The Art of Holding On

by Beth Ann Burgoon

  But I don’t move. I can’t. Because I’m too busy staring at Abby as she makes her way to the front of the crowd, Macy by her side. Our eyes meet. Lock. And she smiles. The same smug, triumphant smile she’d given me at Christmas.

  I’ll tell you everything…

  I look down at Sam’s hand, his fingers still wrapped around my wrist, then at his face. His handsome, familiar face. I know him better than anyone. I trust him.

  But I don’t believe him. Not now. Not about this.

  I don’t believe him and that’s a problem because this is Sam and I’m supposed to believe everything he tells me. Because Sam doesn’t lie. He’s honest and honorable and good.

  But maybe he’s not always honest and honorable and good.

  Maybe there are times when he’s just as dishonest and imperfect as everyone else.

  Maybe, every once in a while, he’s just as messed up and confused and unsure as I am.

  “Tell me now,” I say softly.

  His lips flatten and he gives a slight, quick shake of his head.

  Sam hates being told what to do.

  It’s all part of that entitlement thing. Of getting whatever you want, whenever you want it. He’s too used to it, having his own way. Way too comfortable being the one who makes the decisions. Who controls things.

  Right now, though, I’m going to be the one who decides. I’m going to get what I want. It’s only fair.

  Even if that means asking the wrong Constable boy to give it to me.

  Reaching down with my free hand, I slowly, purposefully unpeel Sam’s fingers from my wrist.

  Then I slowly, purposefully turn to face Max.

  “Tell me.”

  Sam takes a step forward, “Had--”

  “Abby dropped by the house last night,” Max says quickly, relishing his role as villain in our little drama. “Spent a couple of hours there.”

  At first, it’s like I don’t even comprehend what he’s saying. There’s a buzzing sound in my head and my thoughts are fuzzy and I’m just completely confused. Last night? No. Last night Sam was with me. We babysat Taylor and watched Toy Story 4 and ate the caramel popcorn I made.

  But then the buzzing gets louder and I realize it’s not in my head—not only in my head—but it’s the murmuring of the crowd, surrounding me. I cover my ears. Shut my eyes.

  Yes, he was with me, but he left early, before nine. Had said he was tired and wanted to go to bed so he’d be well rested for basketball in the morning. He kissed me goodbye, like he always does. Told me he loved me.

  And before he left, before he started yawning and stretching and saying how beat he was, he got a text message. One he’d said was from his mom. One he hadn’t responded to.

  But he had excused himself to use the bathroom a few minutes later.

  Swallowing the sick taste in my mouth, I lower my hands. Open my eyes. I stare at Max, wanting, needing, him to take it all back. To deny his words. To say they’re nothing but lies.

  Except I’m looking at the wrong boy.

  I’m just too terrified to look at the right one.

  Sam edges closer, leaning down to speak near my ear. “Nothing happened,” he says fast and low and rough. “I swear, Hadley. We just talked.”

  The air leaves my body in a long whoosh, like I’ve been punched in the stomach, and I hunch my shoulders, curling into myself.

  Nothing happened.

  Except something did happen. Abby was at Sam’s house last night. She was at his house and he didn’t tell me.

  He would never have told me if Max hadn’t outed him first.

  “Did I forget to mention that Mom and Patrick weren’t home?” Max asks me, except he’s looking over my head at Sam, his eyes full of spite, his mouth turned up in a sneer. “And that Sam and Abby stayed tucked away in Sammy’s bedroom with the door shut for over an hour?”

  I recoil and cross my arms, digging my fingers into my biceps. The murmuring of the crowd rises like a wave, washing over me, weakening my defenses. I’m on the verge of breaking, beaten down by Max’s words and Sam’s secrets.

  “Don’t listen to him,” Sam says, shoving Max aside and stepping between us again. Laying his hands on my shoulders, he ducks his head and meets my eyes, his hands warm on my skin, his gaze direct. Sincere. “He’s pissed at me and trying to get back at me.”

