Seriously. I can’t. Not today.
“It’s not sandpaper,” I tell her but she keeps shaking and screeching and shoving at me and I. Have. Had. It.
I set her down.
She screams louder. Jumps and stomps her little feet. “Up! Up, Haddy!”
“No,” I snap, stepping back when she tries to climb me like a tree. “I am not in the mood for any crap, okay? And I’m not holding you until you let me wipe your nose. Deal with it.”
Eyes wide and glistening, face streaked with tears, Taylor studies me as she whimpers because, yes, I am a monster, not giving her what she wants, when she wants it.
But I give in too often, way, way too often, and I’m tired of it.
So very sick and tired of always being the one who never gets what she wants.
Crossing my arms, I narrow my eyes and give her my best stone-cold expression.
Bring it, kid.
Lower lip trembling, eyes squeezed shut against the impending horror, she lifts her chin, offering her nose up like a sacrifice.
She’s a bit of a drama queen. Gets it from her mother.
I wipe her nose, toss the toilet paper in the garbage then wet a washcloth and wash her face.
“Now up, Haddy?” she asks. “Please?”
I pick her up and she lays her head on my shoulder. She twirls my snarled hair around and around and around her finger, the tension of whatever set her off leaving her little body as she relaxes against me.
Wish I had someone’s hair to twirl. I could use some soothing.
Zoe groans and sits back on her heels.
“Are you done?” I mutter.
Hair tangled, face pale, she gives me a look, like she’s a queen on a throne and not a tangled-haired, half-naked, nineteen-year-old praying to the porcelain god. “Wow. Thanks for the sympathy.”
“Yeah, well, I’m all out at the moment.”
“What is your problem?” she asks, getting to her feet.
“My problem?” My voice rises, cracks at the end. I feel on the verge of…something. Hysteria or fury or panic. Or a crazy, fun combination of all three. “My problem is I have to get ready for work and I can’t do that with your kid on my hip because you’re puking up whatever alcohol you drank last night!”
Taylor lifts her head. “No yell at Mama, Haddy. Be nice.”
“I’m with Tay on this one,” Zoe says as she flushes the toilet. She crosses to the sink and nudges me aside to wash her hands. “Be nice, Haddy. Just because you and Sam are fighting, don’t take it out on us.”
“Sam and I aren’t fighting,” I mutter.
Sam and I are done.
Zoe rinses her mouth then grabs her toothbrush and the toothpaste. Cocks a hip and starts brushing her teeth like she starts every morning hugging the toilet.
Not a care in the world, this girl.
“What is wrong with you?”
Frowning, she speaks around a mouthful of toothpaste. “Nothing’s wrong with me.”
“Really? Because in case you forgot already, you just threw up. Again. This is like, the fourth time in the past month.” And those are just the times I’ve either seen her get sick or heard her in here, like a few days ago. Who knows how many other times there’ve been? “You’re drinking way too much--”
“I’m not drinking.”
“Uh, you were drunk the night you brought home that sleazy, tattooed guy--”
“That was weeks ago,” she says, now glaring at me in the mirror. “And I wasn’t drunk.” Rinsing her toothbrush, I see her throat work as she swallows, then she lifts her eyes and meets my gaze in the mirror. “I’m pregnant.”
50
Taylor’s singing the “You’re Welcome” song from Moana quietly near my ear, still twirling my hair, her breath hot against the side of my neck. But I barely hear her. Can’t even feel her in my arms. It’s as if I’ve lost all sensation in my body. It all just…whoosh! melted into the floor.
I’m pregnant.
But those two little words, said in a soft, calm tone lined with resignation? Those I hear loud and clear and over and over again. They hang in the air between me and Zoe. Hovering there for one breath, then two, before slamming into me. I back up a step, as if pregnancy is contagious.
As if I can somehow escape them.
“Are you…” I have to stop. Work moisture back into my mouth but my voice still comes out barely a whisper. “Are you sure?”
