The Art of Holding On

by Beth Ann Burgoon

  Even from across the street, I can see the epic eye roll she gives me. “You have antisocial views. And you love dessert.”

  Both true. Though now that I have Sam back in my life and have hung out with Whitney several times, I’ve been extremely social.

  At least with the two of them.

  I spot Tori’s car at the stop sign a block away and start walking backward again, this time up my driveway. “I’m the thing that’s not like the other things. The special snowflake.”

  “All snowflakes are special,” she points out as Tori pulls to a stop in front of her. “You’re the outlier.”

  Then she gives me a cheery wave, opens the rear driver’s-side door and climbs into the backseat.

  And even though I should walk away, even though it’s dumb and useless, I stand there for a moment, the sun warming the top of my head, watching them, three pretty, shiny girls talking and laughing. I stand there, waiting for some sort of acknowledgement from Tori or Kenzie. A smile or wave.

  Hoping I’ll get that invitation after all.

  I stand there, in my sleep shorts and ratty T-shirt, my hair in a messy bun, my throat tight as Tori takes off down the road like a shot.

  Neither she nor Kenzie even glanced my way.

  I stand there for one minute. Then two. Watching long after they’re gone, waiting for something that’s never going to happen, Whitney’s words replaying in my head.

  You’re the outlier.

  Yes, that’s me.

  On the outside looking in.

  31

  Sam and I make our official debut as a legitimate, honest-to-God, yes-we-are-together-as-in-together-together couple a week after the Fourth at Danielle Webster’s party.

  We’ve once again arrived at a party together, and this time, we’re holding hands. The looks start first, fleeting, could-not-care-less glances from most of them, outright stares of disbelief from a few and a pointed oh, no he didn’t glare from Macy Fitzsimmons, Abby’s best friend.

  The truth is out.

  Sam and Hadley, Hadley and Sam has taken on a whole new meaning.

  “Want something to drink?” Sam asks me.

  I nod and we head toward the refrigerator in the corner of the two-stall garage. It’s twenty feet away but it takes us a good five minutes to get there, what with Sam being stopped and greeted—girls with hugs, guys with back slaps and playful punches to the arm. A curvy blond freshman presses up against his free side to give him a giggling hello. He gently disentangles himself from her and we continue on, Sam the belle of the ball.

  And me. A trailer-park Cinderella.

  Minus the fancy dress, impractical shoes, and fairy godmother.

  I now get why Cinderella keeps those mice around. Gives her someone to talk to while her prince is being flirted with, hailed and chatted to and otherwise charming an entire room.

  When we reach the fridge, Sam lets go of my hand and opens the door. Grabs a can of Coke, pops the top and gives it to me. He then gets a bottle of water, twists off the cap and takes a sip.

  Then reaches for my hand once more.

  As if he hated letting go for even a few moments. As if he wants to make it crystal clear to everyone here that we’re together.

  I link my fingers with his and step closer to his side.

  Guess I want to make it clear, too.

  But as we stand there, Sam talking with Bobby Piccoli, who just graduated and is attending Temple University in the fall, I start to wonder if that’s such a great idea.

  For three weeks it’s been our little secret.

  And now we’re letting the world in on it. Giving others the chance to comment on us being together. Question whether it’s a good idea.

  I would’ve been happy putting this moment off for a bit longer, but this afternoon when Sam suggested we do something that involves leaving my trailer and hanging out with people other than my two-year-old niece, well, I couldn’t tell him no.

  Ever since that day at Sam’s when we played basketball with Charlie then kissed in Sam’s room, we’ve kept a low profile.

  As in so low some would call it underground.

  Whitney’s the only person who knows. After spilling my guts to her that morning on her porch, it seemed pointless to keep Sam and me being together a secret.

  Plus, she lives across the street. I’m sure she’s seen him at my house.

  He comes over during the week after work, stays until eleven or so. Saturdays he’s there most of the day and he stops by on Sundays for a few hours between church and dinner with his family. We play with Taylor until she goes to bed, then we watch TV.

