This is my fault. It was my choice to have sex with Max. To keep it from Sam. My choice to believe that Sam and I could somehow make it work despite everything that’s happened.
My choice to believe Sam meant it when he said the past didn’t matter. That we were starting new.
I don’t cry because I don’t deserve the self-indulgence of tears.
I don’t cry because I’ve cried over Sam Constable more than enough.
I don’t cry because there’s a niggling sense in the back of my brain, sharp and persistent and elusive. Something I can’t quite wrap my head around.
Something like anger.
Except I don’t have the right to be angry. I was the one who did this. Who ruined things.
But I can’t rid myself of this feeling that maybe it wasn’t all my fault. That Sam has his share of the blame in this.
Yes, I messed up.
But I wasn’t the only one.
It’s a crazy thought. Delusional. A way for me to protect myself from the pain.
It’s one I can’t get rid of.
So I push it to the side. I ignore it.
And I do not cry.
48
Out of all the mistakes I made, the biggest one, the worst one, was going to Sam’s house last Christmas. Not because he was with Abby. Not because he was so horrible to me.
But because of what happened after.
Christmas night, I let Sam go.
Like so many other areas of my life, I didn’t have a choice. I’d gone to his house to talk to him. To apologize. To tell him how much he meant to me.
But he wouldn’t listen. He’d moved on.
I waited too long. I was too late.
I stood on his front porch that night, wet and cold, snow clinging to my hair, nose running, hand reaching for him—and watched helplessly as he stepped back into the warmth of his house, drawing Abby with him.
And slowly shut the door.
The pain came swift and sudden, stealing my breath.
Four months ago, he told me he was in love with me. That he wanted to be with me.
Guess I wasn’t the only liar in our relationship.
I stayed there, right there, on his porch, staring at that closed door, for one minute. Then two. I waited.
But the door stayed shut.
Sam didn’t come back.
Tears filled my eyes, blurring my vision, making the huge wreath on the door look distorted, the red bow fading into the deep green. The twinkling lights merged with each other, all soft and unfocused and surreal.
But there was a hard lump in my throat. And my thoughts were crystal clear.
The life I’d lived since Sam left was my new reality. Nothing was going to change it.
There was no going back.
What had started that hot summer day only a few months ago when he kissed me, what had escalated that night when he showed up at my trailer, drunk and insisting he was in love with me, ended for good the moment he shut that door and left me standing in the cold.
For the past few months, when Sam hadn’t returned any of my texts or calls, when he disappeared from my life, I’d known we were over. I’d known it, but I hadn’t accepted it. Not fully. There’d been a part of me, a small, stupid, hopeful part that had continued to believe that he’d come back. That we could somehow make us—some new, different version of us—work.
But no more. No more believing. No more hoping. No more waiting.
It was time to move on.
I didn’t want to. I wanted to drop to my knees and wail and sob at the unfairness of it all. I wanted to pound against the door, pleading for him to give me another chance.
But I’d already lost so much. Sam. My friends. My hopes.
My heart.
The only thing left of any worth was my pride.
I was going to hold on to it as tightly as possible.
So I stayed on my feet, knees locked, hands at my sides. I turned and went down the snow-covered steps. Slowly. Carefully.
I didn’t crumble. I didn’t beg. I didn’t lash out. I didn’t run.
I didn’t break.
Not completely.
I was halfway down the driveway when a car approached, its headlights blinding me momentarily. Lifting my hand to cover my eyes, I stepped to the side, ducked my head, as if by me not looking up, if I kept right on walking, I could become invisible to whoever was driving. That they—Sam’s mom or Patrick—would pass me without stopping to ask what I was doing there or if something was wrong.
That they could hurry up and get inside the house and catch Sam, alone, with a girl.
Catch him and ground him for eternity.
Seemed only fitting.
But the Fates were having none of it because the car slowed and I realized it wasn’t Dr. Constable-Riester arriving home to bust her middle son. It wasn’t Patrick and Charlie back from making merry at Patrick’s parents’ house.
It was Max, behind the wheel of the Jeep Wrangler he’d gotten for his high school graduation.
Just in case my night so far hadn’t been horrible enough.
He stopped next to me, the passenger-side window rolling down, and though something told me to keep right on walking, I didn’t. I jerked to a halt. The interior light flicked on, illuminating Max’s handsome profile.
I expected him to say something flirtatious or give me one of his lame come-ons. Maybe some stupid joke about Hot Hadley being out in the cold. But he just looked out the windshield at his house wrapped in twinkling lights, all bright and joyful. Then at the garage, where I noticed something I hadn’t when I’d trudged up the driveway ten minutes before. Something Max obviously saw right away.
Abby’s car parked in front of the second stall.
Even an idiot could figure out what Sam and Abby were doing in that house, alone, right this very moment. What had happened when I showed up on the doorstep.
Why I was out there, alone, making my way home.
God knows Max is many things. But stupid doesn’t make the list.
Turning toward me, he draped one arm over the steering wheel, studying me in that way the Constable boys had, like they were looking for your secrets. Searching for your weaknesses.
Figuring out the best way to get past your defenses.
Then he leaned across the passenger seat and opened the door.
