The Art of Holding On

by Beth Ann Burgoon

  I open my mouth to deny it—like I’d denied it to myself when I put the stupid shirt on—but that would be pointless.

  And cowardly.

  Brave and bold. My new life motto.

  I take his cup and, as I slide my ice cream toward him on the table, move closer to him. My thigh pressing against his knee, my stomach jittery, I meet his eyes. “Maybe.”

  The one word comes out husky and breathless but he doesn’t seem to mind. He wipes his hand over his mouth and leans his upper body back, keeping his knee right where it is.

  It’s cute, that he’s flustered. That I can make him nervous in a good way.

  Cute and hot and very, very rewarding to know I affect him the same way he affects me.

  “I don’t suppose you have your swimsuit on?” he asks.

  I raise my eyebrows then turn my back to him, gathering my hair over my shoulder so he can see that beneath the crisscrossed straps, it’s all bare skin. Then I look at him over my shoulder. He’s gone still, his jaw tight.

  This isn’t so hard. Flirting with Sam Constable.

  In fact, it’s incredibly easy.

  “No suit,” I say. “Why?”

  “I…” He stops. Runs his palms down the tops of his thighs then up. Down. Up. He clears his throat. “I thought we could go swimming.”

  Brushing my hair back, I face him again and nod at his shorts. “Do you have your trunks on under there?”

  He shakes his head. “In the car.”

  Digging out a chunk of mint Oreo with the long-handled plastic spoon, I wrinkle my nose. “The last time you left wet trunks in the car, it smelled so bad I had to ride with my head out the window like a dog for two weeks.”

  He laughs. Ah, time. The great equalizer when it comes to lessening the pain of heartache, grief, and how fast a pair of wet swim trunks can turn moldy in a hot car. Or how bad they can smell.

  Especially when it takes an entire week to find them under the backseat.

  “Man, that was rank.” He digs into my sundae. “I learned my lesson. You can keep your head inside the vehicle and the windows up. These trunks were completely dry when I put them in there. We always kept suits and a few towels in our cars in LA in case we decided to go to the beach after school.”

  The Oreo gets stuck in my throat and I take a bite of ice cream to push it down. That’s right. Sam spent the past eleven months in California.

  So much for that whole I will never forget how he left vow I made three days ago.

  The power of a pretty face. Turns a girl’s memory to mush.

  “Did you go to the beach a lot?” I ask.

  The thing is, I know he went there a lot. At least, for the first few months. I stopped following him on Instagram after Christmas. Didn’t see any sense torturing myself with the pictures he posted of himself on the beach, shirtless, tanned, windblown and smiling, arms around the shoulders of his new equally tan, equally buff buddies or curvy, bikini-clad girls.

  Not something I needed to see on my Insta feed each day. Not if I wanted to get over him.

  Of course, the boy is next to me, his knee warm and solid against my leg, so I guess that whole getting-over-him thing was a big, fat fail.

  “Every weekend,” Sam says in response to my question. “And a few times during the week.”

  I can see it now. Sam laughing and goofing off with his entitled LA friends as they jump into their shiny BMWs, Lexuses and Audis after school on their way to a sun-filled, fun-filled few hours of splashing in the waves and playing beach volleyball. While I was here. Alone.

  Bitter? Me?

  You bet.

  Something I need to work on. To get over.

  “Must’ve been nice,” I say, trying to keep the resentment from my tone. Not sure I succeed, but I’d like a few points for the effort. “Being that close to the ocean. Going to the beach all the time.”

  He finishes my sundae and puts the crumpled napkin in the container along with the spoon. “It was cool at first, but it got old after a while.”

  I roll my eyes so hard, I’m surprised I don’t see my brain. “Yes, I can see how all that sun, surf and sand would eventually get to be super boring.”

  “Not boring. Just…the same. After a while, no matter what you do, if you do it all the time, it becomes ordinary.”

  “I’d still take an ordinary day at the beach over any day here. Especially between the months of November and March.”

  The wind blows my hair and he reaches out, as if to brush it aside, but then curls his fingers into his palm and lowers it without touching me.

