The Art of Holding On

by Beth Ann Burgoon

  “And I don’t want to go there…why?”

  “Because he’s Tori’s ex. They were together almost all junior year.”

  “Really?” She looks at Michael’s account again. “She never told me that. And there aren’t any pictures of them on here together. Or on hers.”

  I shrug and twist the cap off my water bottle. Take a sip. “Michael doesn’t post that much. And Tori used to have pics of him but she deleted them after they broke up. It was messy.”

  At least, that’s what I heard. That Tori and TJ hooked up behind Michael’s back before Tori finally broke things off with Michael to be with TJ.

  Whitney sighs, long and disappointed. I don’t blame her. Michael Snyder is hot.

  And completely still in love with Tori.

  Again, what I’ve heard.

  “Sisters before misters,” Whitney says, deleting Michael’s message with a flourish.

  I toast her with my water bottle. “Sisters before misters.”

  Sam’s fingers twitch on my stomach and I look over at him. He’d gotten in the pool about half an hour ago to cool down and his hair is still damp at the nape and temples, the strands on top of his head all messy and wavy. He looks younger in sleep. Softer. I watched him sleep last night, too. His face close to mine, his breathing deep and even, and there’d been this swell of emotion inside of me. Like my heart was filling up, expanding with warmth and joy, growing bigger and bigger like a balloon.

  Until it got so full I thought it would burst.

  Kind of like how it feels now.

  “Well, look at this. It must be my lucky day.”

  I jerk my head up to see a grinning Max sauntering onto the pool deck in board shorts and a Pitt T-shirt, his dark hair combed back, a pair of designer aviators hiding his eyes.

  “What are you doing here?” I ask.

  When he stops in front of me, his eyebrows rise above his sunglasses as he holds his hands out at his sides, all aw-shucks and innocent.

  Neither of which he is.

  “Just came out for a quick dip.” Even though I can’t see his eyes, I can tell by the way he licks his bottom lip that he’s giving Whitney one of his smoldering looks. Thank God, she ignores it. And him. “If I’d known two gorgeous ladies were out here, I’d have come out sooner.”

  Whitney flushes.

  I roll my eyes.

  Okay, so she’s not ignoring him as much as she should be.

  “No,” I say. “What are you doing home? I thought you were at your dad’s for another week.”

  “Didn’t I tell you?” Sam mumbles, eyes still closed. “Dad kicked him out. He got tired of his bullshit.”

  “No,” I say again, teeth gritted. “You didn’t tell me.”

  If he had, if I’d known there was even a chance of Max being home, I wouldn’t have agreed to spend the day here.

  And I sure wouldn’t have brought Whitney.

  The farther she stays away from Max and his smolder, the better.

  “The old man and I had a disagreement,” Max says with a lift of one shoulder. “So I cut my visit short.”

  Sam snorts, his thumb moving back and forth over my hip bone. “Dad kicked him out,” he repeats. “Because he came home wasted every night.”

  “Every night?” Whitney asks, frowning at Max in concern.

  I want to tell her not to bother, that the last thing Max Constable needs is her worrying over him, but to be honest, I’m starting to get worried, too. Max has always loved to party but he’d kept it contained to weekends. And he’d always hid it from his parents.

  Despite the dull wash of color filling his cheeks, he grins at Whitney and crosses to the lounge chair on her other side. “Just living up to the old man’s expectations of me. And if I hadn’t, I’d still be there, under his thumb.” He leans toward Whitney. “There’s not much room under there,” he says in a conspiratorial whisper. A whisper loud enough for his brother to hear. “Not with Sam taking up permanent residence.”

  Sam just lifts his hand and flips him off.

  Whitney and I exchange a look. This time it’s not just me who’s caught between the Constable brothers.

  Should be a lighthearted, fun-filled, tension-free afternoon.

  Sam sets his hand back on my hip as Max lowers his sunglasses and peers over the top of them at Whitney—the better to take in the sight of her hot pink one-piece swimsuit.

  Yep. Definitely smoldering.

  “Your shoulders are getting red,” he says to her, reaching out to trace his fingertip over the shoulder nearest him. “Want me to rub sunscreen on them for you? Would hate for you to get a sunburn.”