  And on the nights when both Devyn and Zoe are working, we skip the TV and spend the rest of our time in my room, touching and kissing until we reach the point where we have to stop or go all the way.

  We always stop.

  Well, to be technical, I always stop him.

  Just because we’re no longer taking things at a snail’s pace doesn’t mean we should rush into that next step. I’ve always rushed before and it’s never worked how I wanted it to.

  I have it all figured out. We’ll continue how we are, and in a few months, if we’re still together and if things are still going well between us, then we’ll have sex. There’s no hurry. It’s not like the attraction between is us going to disappear anytime soon.

  As if reading my thoughts—or getting a whiff of some rebellious pheromones I’m releasing—Sam rubs the pad of his thumb against the back of my hand. Then, still talking to Bobby, he tugs me even closer, plastering me against his side.

  I’ve got it so bad for this boy.

  I slip my hand from his so I can wrap my arm around his waist. Slide my hand between his shirt and jeans so I can feel the warmth of his skin. Yeah. Stopping is getting harder and harder to do.

  If I can hold out against Sam—against his kisses and touches and the things he says to me in the dark, the way he makes me feel—for another few weeks, it’ll be a freaking miracle.

  I’m not much on the whole willpower thing.

  I’m more of a do-it-then-deal-with-the-consequences-later kind of girl.

  Ha. Look how well that’s worked out for me.

  After finishing his conversation with Bobby, Sam once again takes my hand and we make our way through the party. I’d forgotten what being with Sam was like. He makes the rounds, goes from group to group, smiling and chatting with one and all.

  About an hour in, I leave Sam’s side for the first time and head into the house to use the bathroom. It’s pretty much all the same people who were at Beemer’s a few weeks ago. Still, it’s not like I’m a part of them just because Sam and I are together.

  I wish Whitney was here. At least then I’d have someone else to talk to. But she went out with her mom and her mom’s friend to celebrate Mrs. McCormack’s birthday.

  I hope she likes the carrot cake I helped Whitney bake for her.

  And I really, really hope Whitney saves me a piece. Or two.

  I’ve been to a few parties here so I don’t have to ask where the bathroom is. In the living room, I skirt around a couple making out and head down the hall then stop a few feet from the bathroom door. There’s a line.

  And it consists of Kenzie and Tori, both leaning against opposite sides of the wall, looking at their phones.

  I start to turn, but they raise their heads in unison, look at me then exchange a glance that speaks volumes. At least to each other.

  Best friends and their secret language. Very cute.

  But they’ve seen me and they know I’ve seen them so…yeah.

  More awkwardness in my immediate future.

  Resigned to my fate, I head down the hall and take my place in line next to Kenzie.

  It’s silent. And as awkward as I predicted.

  What I hadn’t predicted was how I’d feel. You’d have thought I’d be used to them ignoring me as if we hadn’t been friends for years. As if we hadn’t texted each other every day, talked to each other in
between classes at school and hung out together on weekends, attending parties like this together and, yes, taking group trips to the bathroom.

  The three of us.

  But, nope, not used to it.

  “You and Sam, huh?”

  I lean forward to look around Kenzie at Tori and ask, “Are you talking to me?”

  “Who else would I be talking to?”

  Considering she hasn’t said more than two words to me in almost a year, I wasn’t sure.

  My initial reaction to her question is to deny it, but that’s just habit, learned from many, many years of deflecting questions, of brushing aside comments. Of lying over and over again.

  Sam and I are just friends.

  Instead I take a deep breath. “Yes. Me and Sam.”

  It feels good, to say it out loud. To not pretend.

  It feels so very, very good.

  Kenzie holds out her hand. “I win,” she tells Tori.

  “I realize that,” Tori grumbles, digging into her purse. She pulls out a twenty and slaps it onto Kenzie’s palm.