  It’s what I wanted. To take this slow. For him not to push me.

  So there’s no reason for me to be disappointed.

  I tuck my hair behind my ears.

  “I missed the snow. The snow and the rain and the leaves changing in the fall. I missed the hills and how green it is here.” He slides me a glance. “I missed a lot of things.”

  “What about the friends you made in LA? Won’t you miss them now that you’re back?”

  “A couple of them, yeah, but not like I missed everyone here.”

  “What about your dad?” I ask.

  Before Sam can answer, the girl working the order window appears with our onion rings and fries.

  “Here you go,” she says, all chirpy and cheery, setting them in front of Sam. She’s cute, with short, dark hair and light brown eyes. But if she keeps batting her lashes that hard, the force is going to lift her straight off the ground. “Anything else I can get you?” she asks him, completely ignoring me.

  “We’re good,” he says with a smile. “Thanks.”

  Old Sam would have prolonged the conversation. Would have puffed up with pride, his ego inflated to have a cute girl flirting with him. Old Sam would have flirted back.

  Sometimes I think he did it to bug me. To see if he could make me jealous.

  It did. He could.

  But New Sam turns back to me before she’s even walked away.

  Major points for New Sam!

  He moves the cardboard box so it’s between us and lifts out the containers of ketchup and ranch dressing—ketchup for the fries, ranch for the onion rings.

  “Dad was pretty pissed when I told him I wanted to come back here,” he says, as if we weren’t interrupted, “but it’s not like he can force me to live with him. I never should have moved in with him in the first place. He works all the time, and when he was home, all he’d do was get on my ass about school.”

  This, too, is new. Old Sam never said anything bad about his dad. Always choosing to make him out to be some prince among men.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, because I know how important it was for him to believe the best of his dad.

  “It was my own fault. I knew what he was like.” He dips an onion ring into the ranch. “I knew a week into the school year going there was a mistake. I just…” He pops the entire onion ring into his mouth. Chews and swallows. “I didn’t know how to fix it.”

  “You mean you didn’t want to admit you were wrong.”

  It’s Sam’s greatest flaw.

  Goes hand-in-hand with his stubbornness.

  Everyone likes being right. For Sam, it’s more like an obsession.

  Picking up another onion ring, he shrugs. “It wouldn’t have made a difference. Mom and Dad both said that if I made the move, I’d have to stay the entire school year.”

  He could have tried to talk them out of it. Could have whined and begged and complained and harassed them until they gave in.

  If he had, he could have come home sooner.

  I guess whining, begging, complaining and harassment are beneath New Sam.

  And I realize what I’m doing. Looking for differences in Sam. Trying to figure out if all of this is a waste of time. If we should even attempt this now with all the months and distance that’s kept us apart for so long. All the choices we’ve both made.

  But as we share fries and onion rings, Sam making me laugh with the story of th
e first time he tried surfing, none of that matters. Because no matter how much has changed, so much has stayed the same.

  Sam is still the same sweet, stubborn boy who invited me swimming all those years ago. Who broke through my walls and became my first real friend. Who shared his friends with me. Made me a part of their group. Who accepted me.

  The same boy who’s had my heart from the very start.

  And that’s something I don’t think will ever change.

  27

  He hugged me.

  When we got home from Mary’s Trading Post, Sam walked me to my door and gave me a brief, platonic hug.

  Like he used to. When we were just friends.

  And then he straightened, smiled as if he was super pleased with life in general and himself in particular, and told me he’d call me later and went on his merry way.

  Leaving me staring after him wondering what had just happened.

  Not that I wanted him to do more. I mean, it was my idea to take things slow, so it was a relief he didn’t kiss me.

  It’s already been well established I don’t do my best thinking when he kisses me.

  But there’d been a moment, right before the hug, when I’d been certain he was going to. That he wanted to.

  And maybe a small part of me wanted him to as well, because I’d raised my head, my eyes drifting closed as anticipation, nerves and excitement warred inside me.