  It’s not exactly implausible, the idea that Max is just messing with us for revenge or sport or simply because he’s bored.

  But that doesn’t mean he’s not telling the truth.

  “Was she at your house last night?” I ask hoarsely. He nods. “Was she… Were you two in your room?”

  He hesitates.

  Then nods again.

  “Nothing happened,” he says, his grip tightening when I try to twist free. “Hadley, you have to believe me.”

  That’s just the thing.

  I don’t have to believe him.

  But, oh, God, I want to.

  “Why was she there?” I ask through barely moving lips.

  Another hesitation. Another quick glance in Abby’s direction.

  “I can’t tell you,” he says, remorseful. Anguished.

  But it’s not enough. Not nearly enough to make up for him keeping another girl’s secrets. Not enough to make this right.

  And I am done.

  “Let go of me,” I say, quiet and firm.

  He edges closer, his voice dropping to a soft plea. “Hadley…”

  Max slams his hand on Sam’s shoulder. Hard. “You heard the lady, Sammy boy.”

  Sam’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t shake his brother off. Just searches my gaze. Whatever he sees there has him inhaling deeply and dropping his hands from my shoulders. He takes a step back, head down, throat working as he swallows rapidly.

  I stand there, feeling everyone watching me, waiting for my next move, except I have no idea what that is. All I want is to go home, but there’s no way I’m getting in a car with Sam. Not tonight. And Whitney rode with Kenzie so I can’t ask her, and it’s way too far to even think about walking.

  That leaves me only one choice.

  I pull out my phone.

  “What are you doing?” Sam asks as I start typing.

  I don’t look at him. “Texting Zoe to come get me.”

  It’d be easier if I asked Devyn since she’s home with Taylor, but it’ll be less painful for my psyche to have it be Zoe. Far fewer I told you sos. But it will mean waiting—I check the time, give an inner whimper—two hours before she’s done with work.

  Maybe I will start walking after all.

  “You don’t have to do that,” Sam says quietly. “I’ll drive you home.”

  I sear him with a not-happening look then go back to my message.

  “No need to have your sister come all this way,” Max says, because unlike the rest of our audience, he’s not giving us one inch of space. Nope, he gets even closer and puts his arm around my shoulders. Again. “I’ll take you home.”

  Before I can shove Max’s arm off, again, Sam growls—the boy literally growls—and does it for me by putting both his hands on Max’s chest and pushing him. Hard.

  Max straightens. “What’s the problem?”

  “She’s not going anywhere with you,” Sam grinds out, stepping closer.

  I frown. God. It’s like I’m a bone in a dog fight.

  “I’m just helping out,” Max says. “Making sure your girl gets home safe and sound.”

  Sam steps closer. “You’ve done enough.”

  “Hey, all I did was tell the truth. You really need to learn to take responsibility for your actions, Sammy.”

  “It wasn’t the truth! And it wasn’t yours to tell.”

  Max shrugs. “Payback’s a bitch, isn’t it?”

  I bristle. Oh, my God. That’s what this is about. What it’s really about. No wonder Max was so eager to help me find Sam. So insistent on making sure I knew that Abby was at Sam’s last night. Sam was right.

  Max is pisse
d at Sam. Like, really, super pissed.

  And what better way to get back at Sam than through me?

  They’re toe to toe now. Nose to nose. Puffed-up chest to puffed-up chest. They’re evenly matched, the Constable brothers, as they do that whole stare-down thing guys do when they get in each other’s faces.

  I take a hesitant step toward the two snarling boys. “Sam…”

  He doesn’t even glance my way, just keeps glaring at his brother. “I told you, it wasn’t me.”

  “Bullshit,” Max snaps, for the first time his composure slipping. “At least have the balls to own up to it.”

  Sam tosses his hands in the air. “Fine. Believe what you want, but this ends it, okay? We’re even now.”

  “Not quite yet,” Max says. And there’s something in his soft tone, an underlying threat, that doesn’t seem to affect Sam, but has me taking a quick step back. “There’s one more truth to be revealed.”