With a sigh, she puts her toothbrush back in the holder. “I took six home pregnancy tests so…yes. I’m sure.”
My stomach roils.
Oh, God. Now I’m going to be sick.
“Does Devyn know?”
Zoe nods. “I told her yesterday.”
Yesterday. That’s what they’d been fighting about. I can’t imagine Dev was exactly thrilled by this turn of events, especially when Zoe should know enough to use birth control.
“Who’s the father?” My eyes widen. “Not Axel. Please, not Axel.”
“No, not Axel,” she says, facing me. “It’s Ethan’s baby.”
Ethan the Ass, her prick of a boss.
Ethan the Ass, who broke up with her months ago.
“How far along are you?” I ask. Maybe she’s been hooking up with Ethan behind his girlfriend’s back. Maybe they got back together and she hasn’t told me or Devyn because she thought we’d be upset.
Maybe she hasn’t been keeping this from us.
“Fourteen weeks.”
I gape at her. Fourteen weeks?
“But you just found out,” I say, making it more of a statement I’d very much like her to agree with and less like a question she should give a negative answer to.
She shakes her head, her gaze dropping to the floor. “I’ve known for a little while.”
“How long is a little while? And please,” I add, lifting a hand, “don’t say a few days or weeks or whatever. Be specific.”
Her eyebrows lift. “Sorry,” she says in a very not-sorry tone—my sisters don’t like it when I’m bossy, though they both feel free to tell me what to do whenever the mood strikes them. “But I don’t remember the exact date. It was sometime at the end of June.”
“June?” But that was literally months ago. And suddenly, it all makes sense. All those times she got sick. Her being more tired than usual. Looking so run-down. Being so sad. “Did you tell Ethan?”
Another nod, this one curt. “Let’s just say he’s not all that excited about the prospect of becoming a daddy.”
“Are you two getting back together?” I ask.
Her mouth twists. “No. He’s out of the picture.”
“You don’t need him. You have me and Devyn.”
I mean, yeah, as a family we’re completely strapped—financially and emotionally—but we’ll get through this. Together.
Just like we always do.
“We can move Taylor’s bed into my room,” I continue. “Put a crib up in yours.” Except we don’t have a crib. We sold the one we used for Taylor because we don’t have space to store it. “Taylor and I can hit up a few garage sales next weekend. See if we can find some baby stuff.”
Because we’re going to need everything, just like we did when Zoe was pregnant with Taylor.
Which only reminds me of all the ways having a baby in the house changes life. The crying—oh, God, the constant, shrill crying—and endless diapers and every shirt covered in spit-up and sleepless nights.
“You don’t have to do that,” Zoe says.
“I want to.”
“No. I mean, you really don’t have to do it. My aunt Claire has a crib the baby can use.”
I frown. “Oh. You…you told your aunt?”
Had she told her before me and Devyn?
“I mean, that’s nice and all,” I add quickly, hiking Taylor up higher. She’s falling back asleep and getting heavier by the second. “About the crib. But will it fit in your car? Even unassembled? And do you really want to make another trip up to Erie to get it?”<
br />
It’s only ninety minutes but it seems easier to just find a used crib in town and use Devyn’s car—which is bigger than Zoe’s—to get it home.
“Actually,” she says slowly then stops. Clears her throat. “I’m moving there.” She nods at Taylor, dozing in my arms. “We’re moving there. To Erie,” she adds when I stare at her blankly.
I laugh, a quick bark of sound that’s more disbelief than humor. “What?”
“Taylor and I are moving to Erie,” she repeats, tone soft, expression sympathetic. Understanding. But that can’t be right. She can’t possibly understand what I’m thinking. What I’m feeling. If she did, she’d never say these things. Wouldn’t even pretend that this was true.
“Did Devyn say something to you? Did she kick you out? I’ll talk to her,” I say in a rush. “She’s probably just upset about the baby but she’ll get over it.”
“Dev didn’t kick me out. This is my choice.”
