still touching him—and remembering what happened between us at lunch today—I dropped my hand and took a step back. Then another.

  Getting too close to this version of Sam Constable was not a good idea.

  But Sam seemed to think it was A-okay. For every step I took in retreat, he took one in pursuit until my butt hit the railing near the door. He kept right on coming, the porch light casting shadows on his face.

  “Where were you?”

  It was a simple question. One that didn’t need any explanation or even clarification. It was why he’d drunk too much tonight. Why he’d come here at this hour.

  Because I wasn’t with him.

  “Sam, I--”

  “I called you.” This close I could see his jaw was tight. His mouth a thin line. “I’ve been calling and texting you all night.”

  I go cold all over, suddenly, viciously nervous. “I…I don’t have my phone with me.”

  I’d left it in my room because I knew he’d call. Knew he’d text.

  And I knew I wouldn’t be strong enough to ignore him once he did.

  “You shouldn’t be here,” I continued, desperate to end this conversation before it went too far. Sam had changed the rules of our friendship when he kissed me. But it was what we said, here and now, that had the power to change everything else. For good. I edged toward the door. “I’ll get Zoe’s keys and drive you home.”

  Except when I faced the door, tried the handle, I remembered it was still locked. That my key was somewhere on the floor.

  “Were you with him?” Sam asked. “While I was calling and texting you, were you with Colby?”

  It was another simple question.

  One Sam already knew the answer to.

  Unable to face him, I leaned my forehead against the door. “Yes.”

  “Did you kiss him?” he asked hoarsely. “Did you kiss him like you kissed me?”

  I hadn’t. Hadn’t even wanted to, not after thinking of Sam the entire night. Wishing I was with him instead of Colby. But I couldn’t admit any of that. Not if I wanted things to go back to normal between us.

  Biting my lower lip, I turned slowly and kept quiet, knowing my silence would be answer enough.

  Knowing he’d think it was as good as a yes.

  He flinched and dropped his gaze.

  I stared at the top of his head, my fingers twitching with the need to slide through his hair. To offer him some measure of comfort and care. To give him just that small bit of truth.

  I curled my fingers into my palms and kept my hands at my sides.

  “What do we do now?” he asked, still staring at the ground.

  “I take you home,” I said, firm and resolute and certain it was the right course, “and we pretend this never happened.”

  He lifted his head. “This?”

  “You coming here tonight and…and what happened earlier.”

  “Earlier?” he repeated, eyes narrowed. “You mean when I kissed you? When you kissed me back?”

  Yes, Sam, that’s exactly what I mean—as you well know.

  God.

  Linking my hands together at my waist, I nodded. “We pretend it never happened and we go back to how we used to be.”

  “I’m tired of pretending. And I don’t want to go back.”

  He stopped as if surprised by his own words. Unsure. But then he shook his head, his spine stiffening, his chin lifted. As I watched, cold with fear and shock, he made the decision that would alter our friendship forever. That would end it.

  “I won’t go back. Not even for you.”

  It was an ultimatum. One given in a flat, set tone. One delivered without doubt or regret.

  Anger flowed through me, washing away the fear, bursting through the shock with painful intensity. I welcomed it. Was grateful for it, the burn that heated my blood, the flash that had prickles stinging my skin. After everything Sam had done—after he’d asked me if I ever thought of being with him, after he kissed me, after he changed everything, every-freaking-thing between us, he had the balls to stand there and offer me an ultimatum?

  No. Just…no.

  I lowered my arms to my sides, reaching behind me to grip the slats of the railing, the wood rough against my palms. Held on so tightly my hands ached. “You won’t go back to being my friend?”

  “I won’t go back to being just your friend.”

  “That’s a problem,” I snapped, “because I can’t go forward as anything but your friend.”

  “You mean you won’t.”

  I shrugged. Hoped it irritated him as much as his stupid shrugs earlier bugged me.

  Hey, a girl had to take her revenge where she could get it.

  “Can’t. Won’t. What difference does it make?” I asked. “The end result is the same.”