  Sam turns to me. “There’s not. Swear to God, Hadley.”

  I can’t look at him. Can’t tell him that on this, I do believe him. That I believe him because I know what truth Max is talking about. What secret he’s about to reveal. And it has nothing to do with Sam or Abby.

  And everything to do with me.

  I give Max a small, desperate shake of my head, a plea for him not to do this.

  But he’s gone too far to back down. Has the attention of everyone around us, all silent and still, waiting for the tension to finally break.

  Eager for what happens next.

  “No worries, little brother,” Max says, and though there’s a flash of remorse in his eyes before he slides his gaze from mine, it’s not enough to stop him. Not nearly enough for me to ever forgive him for what he’s about to do. “This isn’t one of your secrets. It’s one of mine. Well, mine and Hadley’s.”

  Sam goes rigid, his jaw tight, the muscles in his neck standing out. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means that for years, the one thing you wanted most was Hadley. And while it took you a while, you finally got her because when have you not gotten something you want? But here’s the thing, Sammy…” He leans in closer, lowers his voice and says the words guaranteed to rip my world apart. “You may have her now. But I had her first.”

  47

  I’m frozen. My thoughts encased in ice. My heartbeat sluggish.

  Time seems to stop, and for several long, precious moments, I’m able to stay in this space between Before and After.

  Before everything changes.

  Before Sam and I end.

  After, when I’ll be alone again.

  I wish I could stay here, right here, right now, forever where everything is still and silent and safe.

  But wishing doesn’t work. And nothing good lasts forever.

  Not for Jones girls.

  I exhale and the world around me rushes back to life and I’m bombarded with images and sounds and feelings.

  The glow from the fire highlights Max’s smug, cocky grin. Paints Sam’s furious expression in red and orange.

  There’s a soft, almost sympathetic, “Oh, Hadley,” from behind me that I think comes from Kenzie. A shouted “What did he say?” that could only be Graham. More than a few gasps and growing murmurs and a disgusted, grumbled “Jesus, Max” that sounds like Tori.

  I’m suffused with fear and heartbreak and remorse.

  Sam lunges forward, knocking Max back a step. “You’re a goddamn liar.”

  Max stumbles then catches his balance. “You go on and believe that. But Hadley and I know the truth about what happened between us last Christmas.”

  Jerking upright, Sam whips his attention to me. Shakes his head. “No.” He swallows. “No.”

  “You want to know the best part of all this?” Max taunts softly, but neither Sam nor I so much as glance his way. Our gazes stayed locked. Sam is breathing hard, his chest rising and falling rapidly, his expression a mask of pain and fury. “Hadley ended up with me that night because you sent her away. So, really, the only person you have to blame for this is yourself.”

  Sam roars and I make a grab for his arm. “Sam! No!”

  But he shakes me off and practically flies through the air, his punch snapping Max’s head back with a sickening crack. The crowd surges forward as Max retaliates with a blow to Sam’s chin. Their fight lasts only a minute before they’re separated by T.J., Colby and Brad—Max’s shirt ripped, his lip cut and bleeding, Sam’s eye swelling.

  Max steps back and spits blood onto the ground. Wipes his hand across his mouth. “Now we’re even.”

  Sam lunges for him again, but T.J. has a hold of one of Sam’s arms, Colby the other, and they drag him away. His entire body trembles with rage, thrums with unchecked violence. They stop near a white pickup and Sam yanks free and slams the flat of his hand against the passenger-side door again and again until Jack stops him. Sam drops to a crouch, hands on the top of his head, face hidden by his arms.

  T.J. and Colby take a few steps away as Jack squats next to Sam, not saying anything, just keeping his hand on Sam’s shoulder.

  “You didn’t have to try and protect me, Hot Hadley,” Max calls from behind me. “I can handle Sammy boy.”

  Scalp prickling, I turn slowly. Max is leaning against a wide tree at the edge of the grass, ankles crossed, as if he’s king of the freaking world and we’re all just here to suit his needs. To pleasure him when he demands it. Entertain him when he’s bored.