  Kenzie’s small smile is smug, which only makes her look more adorable. It’s like a curse, her cuteness. “Meant to be,” she says in a singsong tone. “Didn’t I say it?”

  Tori rolls her eyes, but she’s fighting a smile. She’s tough as nails, that girl, but she adores her BFF. “You did.”

  Holding the money against her chest, Kenzie leans against the wall. “I love being right.”

  “You bet on whether or not Sam and I would get together?” I ask.

  Kenzie shakes her head. “Of course not.”

  “Then what’s with the I win and the money?”

  “We bet on when you and Sam would get together. Not if. I said it would be before the end of July. Tori thought it’d take at least until Thanksgiving for him to convince you to take him back.”

  They didn’t know. Had no idea Sam and I have been together for almost a month.

  Whitney never told them.

  “I didn’t take him back. I mean, we weren’t together before.”

  “You broke up,” Tori says, not believing this not-friends version of Sam and Hadley is a recent development. “Sam left town and you ditched anyone and everyone connected to him.” She shrugs. “Sounds like a breakup to me.”

  My breath clogs in my chest and I have to force myself to inhale. Exhale. “I…I didn’t ditch anyone.”

  Tori snorts. “Please. You stopped responding to our texts. You didn’t answer our calls. And if we did happen to be in the same vicinity, you refused to make eye contact. You made it perfectly clear that the only reason you hung out with us in the first place was because of Sam, and since he was out of your life, so were we.”

  “You were Sam’s friends first.” It’s a weak excuse, but it’s all I have. “You only hung out with me because of him.”

  The bathroom door opens and a girl who graduated last year steps out, gives the three of us a curious glance then goes on her way.

  When we’re alone again, Kenzie pushes away from the wall. “You’re right. We were Sam’s friends first. But we were your friends, too. At least, we thought we were.” She lifts her chin, and though her tone is steady, it’s also soft. Sad. “Guess you thought differently.”

  Brushing past Tori, she goes into the bathroom. Tori follows her but turns back to me, one hand on the doorjamb, her hip cocked to the side. “Now that you and Sam are a couple, we’ll probably be seeing a lot more of each other, but don’t feel like you have to pretend to like us again. We all know where we stand.”

  Before I can tell her I never pretended, she shuts the door in my face.

  32

  My heart is pounding and there’s a sick taste in my mouth.

  A taste very much like guilt, mixed with a big dollop of regret.

  I want to knock on the door, apologize for how I treated them, but it probably won’t make a difference. And I’m really not in the mood for one of Tori’s putdowns. Don’t think I can handle Kenzie’s rejection.

  No. The best thing to do is just let it go. Let them go.

  Like I did last summer.

  There’s too much water under the bridge. Too much time has passed. An apology won’t change anything.

  I head toward the kitchen, head down, so I don’t make accidental eye contact with anyone. I’m so over this party, so done with these people. I just want to go home.

  But first, I want to find a bathroom.

  I go upstairs and glance into the first room I come to. Do a double take then freeze. It’s a bedroom done up in purple and white—purple and white polka dots on the curtains, wide, purple and white stripes on one wall and a purple and white quilt complete with ruffles covering the single bed.

  Oh, there’s one more thing on the bed, one extremely out-of-place thing.

  Sam.

  And a sobbing Abby.

  Oops. Guess that’s two things.

  But hey, with the way they’re sitting—Sam’s arm wrapped around Abby’s shoulders, Abby’s head pressed against the side of his chest—you could say they’re a single unit.

  I can’t help but think the entire conversation with Kenzie and Tori, and now this sucky discovery, never would have happened if only I’d stayed next to Sam.

  Tonight’s lesson? Stay glued to the boy’s side. At least when any ex-friends and especially any ex-girlfriends are present.

  I step into the room but Sam and Abby are so wrapped up in whatever they’re whispering about, and extremely wrapped up in each other, they don’t notice.

  “Sam.”

  They both startle and look up. Abby leaps to her feet and takes a step as if to rush out on a wave of tears and heartbreak but Sam—you know, my boyfriend—grabs her hand, stopping her. Then he glances at me, holds up a finger in the universal just-a-minute sign.