  All of which shriveled up and died in embarrassment and disappointment when he wrapped his arms around me instead.

  After his quick squeeze, I’d half expected him to pat me on the shoulder and call me dude.

  Now, I glance at Sam as we turn onto the street where he lives. It’s been five days since then and we’ve gotten into a rhythm. All part of our Try Something New plan. True to his word, Sam talked to Mr. G. and I’m back to working with Kyle, but Sam drives me to and from work, like he used to. But instead of texting me every night, he calls and we talk for at least an hour.

  And until today, when he asked if I wanted to go to his house after work, we haven’t hung out again.

  Which is good. The whole take-our-time thing. My idea and all.

  I just hadn’t thought it’d be quite so…confusing.

  Or that I’d want to pick up the pace a little.

  We pull up the driveway to Sam’s house, and though it’s a hot, sunny summer afternoon—the opposite of cold, dark and snowing—I’m reminded of the last time I was here.

  I push the memories aside.

  Not thinking about that night. Not, not, not.

  Sam parks in front of the left stall of the four-car garage and we get out to the sound of a basketball being dribbled. When we round the corner near the fenced-off court, Charlie tucks the ball under his arm and waves.

  Sam had mentioned that Charlie had grown, but I’m unprepared for how different he looks. He’s taller and thinner, his face losing its little-boy softness. His dark hair is longer, too, and flopping in his eyes.

  “You need to call the police or the army or something,” I whisper as Charlie jogs toward us. “Some strange, alien invader has taken over your brother’s body and is turning him into” –I pause and give a dramatic shudder for effect— “a middle-schooler.”

  Switching the cooler he uses as a lunchbox from his left hand to his right, Sam shakes his head. “Can’t stop adolescence.”

  “We could try. For Charlie’s sake. God knows puberty has ruined more than one nice, sweet boy, turning him into…” I wrinkle my nose. “Well. You know.”

  “A teenager?”

  “A teenage boy. It’s a sad, sad time.”

  Sam leans down. “Oh, I don’t know,” he murmurs into my ear. “We’re not all that bad.”

  I turn my head to look at him, my throat dry. With him this close, grinning down at me in a knowing way, all broad shoulders, wide chest, flat stomach and tanned, toned arms, I can’t help but agree.

  Or at least, my hormones agree. They’re all for teenage boys—especially this one.

  Puberty doesn’t just do a number on the males of our species.

  “Hey,” Charlie says to Sam when he reaches us. “Want to play one-on-one?”

  Guess he’s over being pissed at Sam. And Charlie sounds the same, thank God. His voice isn’t any deeper and there’s no cracking yet. But he’s still so different. So changed. Is this how Sam felt when he saw Taylor after so long?

  Like he’d missed so much?

  “You sure that’s a good idea?” Sam asks Charlie. “The last time we played one-on-one, you didn’t like the outcome.”

  Charlie flushes, splotches of color on his cheeks, and shoots me a glance before scowling at Sam. “You only spotted me five points,” he mutters, sounding like a little kid—whiny and bratty because he didn’t win. Hooray! Puberty hasn’t fully gotten its clutches in him yet. “You could give me ten this time.”

  Sam, all six feet plus of natural athleticism, competitive edge and basketball talent, nods. He could spot Charlie twenty points and still beat the kid to twenty-one. “I could do that, but Hadley’s here. Which I’m sure you noticed even though you haven’t said hello to her yet.”

  Charlie’s blush intensifies at his brother’s not-so-subtle admonishment and I feel bad for him, being embarrassed by Sam twice in under a minute.

  “I didn’t say hello to him, either,” I point out before turning to Charlie and holding out my hand. “Hello, Charles. Good to see you again.”

  One side of his mouth lifts, his brown eyes lit with humor, and he looks so much like Sam I wish I could take a marker and write DANGER on his forehead, just to give all the girls his age a heads-up about what’s to come.

  “Hello, Hadley,” he says, mimicking my solemn tone as he shakes my hand, pumping it up and down three times before letting go. “Okay, we said hello,” Charlie tells Sam. He bounces the ball once. “Let’s go.”