  He stepped forward, crowding me again, his expression pinched. “You want us to be friends?”

  “You know I do.”

  “Do you kiss all your friends the way you kissed me? Do you touch them the way you touched me?”

  I reared back but there was nowhere to go short of hopping over the rail and landing in an evergreen bush. “That was a mistake.”

  He set his hands on the rail on either side of me, his arms rigid. My heart pounded, my breath got short and choppy. Ducking his head, he held my gaze, his anger and frustration clear in the dark depths of his eyes.

  “Do you have any idea how long I’ve wanted to kiss you?” he asked roughly. “Do you have any idea how much I want to do it again? And you’re standing here telling me it was a goddamn mistake, and you want to be just friends again like nothing happened?” He shoved away from the rail. “Fuck!”

  Whirling around, he stared out at my dark yard, hands fisted at his sides.

  I fought back tears. Of frustration, I told myself. And anger. I’d skipped work that afternoon to get away from Sam. Had turned my phone off so I wouldn’t get his calls and texts. Had gone out with Colby to get my mind off what happened between us. All to give myself some time and distance to deal with that kiss and the possible fallout from it. To figure out how to move past it.

  I needed that time. Wanted that distance.

  And Sam had taken them both away.

  “I’m done,” he muttered, his lips barely moving.

  Great. More grumbling.

  “Done acting like a dick?” I asked. “Because that would be awesome.”

  And to think, just a few hours ago I’d actually wanted him to stop being so freaking perfect all the time.

  He faced me, all scowly and un-Sam-like, his gaze hooded. “I’m done with you, Hadley.”

  The quiet words blew through me, had me going cold and still. “What?”

  He looked at the ground for one long moment before meeting my eyes, determination clear in the set of his shoulders, the line of his jaw. “I can’t be around you. I can’t be your friend. Not anymore.”

  My knees threatened to buckle. I locked them. “Are you really that spoiled? That conceited? You don’t get your way, so you’re done with me” –I snapped my fingers—a “just like that?”

  “This isn’t about me getting my way.”

  I snorted. “Please. That’s exactly what this is about.”

  “Damn it,” he thundered, whipping his hand through the air as if to erase my words, my opinions. “Do you think this is easy for me? Do you think this is really what I want?”

  “Then don’t do it.” I hated how my voice shook. How he’d reduced me to pleading. But I couldn’t help it. Couldn’t let him go. “Please, Sam…”

  “I have to.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m in love with you!”

  I stumbled back. “You don’t…You can’t…” I had no words, no breath left in my lungs. I stopped. Inhaled carefully. Held it for the count of three before letting it go. “You don’t love me. You’ve been drinking--”

  “It doesn’t matter if I’m drunk or sober, the way I feel about you is always the same. Alw
ays there.”

  He didn’t sound happy about it.

  That made two of us.

  “You’re confused,” I said, barely above a whisper, “because of the kiss--”

  “The kiss didn’t do anything other than prove what I already knew. I love you.”

  “God!” I stabbed both hands through my hair and tugged hard. “Stop saying that.”

  “I love you,” he repeated, I’m sure, just to torture me. “I want us to be together, but I can’t wait for you any longer. I can’t keep loving you if you’re never going to love me back.”

  I knew what he was really saying. What he wanted. For me to dispute his words. To tell him that I loved him, too.

  But I couldn’t. I couldn’t be what he wanted. What he needed.

  “I’m sorry,” I said raggedly, my throat aching with unshed tears. “I’m so sorry, Sammy.”

  His gaze shuttered, he nodded once. “Yeah. Me too.”

  When he walked away, I didn’t bother trying to stop him.

  I watched him go.

  I watched him and told myself that I wasn’t a coward. Wasn’t a liar. I’d done the right thing. Made the right decision, the smart one.

  Sam deserved better than me. He deserved a girl who’d give him everything she had inside of her. Her thoughts and feelings. Her truth. A girl who wouldn’t hide from him, who wouldn’t constantly protect herself from him.

  I wasn’t that girl.

