The Art of Holding On

by Beth Ann Burgoon

  With that whopper of a lie hanging in the air between us, I open the door and hop out. Hear his soft, vicious curse right before I slam the door shut.

  I stomp up the sidewalk through the misting rain, so intent on my goal—which is more get away from Sam than actually get into the house—that I reach the top of the porch steps before he catches up. He once again takes a hold of my hand and I stop, all stiff and unyielding and not willing to give him an inch.

  He doesn’t deserve one.

  “I’ll talk to her,” he tells me again, but I’m too angry to even look at him. “I swear I’ll tell her tonight. As soon as I get back in the car to leave.”

  He sounds so sincere, is standing so close, I can’t help but bend. A little. Just enough to meet his eyes. “You told her we were together?”

  I hate how I sound, unsure and needy and jealous. Hate feeling those things even more.

  “I told her I was with you.” He leans down, speaks close to my ear, his breath brushing my neck. “I told her you’re the only girl I want to be with.”

  I shiver as a thrill shoots through me, the warmth of his words defusing my temper. Being the only girl Sam wants is intoxicating and exciting and scary all at once. It’s a huge responsibility, living up to his view of me. Being worthy of him.

  I’m not. But I want to be.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t get up when Max put his arm around me,” I say. “I should have.”

  “I shouldn’t have gone into that room with Abby. I should have taken you home when you wanted to go.” He searches my face in the dim glow of the porch light. “Hadley?” he asks, quiet and gruff and nervous. “Are we…” He stops. Inhales. “Are we okay?”

  Once again it’s up to me to define what Sam and I are to each other. Friends or not friends. Together or not together.

  It’s up to me whether to continue this new version of Sam and Hadley or end it before it’s too late.

  I give an inner eye roll. That’s hilarious. Me thinking I actually have a choice.

  When it comes to Sam and my feelings for him, there is no choice. There never has been.

  Too bad. A girl should have more control over her life. Over her feelings. Should be more careful with her heart.

  But if I had more control, I wouldn’t have Sam.

  And now that I do, I’m not willing to let him go.

  “We’re okay,” I say, and even though it comes out grudgingly, even though there’s still some anger and more than a little doubt in my tone, Sam smiles, relieved.

  Guess I’m not the only one willing to take whatever I can get.

  Like I said, there’s never been a choice. For either of us.

  34

  Time heals all wounds.

  That’s what they say, anyway.

  But four months after Sam left, I still thought of him every day. There was a hole in my life without him. Without Sam, nothing was right.

  I missed him.

  I missed him so much it was a constant ache, like a never-ending hunger—gnawing and relentless. I’d made a mistake in letting him go. In not telling him about my feelings for him.

  And on Christmas night, I decided to change that. To fix things between us.

  For the first time, I was going to go after what I wanted.

  I’d been so proud of myself. So certain I was doing the right thing.

  I thought Sam would be thrilled I wanted to be with him. That I was willing to take a chance on us.

  I thought going there would fix everything between us.

  Instead, it made everything worse.

  I was halfway up Sam’s driveway when it started snowing. Big, fat flakes floated from the sky, drifting in the breeze to cover the pavement. Sparkling like diamonds in the soft glow of the security lights on the upper corners of the garage and the matching sconces on either side of the front door.

  It was pretty. Like a Christmas card. The beautiful house on the hill, with its yard covered in white, overlooking the quaint town below, the buildings and houses lit up with twinkling holiday lights. I stopped and stood there in the middle of the driveway, eyes shut, breath coming out in puffy clouds, and took it all in. Just absorbed it, tried to let it soak into my skin, seep into my bones. Hoped the stillness and quiet would soothe my nerves.

  It might have worked, too.

  If I hadn’t been freezing my butt off.

  Stillness and quiet would have to wait.

  Shoving my gloved hands into the pockets of my coat, I ducked my head against that pretty snow, hunched my shoulders against the breeze and continued toward Sam’s house. White lights outlined the roof and porch and electric candles flickered softly in every window.