  “Please,” I mutter. “I just threw up in my mouth.”

  Whitney has gone still. After a moment, she looks at his hand, lingering on her person, then to his face. Tips her head to the side. “Did I give you permission to touch me?”

  She’s as sweet and polite as ever but there’s a hint of steel in her voice that has a smile tugging at my lips.

  And Max slowly removing his hand.

  He stares at her for one long beat, his expression shocked, as if he’s never had a girl turn him down before. For anything. Which is probably true.

  But it’s the intrigue in his eyes, the spark of interest that has my ears ringing from some inner alarm.

  The Constable brothers love nothing more than a challenge.

  “Just trying to help,” he assures her. “Would hate for you to get a painful sunburn.”

  “You’re so considerate,” I say flatly.

  Taking off his sunglasses, he grins at me as he stands. Sets them on the table next to Whitney’s water bottle. “You know me. Always thinking of others.”

  And then, because he’s thinking of us—or at least, how to get Whitney’s attention—he proceeds to make a big production of taking his shirt off—crossing his arms and grabbing the hem and then slowly, oh, so very slowly lifting the material as he tugs it up past his hard abs and sculpted chest before pulling it over his head. He arches his back and stretches, all his muscles flexing this way and that.

  Whitney shields her eyes from the sun as she peers up at him. Smiles indulgently. “I see Charlie’s not the only showoff in the family.”

  I laugh. Max is stunned for a moment, almost embarrassed. But then his mouth twitches into a crooked grin, and he looks younger. Healthier.

  Less angry.

  He tosses his shirt onto the chair. “Where do you think he learned it?”

  And he winks then takes the few feet necessary to do a perfect, splash-less, low dive into the pool.

  He does a couple of slow, lazy laps then swims back to the side and lifts himself out of the pool in one smooth motion, biceps bunching, water running down his naked torso, like some citizen of Atlantis rising from the deep.

  “Make it stop,” Whitney whispers to me out of the corner of her mouth. “I only have so much willpower.”

  “Just picture him fully clothed,” I whisper back.

  She sends me an are-you-kidding glance. “Have you seen him dressed?”

  Right.

  “Then picture him in something completely dorky,” I murmur as he walks toward us, water dripping, sunlight gleaming on his tanned skin. “Like socks with sandals.”

  She nods, her gaze flitting from him to her phone and back to him. The boy is magnetic. “Okay, good idea. Um…jorts.”

  “Jorts that go past his knees.”

  “Jorts that go past his knees, socks with sandals and one of those T-shirts that’s supposed to look like a tuxedo.”

  We’re both silent a moment, imagining it.

  She groans. “It’s not helping.”

  “Yeah, that’s the problem with the Constable brothers,” I say softly, tracing my fingers over the back of Sam’s hand. “Too much pretty to be dulled by bad fashion choices.”

  Max stretches out on his back and puts his shirt over his face.

  Whitney and I look at him. His wet board shorts low on his toned stomac
h. Then at Sam. His wide shoulders tapering to his narrow waist. Then we look at each other and grin.

  Sometimes, being stuck between the Constable brothers isn’t so bad after all.

  41

  We stay for dinner, me and Evan—who Sam says has spent so much time at their house this summer they might as well adopt him.

  I stay because Dr. Constable-Riester issued the invitation live and in person, coming onto the pool deck after I’d dozed off. The sound of her quiet yet pointed ahem woke me with a start and I looked over, expecting to find Whitney, but both her chair and Max’s were empty.

  Something I knew I’d have to ponder at a much later time when I braced myself and turned to see Sam’s mom standing in front of me in a dark blue silky blouse tucked into a pair of crisp white capri pants with a slim, gold belt. Despite the humidity that was wrecking my own hair, hers fell in dark, perfect waves to just above her shoulders. Her makeup was expertly applied and smudge-free. Her gaze sharp. Accusing.

  And on Sam’s hand.

  Which, yep, was still on my stomach.

  She probably thinks I put it there and wouldn’t let him move it.

  Like Devyn, Dr. Constable-Riester preferred it when Sam and Hadley, Hadley and Sam was the Just Friends Show.