  No matter how much I wanted to be.

  24

  At 2:55 Sunday afternoon, I step onto the porch, squinting against the bright sunshine.

  “Going somewhere?”

  I whirl around, hand covering my racing heart. “God! Give me a heart attack, why don’t you?”

  Devyn’s curled up on the ratty wicker love seat, her book open and face down on her lap, her hair pinned back on both sides by bobby pins. And she’s not alone. Eggie, of course, is at her feet, and both Taylor and Zoe are in the yard; Taylor, in a one-piece Moana swimsuit, is picking dandelions and singing to herself while Zoe’s stretched out on her stomach on a beach towel next to her in a black bikini.

  My black bikini.

  But I don’t call her on borrowing it without asking. Not when I have places to go and Sam to see.

  Instead of being contrite—as she should be—for scaring the crap out of me, Devyn tips her head to the side looking thoughtful. And suspicious. “Why so jumpy?”

  Uh, maybe because she’s not supposed to be out here? None of them are. They’re supposed to still be out back watching Taylor in her wading pool and Zoe and Devyn on the tiny back deck, Zoe painting her toenails and Devyn engrossed in her book.

  Or maybe it’s because I was so hoping I’d be able to leave with a I’m going out! shouted as I head down the driveway toward Sam’s SUV.

  “I’m not jumpy,” I say with an eye roll, as if the mere idea of it, me, being antsy and anxious and nervous as all get out, is just laughable.

  Ha ha ha ha.

  But the sound of a car door shutting has me whirling once again. It’s Mr. Keane, unloading his groceries. He catches me staring, gives me a nod of his gray head, and I smile weakly and wave.

  “You didn’t answer my question,” Devyn says.

  I sigh. Crap.

  “What question?” I ask, facing her.

  “Either one, but we’ll stick with a variation of the first one. Where are you going?”

  I shrug.

  “You don’t know where you’re going?” Zoe asks, chin resting on her folded arms. “Or you couldn’t possibly say?”

  I shoot her a mind-your-own-self look. “I’m going to the Tastee Freeze.”

  My sisters both eye me from head to toe then look at each other.

  But I don’t have the time or energy to decipher that loaded, silent passage of disbelief because I really am going to the Tastee Freeze.

  Though I should have spelled it out instead of saying it.

  Because Taylor has scrambled to her feet. “I go, too, Haddy!” she squeals, racing over to me. “I go with you!”

  I wince. Double crap. “Sorry, baby girl. You can’t come with me today. I’ll take you to the Tastee Freeze tomorrow after work.”

  She stomps her foot. “No, Haddy! No! I go today!”

  And she throws one of her cars at me then bursts into tears.

  Zoe groans and buries her face in her arms.

  “Any reason you can’t take her today?” Devyn asks as if she doesn’t already know the answer to that question.

  Which, naturally, is when Sam pulls up.

  He’s always on time.

  He gets out and rounds the front of his SUV and I’m not sure whether it’s the quick shake of my head, Taylor’s screeching or Devyn’s death glare, but he stops, one foot on the sidewalk, the other in the road. Eggie races over to him.

  Dev turns to me slowly, mouth thin. “Not going to be friends with him again, huh?”

  Yep, that’s what I told her not even two full days ago. My face is hot. “We’re…trying something new.”

  “Right,” she says with a snort as she gets to her feet. “Funny how it looks like the same old song and dance to me. It’s going to end the same way, too.”

  I glance back at Sam. He’s watching us, watching me—despite the fact that Zoe has gotten to her feet and looks way better in my swimsuit than I do and Taylor is breathless and sobbing and yet still screaming that she wants ice queam.

  “It doesn’t have to,” I tell Devyn. “End the same way.”

  Maybe it won’t have to end at all.

  Dev shakes her head sadly as if I’m just a huge disappointment to her and womankind. “You’re kidding yourself if you really believe that.”

  “Oh, lay off,” Zoe tells Devyn. “So she’s giving him a second chance. What’s the big deal?”