Her words settle in, the reality of them. I start sweating. My stomach cramps. “You can’t move. You’re just upset. Once you’ve thought it through--”
“I have thought this through. I’ve been thinking about it ever since I found out I was pregnant. Believe me, this wasn’t an easy decision and it wasn’t one I made lightly.”
“Where will you live? What about your jobs?”
What about me?
“We’re moving in with Gram,” she says of her grandmother. “She’s going to watch Taylor and the baby for me while I work at one of the doctor’s offices my aunt Carla manages. And Aunt Claire’s going to watch Taylor nights so I can get my high school equivalency diploma and Gram offered to help me pay to attend community college or business school.”
I tighten my hold on Taylor. “You can go to school here,” I say, my voice hoarse with unshed tears. “I’ll watch Taylor whenever you want. I’ll help you study--”
“I can’t keep living like this,” she says gently. “Expecting things to be different while repeating the same patterns, the same mistakes. This is my chance at something better and I have to do this. Now. Or I never will. I have to do it,” she repeats, “for me. For Taylor and the baby. And for you.”
“Me?” I ask incredulously. I try to laugh but it comes out closer to a sob. “You’re not doing this for me.”
She steps forward, intense and serious and very, very adult. “I’m doing this to prove that none of us—not me or you or Devyn—has to settle for less than what we deserve. That we can break free from the cycle. We’re not Mom or Gigi. We’re better. We can do better. But we can’t do that thinking there are limits on what we can achieve. We can’t be afraid to go after what we want. If we want a different life, we have to be brave enough to fight for it. No matter how scary it is.”
“Are you scared?” I ask softly.
“Terrified,” she admits, her eyes glassy with tears. But I easily recognize the determined, stubborn tilt of her chin—I should. I see it every day on her daughter. She’s going to do this.
She’s really going to leave me.
I tighten my hold on Taylor and brush past Zoe, needing some air. Some space to just breathe, to catch my breath.
But it’s worse in the hallway, I don’t know what to do. Where to go. I just feel trapped, like the walls are closing in on me. My eyes sting. My chest is tight. I want to run. To hide. To make all of this—this moment and last night and what happened at Christmas and the whole summer of Sam and Hadley—disappear.
But there’s nowhere to hide. Nowhere to go. Not for this Jones girl.
I sense Zoe step up behind me and I take in a shuddering breath. “When?”
Her hesitation has me bracing but it’s worse, so much worse than I even realize.
“Saturday.”
I jolt hard. “Saturday?” I repeat in a loud squeak. “This Saturday?”
Taylor jerks her head up, eyes closed, then turns her head to the other side and lays it back on my shoulder. I rub her back, attempting to comfort us both.
“Yes.”
“So soon?” I cry.
“The longer I wait, the more I put it off, the harder it’s going to be to actually do it.” She licks her lips. “It won’t be that different,” she insists, fast and insistent, but her voice is thick with unshed tears. Full of emotion. “We’ll come back as often as we can. And you can visit us anytime you want, stay for a weekend or a week or…however long you want…”
It won’t be that different…
Maybe not. But it won’t be the same. Not nearly the same.
Nothing’s ever going to be the same again.
51
After Zoe’s bombshell, I put Taylor in my bed and get dressed.
Then I go to work.
Because that’s what Jones girls do.
We don’t wallow. We don’t weep and shake our fists at the unfairness of it all. We accept whatever life throws our way.
And we do whatever it takes to get through it.
Even when everything is falling apart.
Or maybe, most especially then.
All week I follow my usual routine.
Get up. Get dressed. Go to work. Come home. Watch Taylor. Make dinner. Go to bed.
But I let Taylor stay up late, reading her book after book, cuddling with her on the sofa watching Disney movies. I don’t put her in her own bed, just let her snuggle with me in mine, scratching her back long after she’s asleep.
I don’t bake anything. No cookies or brownies or cupcakes. Not even a pan of marshmallow rice cereal treats.