  I shoved his hand off but he just mumbled in his sleep and put it right back, the tips of his fingers sliding under the waistband of my bikini bottom.

  At which point a wave of heat engulfed me as I went into a panicked, full-body blush and stared at his mom in wide-eyed, open-mouthed horror and prayed for a sudden, violent thunderstorm or massive locust infestation, anything to end what was quickly becoming one of the worst moments of my life.

  But the sky remained sunny and clear and the yard stayed bug-free and the moment dragged on. And on.

  Until finally Dr. Constable-Riester ended it with a stern, “Samuel.”

  He tensed and then s-l-o-w-l-y slid his hand away, as if by moving at a glacial pace, she wouldn’t notice where it’d been.

  I wanted to smack him.

  More so when he rolled over and sent his mom an innocent grin, which, unlike his brother, he pulled off like a champ. “Hey, Mom,” he said all super chill and casual. “What’s up?”

  Pretty sure Dr. Constable-Riester wanted to smack at him at that point, too.

  She refrained. Instead she sent him a pinched-mouth, flinty-eyed look that promised they would be discussing exactly where his hand had been, and why it should never be in that vicinity again, at a later time.

  For an ob-gyn, Dr. Constable-Riester has surprisingly rigid views on sex.

  Then she’d turned to me as if none of it had ever happened and she didn’t hate me with the burning fire of a thousand suns and asked if I would care to join them for dinner.

  I blubbered on a bit about how I hated to impose on them and wouldn’t want to put her or Mr. Riester out, but she waved aside my polite objections and assured me it was no trouble. It was just a Saturday night cookout and I was more than welcome.

  That’s when Sam piped in with his own encouragement, saying how I should definitely stay since Whitney’s mom was getting her soon, and Devyn was working and Zoe and Taylor had gone to Erie for Zoe’s grandmother’s birthday, and that way I wouldn’t have to eat alone.

  Before I could point out that I’ve eaten by myself many, many times and managed to live through it without choking or stabbing myself with a fork, Dr. Constable-Riester had taken my moment of silence as agreement.

  “Wonderful,” she’d said, her tone and expression suggesting it was anything but. “We’ll finally have a chance to catch up.”

  Sam rolled his eyes. “I haven’t been gone that much this summer.”

  It was one of the few complaints Dr. Constable-Riester had about her middle son—he didn’t spend enough time at home.

  “Not you,” she said, and swear to God, I heard an unmistakable, dun dun dun of doom. “Hadley and me.”

  Dun dun dun, indeed.

  So now, here we are on the huge patio overlooking the Constable-Riester compound—I mean backyard. Just me, Sam, his mom, stepdad and Max. Charlie and Evan inhaled their food—seriously, I don’t think they even chewed it—and took off to play video games.

  I wish I was with them.

  And I hate video games.

  Then again, sitting here at this moment in time does have its advantages. Number one being the food. The table is loaded, grilled corn smeared with cheesy butter, huge, tinfoil-wrapped baked potatoes that’d been cooked in the coals of the firepit, toppings for them—butter, sour cream, chives and real bacon bits—sourdough rolls from the Davis bakery (I’ve had two so far and am eyeing a third) and thick, juicy steaks.

  Steaks. Not hot dogs. Not burgers.

  But honest-to-God, top-of-the-line, so-tender-each-bite-practically-melts-in-your-mouth-and-makes-you-want-to-cry-it’s-so-delicious ribeye steaks.

  Because when you’re a Constable-Riester, not only do you feed your family freaking steak at your it’s-just-a-Saturday-night-cookout, but you can afford to feed the riffraff your children bring home, too.

  The last time Sam ate at our place, we had grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup.

  I mean, he ate two sandwiches, so he must’ve liked them, but still…

  “Sam tells me you’re also going to continue working for Glenwood after the summer ends,” Dr. Constable-Riester says to me.

  All part of her catching-up-with-Hadley plan, which so far has consisted of her asking about how my sisters and Taylor are doing, what classes I’ll be taking senior year, and if I’ve read any good books lately.

  I have, but she was probably hoping it was something more like The Great Gatsby or Pride and Prejudice and not The Baking Bible.