  “The big deal,” Dev says from between gritted teeth as Taylor adds kicking to her tantrum routine, “is that not everyone deserves a second chance.”

  Zoe shrugs. “Even if that’s true, it’s not up to you to decide. Not in this case. Don’t put what happened to you on Hadley. Sam’s not Bryan. This isn’t your story.”

  My eyes widen, and from the way Dev inhales sharply, she can’t believe Zoe brought up Bryan, either.

  Forget Voldemort. At our house, Bryan Rodgers is He Who Shall Not Be Named.

  “My story is her story,” Dev says, expression and tone ice cold. “Hers and yours. The sooner you both realize that, the better off you’ll be.”

  She turns on her heel and stalks over to the door, yanking it open so forcefully I’m surprised it doesn’t fly off the hinges. When she’s inside, she slams it shut, the sound startling Taylor out of her tantrum.

  “What’s that?” she asks, sitting up, her face streaked with tears. She pulls herself to her feet using Zoe’s legs for balance, then tugs on Zoe’s hand. “Mama, what’s that?”

  “That was Auntie Dev throwing her own tantrum.” She picks up the towel and her sunglasses. “Come on,” she says, holding her arms out for Taylor. “Let’s go inside and get dressed.”

  Taylor once more flops onto the ground. “No, Mama! No thanks! I get ice queam with Haddy!”

  Zoe shuts her eyes for a moment, looking so tired, so worn down, I step forward. “She can come with us.” I glance at Sam, once more waiting patiently for me. “I’m sure Sam won’t mind.”

  But Zoe’s already shaking her head. “She can’t always get her way. And she sure doesn’t deserve to be rewarded for having a fit like this.”

  “I was thinking more of it giving you a break.”

  Bending to lift a squirming Taylor into her arms, she shoots me a small, sad smile. “I’m fine.” She straightens, holding Taylor diagonally across her body while Taylor flails and kicks. “Go on. And for God’s sake, don’t worry about us. Have some fun. While you still can,” she mutters before carrying her screaming, sobbing, thrashing two-year-old into the trailer.

  Pursing my lips, I turn and slowly make
my way down the sidewalk toward Sam.

  Devyn’s mad at me—worse, she’s disappointed.

  Zoe looks ready to fall over at any moment.

  And Taylor is still screeching and, by the sound of it, trying desperately to kick down the front door.

  Me? I’m headed out for ice cream with the boy who changed the rules of our friendship, deserted me and crushed my heart.

  What’s there to worry about?

  25

  Sam and I are both quiet as he drives through town. The only words we’ve exchanged so far were when I reached his SUV and he asked if everything was okay and I said it was.

  Lying. It’s what I do best.

  Not sure why he’s not talking, but I’m too busy replaying Devyn’s words over and over again in my head to strike up any sort of conversation.

  My story is her story.

  It’s the story of all Jones girls, from Gigi’s grandmother on down. Always searching and struggling for more than they’ll have. Left behind. Left alone.

  Just…left.

  It’s what happened between Dev and Bryan. They were together from the time they were fourteen until Bryan left for boot camp two weeks after they graduated high school. He promised he wouldn’t forget her. That he’d always love her.

  He promised he’d be back for her.

  The last we heard, he married some waitress he met while stationed overseas.

  She hasn’t dated anyone since.

  I glance at the handsome, confusing, frustrating, wonderful boy beside me.

  She might be onto something.

  Sam doesn’t even have music on, so the silence seems more oppressive. And way more obvious.

  Five minutes in and I’m already confused, irritated and scared.

  Most Awkward Date Ever.

  Not that this is a date, I assure myself, shifting in my seat. We’re going out for ice cream. We used to do it weekly, starting the first weekend the Tastee Freeze opened in the spring until it closed again on Labor Day.

  Wasn’t that the whole reason I suggested this specific activity? It’s familiar. A way for us to ease into the whole let’s see where things go between us thing Sam asked for. We can’t jump into being more than friends, not after spending the past eleven months not speaking to each other. This is better. Safer.