  I walked up to the porch and rang the doorbell. Stared at the huge evergreen wreath, complete with shiny, red bow, hanging on the front door while I waited.

  And waited.

  I pushed the doorbell again, held my finger against it, when the door finally opened and there he was. Sam, so darkly handsome and big and broad and good. Forget the stillness and quiet, it was Sam I wanted to soak in. Seeing him again had everything settling inside of me. Had my doubts and fears disappearing. It may have taken me some time, but I finally got it right.

  Sam and I belonged together.

  “Hadley,” Sam said, his tone flat, his gaze cold. “What are you doing here?”

  He was still angry. Still hurt by what happened over the summer. I’d expected him to be, but coming face-to-face with that anger and hurt had my carefully rehearsed speech flying from my head. Left me struggling to find the right words to tell him what I wanted. How I felt.

  “I…You…” I cleared my throat and tried again. “Merry Christmas.” I swept my gaze over him again because I could. Because he was there, right there in front of me. “Did I…Were you sleeping?”

  His hair was mussed, like he’d been lying down, his T-shirt wrinkled, his feet bare.

  He stepped toward me, right to the edge of the foyer, pulling the door almost shut behind him. “You shouldn’t be here.”

  Of course I should be here. It was Christmas. A time for cheer and joy, peace and goodwill.

  A time for miracles.

  “I wanted to see you,” I said, barely above a whisper.

  His expression darkened. “You should have called.”

  Yes, that was becoming extremely clear. I should have called. Shouldn’t have surprised him this way. But he hadn’t spoken to me since that night on my porch when he told me he loved me.

  When he walked away from me.

  “Would you have answered?”

  His mouth flattened. “What do you want?”

  The tip of my nose stung from the cold. From unshed tears. What did I want? I wanted him to stop treating me this way, like some stranger whose evening I’d interrupted. Like someone who’d never said he wanted to be with me. That he loved me. I wanted him to stop being all hard and angry.

  I wanted him to go back to being the boy I knew.

  I inhaled deeply, breathing in the frigid air, drawing in courage. “I miss you,” I said on my exhale, the words coming out soft like the falling snow, the truth of them drifting over us.

  He shook his head. “It doesn’t matter.”

  That wasn’t right. None of this was right. He was supposed to smile when he heard that. Was supposed to tell me he missed me, too.

  “It matters,” I said, fighting tears. “If I could just--”

  “Don’t,” he ground out. “Whatever you came here for, you wasted your time. It’s too late.”

  I shivered from the cold, my teeth chattering. I’d walked from my house, having decided this was such a great idea, surprising Sam this way, needing to tell him what was in my heart. Not wanting to wait another moment to do so.

  I should have waited.

  At least until I’d had a ride.

  But Devyn was working at the motel—she always worked holidays for the extra pay. And Zoe had taken Taylor with her to her latest boyfriend’s house.

>   So I’d donned my long, puffy coat, pulled on my gloves and boots and headed out the door, determined and excited and nervous.

  It wasn’t until I’d walked a mile I realized I’d forgotten a hat.

  “C-can I come in?” I asked, covering my ears with my hands.

  “This isn’t a good time.”

  “Are you…are you and your family doing something?” It was still Christmas. And Sam’s family was a whole lot more traditional than mine. Maybe they were…I don’t know…drinking hot chocolate and eating Christmas cookies while playing board games or singing carols around the fireplace.

  Something wholesome and sweet. Something I was interrupting.

  Something Sam would rather be doing than talking to me.

  “Mom’s at the hospital.”

  “Oh.” I lowered my hands. “So you’re hanging out with your brothers?”

  Okay, that seemed a stretch. Not the hanging-out-with-Charlie part, but I couldn’t imagine Sam and Max spending quality family time together without their mom insisting—and acting as a buffer. Season of miracles or not.

  “Max is out. Charlie went with Patrick to his parents’ house.”

  “Oh,” I said again.

  He wasn’t busy. His family wasn’t even home.

  He just didn’t want to talk to me. Didn’t even want to hear me out.