  Whatever.

  What’s been left unsaid are all the questions I’m sure she’d really like to ask, such as what did I do that had her sweet baby boy leaving her for the wilds of LA, what are my intentions toward aforementioned precious child, and when will I set him free of my evil clutches?

  Or something like that.

  “Is that what you’d like to pursue after graduation?” she continues, spearing a piece of lettuce (Dr. Constable-Riester doesn’t do carbs unless its wine). “A career in landscaping?”

  “God no,” I blurt. Loudly. And quite vehemently, if all the weird looks I’m getting are anything to go by. Even Max, who’s been nothing but six feet of grunts, shrugs and too much sullen testosterone throughout the meal, raises his eyebrows.

  Blushing like mad, I duck my head and set the ear of corn I’d been about to bite into on my plate. Wipe my fingers on my napkin. “I mean, it’s a great job. And Mr. G’s really nice.”

  This I direct to Patrick. Lest he think I’m ungrateful that he got Sam and me the jobs in the first place. He gives me a no-foul, no-harm grin.

  Even though the only reason we got these particular jobs is because Sam, unlike me, enjoys working outdoors, doesn’t mind sweating, sunburns, bugs or dirt and wanted a job where he’d be kept busy.

  That boy has an endless supply of energy.

  “And I appreciate Mr. G keeping me on,” I say, turning to Dr. Constable-Riester. It’s not even a lie. Not a full one, anyway. I do appreciate it—mainly because it pays one and a half times minimum wage.

  Which was why I accepted his offer.

  Well, that and because Sam accepted it first.

  It might not even be so bad in the fall, when the work is mostly leaf removal, trimming shrubs and trees and fertilizing lawns. When we’ll still be working together.

  But in the winter, Glenwood Landscaping turns into Glenwood Snow Removal and Sam’s focus will turn to basketball and college applications, leaving me to shovel walks, clear driveways and try not to succumb to frostbite all by my lonesome.

  Hooray.

  “But it’s not something I want to do for a living,” I finish lamely. “Not, like, forever or anything.”

  “No?” Sam’s mom asks. “What are your fu
ture plans, then?”

  To survive this dinner.

  And maybe have Sam sneak me a plate of leftovers to take home.

  Adults. Always telling us to enjoy our childhoods, not to grow up too fast, and in the next breath wanting us to have our entire futures planned out.

  I take a sip of my water. “I’m actually, uh, looking into culinary schools.”

  It’s the first time I’ve admitted it out loud and hearing it, saying it, makes it more real.

  Makes it more realistic, like it could really, truly happen and isn’t just some wild, crazy pipedream.

  “You’re interested in becoming a chef?” Patrick asks. He’s the cook in Sam’s family and his eyes are lit at the possibility of us bonding over our mutual love of sautéing vegetables and roasting meats.

  I smile at him apologetically. “A pastry chef.”

  Sam slides his hand onto my thigh under the table. “Hadley wants to own her own bakery someday.”

  Dr. Constable-Riester grimaces. Either she has X-ray vision and knows Sam’s hand is, once again, close to the danger zone, or she’s dismayed at the thought of sugary, carb-loaded baked goods.

  She recovers quickly and even manages a small smile. “So you like baking?”

  “I love it.”

  It’s one of the few questions I’ve been able to answer quickly and honestly.

  One point for me.

  “And what do you enjoy about it?” she asks.

  I blink at her. Several times. No one’s ever asked me that before. I’ve never even thought about it before.

  “Well,” I begin slowly, “for one thing, I like how…precise baking is. That there are rules to follow and that if something doesn’t work out—if a cookie spreads too much or bread doesn’t rise or your cake is gummy—you can go back and figure out why and fix it for the next time. And I like that, despite all those rules and precision, how versatile baking can be. How creative you can get using the same basic ingredients—flour, sugar, eggs and butter—and make so many different things. How you can experiment with different flavor combinations or tweak the ingredients to make a cookie chewy or crispy. I like the…the magic of it, I guess.” I take a moment to inhale and reach down to link my fingers with Sam’s, still on my leg. “But mostly, I love seeing people enjoy what I’ve made. It just…”