I blinked. Frowned at that open door. At what it signified. Lifting my gaze, I tried my own version of a deep, seeking look, but it was useless.
Max Constable only let you see what he wanted you to see.
And what I saw was a dark-haired boy waiting patiently for me to make a decision.
Continue walking home in the dark.
Or get in his Jeep.
Stay cold and wet—and get colder and wetter.
Or be warm and dry.
I glanced up at the house. Sam was in there, in the light, toasty warm. He wasn’t cold or wet or heartbroken.
He wasn’t alone.
I was.
Ever since he left, I’d been so alone. So lonely.
But I didn’t have to be.
I looked at the house again—part of me hoping Sam was watching, that he saw what happened next.
And I climbed into the Jeep.
As soon as I closed the door, Max turned the heater up, aimed the vents my way then backed out of the driveway. We drove in silence, but he didn’t take me home. Instead, we went through the Sheetz drive-thru where he bought me a hot chocolate and himself a black coffee and two hotdogs.
When he went right instead of left on Orchard Drive—the opposite direction of Hilltop Estates—I didn’t ask where we were going, just huddled deeper into the seat, both hands wrapped around my cup. Five minutes later we turned onto Langley Lane, driving past the few houses to the baseball fields, bouncing in our seats as we went from pavement to the rutted dirt road. He backed in behind one of the dugouts, turning off the headlights but leaving the motor running.
It was at that point, as we sat th
ere, surrounded by darkness, listening to non-Christmas music, that I knew my night could not possibly get any weirder.
But who knew? Maybe it could get better.
God knew it couldn’t get any worse.
Max ate his hot dogs while I sipped my cocoa. Eventually, I warmed up enough to stop shivering and turned the heat down a few degrees. Unbuckled my seat belt and unzipped my jacket. I stole several quick glances at Max, but could only make out his silhouette.
Something was up with him, that was for sure. He wasn’t talking. Max was never quiet. He constantly joked and entertained the masses with his charm and stories of his fabulous life.
I’d known him since I was ten and this was the longest I’d ever seen him keep his mouth shut. And that includes when he’s completely stoned.
To have him sit there, staring out at the blackness as if I wasn’t even in the vehicle with him?
It was unnerving.
And becoming awkward as all get out.
But it was also sort of nice. Sitting with a Constable boy who didn’t think I owed him my every thought. Who didn’t expect anything of me.
Max hadn’t asked me what had happened back at his house. Hadn’t made any snide comments about Sam. Hadn’t flirted with me. At all. There were no hooded gazes. No touching his upper lip with the tip of his tongue while he scanned my body. No inappropriate comments. No trying to brush his fingertips over my arm or knee or the ends of my hair.
So, yeah, something was definitely wrong.
But I didn’t have it in me to ask what.
Couldn’t seem to make myself care or ask why he, too, was alone on Christmas.
Finished with his food, Max popped the lid off his coffee and took a sip. Leaned his head back, shut his eyes and sighed.
“So,” he said, breaking the silence, his voice a low grumble. “How was your Christmas?”
The sound I made was a cross between a laugh and a sob. “About the same as yours, I’m guessing.”
He glanced at me, eyebrows raised. “That bad, huh?”
There it was, the confirmation that his Christmas had sucked, too. Life wasn’t always tinsel, cookies and prettily wrapped presents, even for someone like Max Constable.
“Yeah,” I said around the tightness in my throat. “That bad.”
Head still against the seat, he turned to look at me. “Poor Hadley,” he murmured so sincerely, with such kindness and sympathy, tears stung my eyes.
“Poor Max,” I whispered and as I did, his gaze dropped. Lingered on my mouth for one long, heart-stopping second.
When our eyes met again, I saw my own longing and grief and sense of loss mirrored back at me. Whether it was real—whether he, too, was suffering as much as I was—or imagined didn’t matter.
In that moment, everything changed.
I went from being comfortably warm to almost unbearably hot. The air around us thickened with tension, the space between us seeming to shrink. The back of my neck prickled with a combination of apprehension and anticipation while an inner alarm blared.
It was a warning, loud and clear, that each passing moment spent looking into this boy’s eyes brought me closer and closer to danger. Like I was teetering on the edge of a cliff and if I wasn’t careful, if I wasn’t smart, one small, wrong move would send me tumbling over.
Max set his coffee cup in the console between us. Took my cup from me and did the same. Then, eyes locked with mine, he leaned toward me, the move slow and purposeful and full of intent.
But I refused to let him push me over that edge.
I jumped.
And met him halfway.
Our kiss wasn’t magical. Was far from romantic or sweet. It was raw. Angry. Shattered.
Like we were.
But mostly, it was a distraction. A balm. One that made it impossible to think. One that dulled the pain.
So when Max pulled back and searched my eyes and asked if I was sure, I kissed him again. And again. He tugged on me gently and I carefully climbed over the console, my knee bumping his cup and sloshing coffee over the side. Settling on his lap, I concentrated on the feel of his hands as he slid one into my hair, knocking my hat off, the other slipping inside the coat and under my shirt, his fingers hot against my lower spine.