  And leans down and says something in Abby’s ear I can’t hear.

  My eyes narrow. Seriously? Did the boy really just tell me to wait so he can whisper in his ex-girlfriend’s ear?

  What the hell?

  I cross my arms and watch the mini drama play out. Whatever Sam said to Abby makes her shake her head. Still holding her hand, he speaks again, his expression one of concern and sympathy. She hiccups softly then sniffs. Finally, she nods and he lets go of her. She sits back on the bed, her face turned away from me.

  Sam heads my way.

  And ushers me out into the hallway, where he shuts the door behind him then blocks it. Keeping Abby safe from my presence.

  I repeat: What. The. Hell?

  “What’s up?” Sam asks me, sort of impatient. As if I interrupted something important. Something he’d like to get back to as quickly as possible.

  “I just caught you hugging your ex-girlfriend,” I snap. “Maybe you should be the one telling me what’s up?”

  He frowns. “You didn’t catch me doing anything. The door was wide open and all the lights are on. It’s not like we were in a dark, locked room. And I wasn’t hugging her. Not like you’re making it sound.”

  “Oh, no. You don’t get to act insulted here. I’m the one who left your side for five minutes only to find you snuggled up with another girl.”

  “I already told you, it wasn’t like that.”

  “No? Then what was it like?”

  He stabs a hand through his hair. Yes. Poor baby, it’s so hard to deal with your unreasonable, overly dramatic girlfriend and her silly accusations. “She’s drunk. And upset.”

  “Upset about what?”

  Taking me by the elbow, he tugs me to the other side of the hall, keeps his voice low. “About you and me.”

  “You two broke up a long time ago.”

  “I know. I guess she thought…”

  He trails off, looking uncomfortable. Embarrassed.

  Caught.

  My eyes narrow. “You guess she thought what?”

  He flashes me an apologetic look. “That she and I would get back together.”

  “Have you been talking to
her? Recently, I mean.”

  “No! I mean, yeah, she texts me sometimes--”

  “Sometimes? Like once a month? Once a week?”

  “A few times a week.”

  “Your ex-girlfriend texts you a few times a week,” I repeat, trying to understand this truth. To accept it. “Do you respond?”

  He flushes. Guilty as charged. “It doesn’t mean anything.”

  “Maybe not to you. But to Abby? I bet it means a lot. Like that you still like her. Like there’s a chance you want to get back together.”

  “I don’t,” he says, reaching for me. I step back but this is Sam and he keeps coming, not stopping until he’s set his hands on my shoulders, his head ducked so he can meet my eyes. “I love you, Hadley. You know that.”

  I do know that. I do. But it’s so much easier to believe when it’s just the two of us. The past three weeks, we’ve been insulated from everyone and everything, happy and content in our own little world. A world where there are no ex-girlfriends. No fights. No past. Just us and the hope that being together isn’t a mistake. That this whole thing isn’t going to blow up in our faces.

  That’s the world I prefer. Sure, it’s all fantasy, but I can live with that.

  “I want to go home.”

  He hangs his head, a poor, defenseless boy beaten down by his mean old girlfriend’s jealousy and harsh demands. “Yeah, okay. Give me five minutes to talk to Ab--”

  “I want to go now. Right now.”

  “I can’t leave her alone,” he says, giving me a disappointed look, as if I’d suggested he toss a whimpering puppy out a third-story window. “Hadley, she’s crying.”

  “A few tears never hurt anyone.”

  I know that better than anyone. I’d cried, too, when Sam left me.

  I’d survived.

  “If you’re that worried about her,” I continue, “go find Macy.”

  “I will,” he assures me quickly. “But I really think I should talk to Abby first. Explain things.”

  “Things?”

  “Yeah. How I didn’t mean to give her the wrong impression and that I’m with you now.” He lowers his voice. “How I want to be with you.”