  I hugged my arms around myself but there was no warmth to be found. I wanted to apologize for showing up here unannounced. For not maintaining the distance he put between us. For breaking the silence.

  I wanted to beg his forgiveness for not being the girl he wanted me to be four months ago. For not being able to give him everything he wanted.

  But I was ready to be that person now. I was ready to give him everything.

  “Sam,” I said, reaching for him, “I--”

  “Sam?” a girl’s voice said from behind him. “Everything okay?”

  I twitched, like I’d received an electric shock. My fingertips tingled. My scalp prickled painfully. Holding Sam’s gaze, I shook my head slowly.

  Please, please, don’t let that be who I think it is.

  His jaw tightened and he opened the door as Abby pressed up beside him. She was dressed for a date in dark skinny jeans and crop top the color of plums, shiny hair smooth, as if it’d just been brushed, her dangly silver earrings catching the light.

  While I was dressed for braving the elements in a coat that made me look like a giant marshmallow and a pair of clompy boots. My hair was windblown and now damp from the still-falling snow, my nose and cheeks, I’m sure, bright red with cold.

  “Hadley,” Abby said, the triumph in her gaze making it clear she’d known I was what had been keeping Sam from her. That she wanted me to know she was what he’d been so eager to get back to. “What are you doing here?”

  I couldn’t answer. Couldn’t speak even if I’d wanted to.

  It hurt, God, did it hurt, seeing them together. Seeing the real reason why Sam’s hair was messy, why his shirt was wrinkled. Knowing what they’d been doing, alone in Sam’s house.

  What they’d go back to doing once I was gone.

  “Hadley was just leaving,” Sam said, an unfamiliar edge to his tone, a hardness in his eyes when he looked at me that had never, not once, been there before. “Isn’t that right?”

  No. No! None of this was right. My Sam would never be so mean. Would never treat me this way. Would never hurt me like this.

  Except, he wasn’t my Sam. Not anymore.

  Not when he put his arm around Abby’s waist and pulled her against him.

  I was still reaching for him, my arm outstretched, my hand seeking, trying to touch him. To hold on to him.

  Lowering my arm, I stepped back.

  And I let Sam go.

  35

  I’m carefully pulling a toothpick through the frosting of my Bakewell tart Wednesday evening when there’s a knock on our back door. I turn to see Whitney through the door’s window. Sam made a local travel basketball team and has a game in Jamestown, so Whitney and I are going to watch a couple episodes of Friday Night Lights after Taylor goes to bed.

  I lift my free hand to motion for her to come in when Taylor and Eggie run into the kitchen, Eggie taking the lead and reaching the door first.

  “No, Eggie! No!” Taylor cries. “I get it!”

  “He can’t actually open the door,” I tell her. “He’s a dog.”

  Ignoring me, she shoves Eggie aside.

  “Hey,” I say, using my sternest voice, “don’t push Eggie. That’s not nice.”

  She scowls. “I nice,” she mutters under her breath, then she glares at Eggie, who is looking at her in pure adoration. “You not nice, Eggie.”

  He barks twice and licks her face.

  Sap.

  Taylor uses both hands to twist the knob and opens the door. “Whitty!” She throws her hands in the air, suddenly full of glee and good cheer. “Hi, Whitty!”

  I wince. Good Lord, that child is loud.

  “Don’t yell,” I tell Taylor, keeping my own voice low so she’ll get the gist. “Use your inside voice.”

  “I no yell, Haddy!” she yells at me, all frowning and fierce and not getting the gist at all. “You yell!”

  That’s her new thing. Turning everything we tell her around so that it’s never her fault. Come to think of it, her mother’s the same way.

  Zoe often thinks she’s a victim of circumstance.

  “You’re a very excitable child,” I say. “You know that?”

  She lifts her little nose in the air and grabs Whitney’s hand, pulling her inside. “I no talk to you, Haddy. I talk to Whitty.” She gives Whitney the same love-struck look Eggie had given her. Whitney is officially at the top of Taylor’s Favorite Person List. “Whitty, we made a tart!”