I don’t respond to Whitney’s texts, telling myself I don’t want to be distracted from spending time with my sister or niece. I don’t get on social media.
I don’t help Zoe pack, but I do sit on the bed while she goes through her clothes and knickknacks and decides whether or not they’re worthy enough of going with her when she starts her new life.
I don’t cry.
I don’t cry because I don’t want to upset Taylor, who’s too little to understand anything that’s going on, and I don’t want her to be scared. I don’t cry because Zoe cries enough for the both of us, and every time she does, Dev starts crying, too.
I don’t cry because I’m afraid if I do, if I let even a single tear fall, I won’t be able to stop.
And I don’t hear one word from Sam.
He wasn’t there when I got to work Monday morning.
It was a huge relief.
It was a crushing disappointment.
But that’s me. Always with the confusing emotions.
He sent Mr. G. an early-morning text claiming he was sick, some mysterious ailment that lingered into Tuesday and Wednesday. By Thursday, he stopped pretending and quit over the phone.
I got what I wanted. What I suspected would happen, him quitting. Again.
It should have made it easier, not seeing him. Not hearing his voice. But it didn’t. Even with everything going on with Zoe and Taylor leaving—or maybe because of it—I thought of him constantly. Wondering what he was doing. Who he was with. If he was thinking of me.
If he missed me even half as much as I missed him.
He was the first thing on my mind when I woke up. My last thoughts as I drifted off to sleep.
I knew this would happen. I knew the saga of Sam and Hadley didn’t have a happy ending, but I tricked myself into believing I could handle the outcome.
Getting involved with him again was stupid.
Believing I had some small piece of control over what happened between us, that I was in charge of when and where and why we ended was delusional.
But by far my biggest mistake—bigger than going to Sam’s Christmas night, worse than what happened in Max’s Jeep—was forgetting the most important thing of all.
Sam and I weren’t meant to be friends.
Now we’re nothing.
Like we should have been from the beginning.
“I have to admit,” Dev murmurs Saturday morning, sounding both surprised and admiring, “I did
n’t think she had it in her.”
We’re sitting on the front steps side by side, my head on Dev’s shoulder, Eggie lying in the middle of the sidewalk soaking up the sun. Tori’s car is parked in Whitney’s driveway but even though we’ve been out here for half an hour—first loading the last of Zoe’s stuff into her car, then saying our goodbyes and finally, Dev and I sitting in silence, both of us lost in our own thoughts, doing our best to accept our new reality—I haven’t seen Tori or Whitney.
Thank God. I’m way too emotionally fragile to come face-to-face with either of them.
“Do you think she’ll stick it out?” I ask.
It’ll be a lot for Zoe to handle. Having another kid as a single mother. Working full-time. Getting her high school equivalency diploma. It’ll be different and new, living with her grandmother. Navigating a new city. Making new friends.
It’ll be a lot for us, too. Not being there to help her.
It’ll be different and new, not seeing her and Taylor every day. Not being an integral part of their lives.
Them not being such a huge part of ours.
“I don’t know,” Dev says. “Maybe.” As always, my eldest sister is honest and skeptical. But then she adds a soft, “But I hope she does.”
Which shows she can also be optimistic. Hopeful.
Even if only for one of her sisters.
“I thought it’d be you,” I tell Devyn.
“You thought what would be me?”
I straighten. “I thought you’d be the one to leave.”
She frowns. “What?”
“I thought you’d be the one to leave,” I repeat. “I figured once Zoe turned eighteen…”
“That I would…what?” she asked, tone dry. “Take off like Mom and Gigi did?”
Biting my lower lip, I stare down at my hands. “I wouldn’t have blamed you.”
“Are you serious?” Keeping my gaze down, I lift a shoulder. “Hadley, why would you even think that?”
“You gave up everything for me.” The words I’ve kept buried so long, the guilt I’ve tried to hide burst out of me. “You were, like, literally weeks away from getting out of here.”
The Art of Holding On Page 34