  “Hadley doesn’t want to sit around and watch us play basketball.”

  Charlie looks so disappointed, I step over to stand next to him. “How about a game of two against one?” At Charlie’s confused look, I explain, “You and me against Sam.”

  He stares at me like I’ve offered to slice Sam’s chest open and share his organs for dinner. “Uh, do you even know how to shoot a basketball?”

  “I’m sure I could figure it out,” I say with a shrug. “You just throw it.” I pretend to hold a ball in both hands and jump awkwardly while pushing my arms straight out from my body. “Like that. Right?”

  Poor Charlie. He goes from beet red to snow white.

  “Can she be on your team?” he asks Sam hopefully.

  “Any time,” Sam tells him, but his eyes are on mine, and really, that husky tone, full of innuendo, is not appropriate around children.

  I roll my eyes at him and his lame attempt at turning an innocent comment into something sexual.

  His grin widens and he wiggles his eyebrows.

  Doofus.

  “If she’s on my team,” Charlie says, oblivious to anything other than trying to beat his brother, “then we get fifteen points.”

  Sam sets down the cooler. “Ha. No.”

  “Fourteen,” Charlie says then, when Sam doesn’t respond, “Thirteen.”

  “You’re not doing much for my confidence,” I tell Charlie as I untie my boots. I blink up at him, trying to look wounded. “Don’t you want to be teammates?”

  Instead of answering, he shrugs, which, let’s be honest, is answer enough. He turns back to Sam. “Ten points.

  “Shoes off,” Sam tells him, tucking his socks into his boots then taking the ball from Charlie.

  Charlie toes off his sneakers then hops on one foot to tug off his sock, switches sides and repeats the motion.

  “Playing to twenty-one,” Sam says, dribbling as we make our way to the court. “Half-court. And since it’s two against one, I’m not spotting you any points.”

  “Aw, man,” Charlie whines.

  Seriously. His lack of faith is s
tarting to get annoying.

  We walk to midcourt, the pavement hot under my bare feet.

  “You can stand over there,” Charlie tells me, pointing to the far corner where, I’m assuming, he’s hoping I’ll stay out of his way and far, far away from the ball.

  “Hadley’s our guest,” Sam says. “It’s only polite that she gets the ball first.”

  And he turns his back to the basket we’ll be using and tosses me the ball. I catch it, then tuck it between my legs so I can straighten my hat. Pull my ponytail tighter.

  Then I send a bounce pass at Sam, who bounces it right back.

  He crouches, knees bent, arms out, weight on the balls of his feet. I copy his stance except I keep the ball between my palms, elbows out. I watch his hands, his feet, so that when he tries to swipe the ball from me, I’m ready and swing it out of his reach.

  I fake left then go right. Dribble for four steps then stop and shoot before Sam can block me, arm extended, wrist snapping. As the ball arcs up, I head toward the basket for the rebound, but Sam’s already there, back to me, crouched low, butt out, arms extended to take away my space.

  Doesn’t matter as the ball hits the rim then tips in.

  “Huh,” I say, frowning up at the basket in fake wonderment. “It went in.” I turn to Charlie, who’s staring at me, mouth literally open. “Is that good?”

  Charlie blinks. And closes his mouth. “Uh, yeah. That’s pretty good.”

  “Please. Stop with all the flattery. You’ll inflate my ego.”

  “Pretty good is being generous,” Sam says as he scoops up the ball. “Your form sucked.”

  “Everyone’s a critic. Or a coach.” Which is accurate as Sam is the one who taught me how to play basketball. “It’s not like I’ve had reason to shoot baskets the past year.”

  But my tone is mild and teasing instead of bitter, and he grins. Dribbles the ball twice. “Hopefully it’ll come back to you soon enough.”

  It does. But not enough for an epic upset.

  Charlie and I lose thirteen to twenty-one, which I take as a victory—even if Charlie doesn’t. Sam is super competitive and doesn’t take it easy on his opponents. He plays hard. All the time.