  Shield him from his own flaws and weaknesses.

  I feel everyone watching me as I storm over to him, but I no longer care what they see. What they hear. Why should I?

  I’ve already lost everything.

  I stop a few feet in front of him, my body rigid and aching with the need to lash out at him, to scream at him until his smugness is gone.

  But there’s one thing I need more than to hurt him. One question I have to have the answer to.

  “Why?”

  For once, he doesn’t put on an act. Doesn’t pretend not to understand what I’m asking.

  “I wanted him to know,” he says, as if there’s no better explanation.

  And maybe to him, there’s not.

  After all, what a Constable boy wants, a Constable boy gets.

  “You wanted to hurt him.”

  He inclines his head, all the agreement he’s willing to give. “I want him to think about it.” He uncrosses his ankles and pushes away from the tree. “Every time Sam is with you, I want him to remember I was there first.”

  And he walks away.

  Because he can. He can drop a bomb on his brother, humiliate me and expose my deepest secret and then just saunter off without a care in the world. No remorse. No worries about what’s been said or done.

  Boys like Max—selfish, spoiled, entitled boys—don’t have to face the consequences of their actions. Don’t have to pay for their mistakes.

  But girls like me do.

  Taking a deep breath, I head toward Sam on unsteady legs. When I’m near the fire, Jack spots me. Says something to Sam that has him dropping his arms and lifting his head. Our eyes meet as he stands.

  I want him to think about it. I want him to remember I was there first.

  I stop, my heart racing. I get it. What Max meant. Why he really wanted Sam to know what happened between us.

  It’s about so much more than just hurting Sam. More than just bruising him.

  Bruises heal. In time, they fade and disappear. They’re forgotten.

  This, what happened tonight, isn’t a bruise.

  It’s a scar.

  A scar stays with you forever. It’s a constant reminder of the pain you suffered. The hurt you endured.

  T.J., Colby and Jack pass me without a word, giving Sam and me as much privacy as we can expect at a party this size with the majority of the people still watching us. Still, we’re far enough away that they can’t hear us, can’t see our expressions clearly.

  A fact I’m incredibly grateful for
when I get close enough to see Sam’s face. There’s a streak of dried blood on his eyebrow, his eye swollen and red.

  And filled with tears.

  Like the night of Beemer’s party when Sam stood on my porch, when he was lost and hurting, I want to sooth him. To offer some comfort. To take away his pain.

  Unlike that night, I don’t stop myself from reaching for him.

  But before my fingers can so much as graze his cheek, he steps back, out of my reach.

  “It’s not true,” he says, his voice thick. “Max is lying.”

  I wrap my arms around my aching stomach, fighting the urge to puke. Struggling to stay whole, but it feels as if my body is made up of splintered fragments, pieced back together, fragile and wrong.

  I could tell him Max lied. I could deny it all.

  And Sam would believe me.

  He’d believe me. But he’d always wonder. There’d always be doubt.

  I could lie to Sam, as I’ve done before.

  But I won’t.

  There’s no point. The truth is out. It can’t be taken back. Can’t be hidden from.

  Sam and I don’t have a year. We don’t have anything.

  This is how we end.

  “Hadley,” he says, gruff and pleading. “Tell me it’s not true.”

  “I can’t,” I whisper.

  Sam blanches, his expression stricken.

  With two words, I irrevocably break the connection between us.

  Tipping his head back, he gulps in air, fighting his tears, and when he has control of himself, he doesn’t so much as spare me a glance. He doesn’t say anything. He just walks away. Toward the party. Toward his friends. Toward Abby.

  He doesn’t look back.

  I’m left there, in the dark, alone.

  I’m left. Again.

  I don’t cry.

  I don’t cry when Whitney finds me, still standing in the same spot I was when Sam walked away from me for the last time and pulls me into a warm, silent hug.

  I don’t cry in the backseat of Colby’s car while he and Whitney take me home.

  I don’t cry when I’m in my bed, exhausted and sick to my stomach, staring blankly at the ceiling, eyes so dry they burn.