  Except in the land of no rs, it comes out towat.

  Whitney smiles and picks Taylor up. “You did? What kind of tart?”

  “The most yummy kind,” Taylor says, though she hasn’t tasted it yet. Ah, the confidence of youth.

  “It’s a Bakewell tart,” I say, carrying it over to the table. It really does look the most yummy. I did a feathering effect on the top, blending the white icing and thinly piped raspberry jam together. “It’s raspberry jam topped with almond filling and then iced.”

  Whitney looks suitably impressed. “Wow. Fancy.”

  I cut a small slice of tart for Taylor then two bigger ones for me and Whitney, who sits at the table with Taylor on her lap.

  “Mmm,” Whitney says, taking her first bite. She gives Taylor a gentle bounce. “You’re right, Taylor. This is the most yummy.”

  “Yes,” Taylor says, forgoing her fork to drag her fingertip through the icing. She licks it off. “I always wite.”

  I take a bite of tart. It’s definitely most yummy. The pastry is flaky and buttery, the layer of raspberry jam a good balance between sweet and tart and the almond filling is killer.

  And worth every penny of that twelve bucks I spent on the puny bag of almond flour.

  “This is so good,” Whitney says, eating her piece slowly. She does that, talks and moves slowly, savors moments and bites of sweets. “You should really start selling these. Oh!” She sets her fork down with the wonder of her great idea. “You could get a booth at the farmer’s market.”

  Taylor shoves her plate away and climbs down to go back to the living room, Eggie padding behind her. She only ate the icing, so I draw her plate over to me.

  Like I said, that almond flour was twelve dollars. Not one crumb of this tart is going to waste.

  “You probably have to rent those booths,” I say. “And what happens if I don’t make enough to cover it plus the cost of ingredients?”

  She picks up her fork, taps the tines gently against her mouth. “Hmm. Okay. Well, maybe you could sell desserts to a local café?” She sits up straighter. “Or Good Grinds?”

  I finish my piece of tart and move on to Taylor’s. “Good Grinds’ customer base is
mostly hipster-wannabes. They probably only eat sugar-free granola and raw vegan cookies.”

  “You can still ask them if they’d be open to the idea,” Whitney insists.

  “What’s the point? They’re just going to say no.”

  Whitney looks like she’d really, really like to argue. Instead she sighs and focuses again on her tart.

  I like to think it’s because she’s realized I’m right, but it’s probably more because she hates any type of confrontation, no matter how small.

  Or else she just knows her good intentions are no match for my pessimism.

  We eat in silence a few moments. Well, relative silence as the clanking of the air conditioner has gotten louder as the summer progressed and Taylor is sing-shouting “Girls Just Want to Have Fun” in the living room.

  Baby girl loves ’80s pop music.

  I’m chewing the last bite of Taylor’s piece of tart and am considering a third slice when Whitney says, “My mom said you can come to Pittsburgh with us.”

  I frown. “Why would I do that?”

  Whitney and her mom are doing the college tour thing, going down to Pittsburgh tomorrow and spending the night, then visiting both Pitt and Carnegie Mellon.

  “So you can look at culinary schools down there,” Whitney says as if this makes perfect sense.

  “I don’t even know if there are culinary schools in Pittsburgh.”

  She uses the side of her fork to cut her last bit of tart in two. “I’m sure there’s at least one. We’ll research it tonight. Mom says you probably won’t be able to take a tour since it’s late notice, but we can maybe look around, get information about their programs.”

  Appetite gone, I stack my plate on top of Taylor’s. “I don’t want to tour any schools or get information.”

  Lifting her last bite of tart to her mouth, Whitney stops and tips her head to the side to study me. “Why not?”

  Because no one in my family has gone to college or even trade school. Mom and Zoe didn’t even graduate high school.

  Because college costs money. A lot of money. More than I have, that’s for sure. More than I’d ever be able to afford.

  Because there’s no point in wanting something you’re never going to get.