We came together wordlessly, the only sounds our harsh breathing and zippers being pulled down and the soft rustle of clothing being removed. The windows fogged up, cocooning us in a shroud, making it seem more like a dream than reality. It was frenzied and wild and desperate.
And when it was over, I knew it was far from a harmless hookup. That it wasn’t just a mistake. It was even more than me trying to get back at Sam. To hurt him.
It was the worst thing I could have done to him. The one thing he’d never be able to forgive me for.
The one thing guaranteed to keep us apart.
The one thing with the power to end us forever.
And I couldn’t help but wonder if that wasn’t exactly why I did it.
49
The morning after the party at the lake, Zoe finds my purse and sweatshirt on the porch in front of the door.
Handing them to me, she asks why they were there, but I just shrug and close my bedroom door, shutting her out.
It’s not like I know for sure how they got there. But I could guess.
Sam probably dropped them off at some point during the night, late enough that there was no chance of anyone seeing him do it.
I spend the day in my bed, the lights off, the window shut and the curtains closed. Whitney texts then calls me, but I don’t answer. Devyn knocks on my door and I tell her I’m not feeling well. I hear the muffled sounds of Zoe and Dev arguing about something—money more than likely—and put in my headphones, blasting music to tune them out. Taylor sits outside my locked door and cries for me and I cover my ears with my hands until one of my sisters bribes her with a trip to the park.
For the most part, I’m just…blank. No thoughts. No feelings.
For the most part, I’m numb.
For the most part. But not all the time. Not fully. I wish I was, though.
Because in those moments when feeling returns, it hurts just to breathe, each thought of Sam, of how he’d looked at me when he learned the truth, cutting me like a razor, the pain swift and sharp. I curl into myself, knees to my chest, eyes squeezed shut until the memories fade and the numbness returns.
I’m empty. Hollow. But just for today.
Tomorrow I’ll get out of bed. Tomorrow I’ll leave my room. I’ll braid Zoe’s hair and go to work and I’ll come home and play with Taylor and make dinner and have a cookie or piece of cake with Devyn before she leaves for her shift at the motel. Tomorrow will be the start of my life going to back how it was before Sam came back.
How it’ll be from now on.
Tomorrow I’ll figure out a way to live without him.
Tomorrow I’ll start getting over him. Again.
This time for good.
Monday morning, I stumble into the hallway, ready but not quite willing to take on the day. Taylor’s screaming in Zoe’s room but I hear Zoe trying to calm her down so I go into the bathroom. Close the door, flick on the light and cross to the toilet.
My head hurts and I’m blurry-eyed, my body aching from lying in bed all yesterday. Even so, I’d love nothing more than to crawl back there, pull the covers over my head and shut out everything and everyone. But there’s no way I can bear to hear Taylor crying for me like she did yesterday.
Besides, Devyn would never let me skip work just because Sam and I broke up.
Boy problems do not equate a day off in her mind.
Which means I get to spend eight hours sweating in the heat and humidity, mowing and weed-whacking and hating every moment of my miserable life.
Or at least, quite a few of the moments.
And all of the ones having do with my sucky job.
But the worst part is going to be seeing Sam. We don’t work together anymore, but he’ll still b
e there. At the garage before we head out to our different assignments. After work, when we clock out. When we start school next week, it’ll be even worse. We’ve never had many classes together, what with him doing the whole AP and Scholar courses, but I’ll still pass him in the hall. See him in the cafeteria.
And thanks to us agreeing to stay on at Glenwood during the off-season, I won’t even get a break on the weekends.
That is, if Sam keeps his job.
If he stays in town.
Max said their dad wants Sam to move back to LA. Maybe he’ll go again.
Maybe he did me a favor last year when he disappeared from my life. At the time, I was heartsick and wished only that he’d come back. But now?
Now him leaving again would be a welcome reprieve. One where I wouldn’t have to face him day after day. Where I wouldn’t have to see him. Wouldn’t be reminded of what I lost every time I look at him.
He lost something, too, a nagging, inner voice in my head whispers. He lost you.
I shush it. That’s not the same. Sam Constable compared to Hadley Jones? There’s nothing equal in that equation.
I’m washing my hands when Zoe bursts into the bathroom wearing a loose, white T-shirt that falls to midthigh and nothing else.
I scowl at her. “Knock much?”
Pushing past me, she drops to her knees in front of the toilet, the shirt riding up to show the bottoms of her black underwear.
And pukes.
I gag at the sound. Breathe through my mouth as I dry my hands.
I really need to start locking the freaking door.
Taylor pads in next in her princess nightgown, barefoot and bawling, her face red, her nose running, hair crazy.
Forget locking it. I’m buying a deadbolt after work.
“Haddy!” Taylor sobs. She lifts her arms and jumps in place, all toddler agitation and anxiety. “Up! Up, up, up!”
I pick her up and she wipes her nose on the collar of the T-shirt I slept in.
What. Is. My. Life?
I reach over Zoe, who has now progressed to dry heaves, and grab some toilet paper, but as soon as Taylor sees it coming her way, she stiffens and starts shaking her head like I’m coming at her with a fistful of acid. “No! No, Haddy!”
The Art of Holding On Page 33
