I also know that when Mom told him she was pregnant (over a blooming onion at Benedict’s Steakhouse downtown), he excused himself to use the restroom and was never heard from again, sneaking out the back and sticking Mom with a fifty-dollar dinner bill and another kid to raise on her own.
By that time, at the age of twenty-one, she was three-for-three in that department.
Not that she was totally alone. She had Gigi, her own mother, who’d babysit us when Mom worked nights or went out—which she did in equal amounts. And when Mom got antsy or bored or overwhelmed with her lot in life (a frequent occurrence), she’d drop us on Gigi’s doorstep, then take off to parts unknown, staying away for days. Weeks. And on a few occasions, months.
Until that last time when I was ten, when she never came back.
Skipping out on me, Zoe and Devyn the same way all three of our fathers had. Forcing Gigi to pick up the pieces, a resigned and resentful caretaker.
Life wasn’t perfect—there still wasn’t enough money and Gigi had never exactly been the warm, fuzzy, sweet grandmotherly type—but it was better than it’d been with Mom. I mean, yeah, we had to move into Gigi’s tiny trailer and she constantly snapped at us and reminded us of how grateful we should be for her taking us in, but we were together—me, Zoe and Devyn. And together, we could handle anything.
Even being left again.
Which was what Gigi did the day after Devyn graduated from high school. She came into the bedroom Zoe and I shared, woke us up and told us that since Dev was officially an adult, we were her problems from now on. Her responsibility.
Then she picked up the suitcases she’d already had packed and waiting by the door and walked out. She moved in with her sister down in Florida but let us stay in the trailer.
The only time we hear from her is if we’re late with a rent check.
Which is more often than we hear from our mom.
Having the people who are supposed to love you the most, who are supposed to take care of you, choose to go? It sucks.
And something I have a lot of experience with.
So, no, Sam wasn’t the first person to disappear from my life.
But he was the first person I cried over.
He wasn’t the first person to walk out on me.
But when he did, I swore to myself he’d be the last.
By the time I reach Hilltop Estates—which is indeed on top of a hill but decidedly less fancy than the name implies (Hilltop Trailer Park doesn’t have the same ring)—my chest is tight and my quads aching. Biking five miles in heavy boots will do that, especially when that last mile is all uphill.
I live in northwestern Pennsylvania. Everywhere you turn it’s hills, hills and more hills.
I could have stopped and switched into my sneakers. Could have gotten off my bike and pushed it up that last long incline. But I’d wanted to put as much distance between me and Sam as quickly as possible, so I’d pedaled as hard, as fast as I could.
It didn’t even work. The whole distance thing, I mean. I can still feel his hand on my arm, his breath on my neck. Can still smell his cologne.
I turn onto Winter Street and stand and pedal when our trailer comes into view.
I just want to be home.
I pull into the gravel driveway behind Zoe’s ancient blue Toyota, and brake hard. Too hard. My rear tire wobbles and skids, the bike lurching to the side. Swinging my right leg over the seat, I try to jump free but the bottom of my backpack catches on the seat and I tumble to the ground, landing with an Oof!, my bike falling on top of me, the pedal scraping my shin.
Catching my breath, trying to get my bearings, I stare up at the cloudless sky.
And see Sam’s expression when I told him we had nothing to talk about. That it was too late.
Like he was devastated.
Like I’d broken his heart.
Again.
Frustration boils up inside of me, a toxic brew of fury and fear, and my hands curl, my nails digging into my palms. I hate that after all this time, after everything he did, everything he said, he still affects me this way. Like I’m some simpering idiot willing to toss aside all pride and self-respect just because he smiles at me.
Terrified I’ll do that tossing all the same.
That’s what the boy does to me: He makes me weak.
Worse than that, he makes me want things I’ll never have.
I try and thump the back of my head against the pavement a few times but it doesn’t reach. There’ll be no knocking some sense into myself today.
And where does Sam get off being upset? To act all hurt and disappointed. He was the one who ended us. He was the one who left.
As always, he’d gotten what he wanted. Me, out of his life.
He doesn’t get to change his mind now.
Tears sting my eyes. Clog my throat.
And as much as I’d like to blame them on the pain shooting up from my wrist, the sharp gravel digging into my lower back and the scratch just below my knee, I can’t. So I take several long, careful breaths. Blink the tears back.
I will not cry over Sam Constable.
Not ever again.
Why did he even come back?
I roll my eyes. Okay, yeah, that’s a stupid question.
He came back because this has been his home since he was ten years old. He has friends and his family here—his mom and stepdad and younger brother, Charlie. His older brother, Max.
Another Constable boy I’d be happy to never see again.
It’s not fair. After Sam left, my days were all the same: Wake up, think of Sam. Go to school, imagine seeing Sam in hallway. Eat lunch alone, tucked into an empty corner of the cafeteria, remember sitting across from him every day. Get home, wait for him to return one of my many, many calls or texts. Go to bed, wonder what he’s doing. If he thinks of me at all.
Wake up and repeat, repeat, repeat.
It all changed on Christmas, the last time we saw each other. I stopped waiting. And eventually, he was no longer the first thing I thought about every morning. No longer the last thing going through my mind before I fell asleep.
I got over it. Got over Sam.
And I refuse to backslide just because he’s in town for a few weeks. We probably won’t even see each other again. But if we do, I’ll keep my distance.
It’s what I should have done in the first place.
“Are you okay?”
I turn my head and my hat shifts forward, blocking my view. Lifting my chin so I can peer under the brim, I see Whitney McCormack at the end of my driveway.
Great. Just what I need. Stunning Whitney of the beautiful face, glossy black hair and perfect, petite body witnessing me on my back like a turtle flipped onto her shell.
Some days just suck.
I have more than my fair share of them.
Sitting up, I push the bike off my legs. “I’m fine,” I say, getting to my feet. “Thanks.”
We both reach for the bike, but I get there first.
“I’ve got it,” I say, noticing that under the hem of her long, flowy skirt, her feet are bare.
Must be a Southern thing, going barefoot all the time. She and her mother moved into the double-wide mobile home across the street two weeks ago and I’ve yet to see her wear shoes. Whitney, that is. I’m assuming her mother wears them, though to be honest, I’ve never checked.
I walk my bike toward the trailer, stepping carefully on my sore ankle.
Whitney follows. “You’re limping.”
I lean the bike against the front post of the carport. “Just twisted my ankle a little.”
“Do you need help getting inside?”
“I’ve got it,” I repeat, an edge to my tone that I can’t stop.
Look, I’m not trying to be mean, but I’m tired, my shirt is clinging to my sweaty back and my thighs feel like they’re on fire. My shin is bleeding, my palm stings and both my wrist and my ankle hurt.
I’m not in the mood to be friendly.
W
hich, okay, is nothing new, but usually I can muster up a cool politeness.
But today, this is the best I can do.
“Oh,” Whitney says. Her accent is soft, her voice husky. “Are you busy tonight? Maybe you could come over? We could watch a movie?”
Whitney moved here from one of those down-South states that ends in a—Georgia or Alabama or Louisiana—two weeks ago. One week after school let out, so she hasn’t had a chance to meet anyone in town yet.
Other than me it seems.
And I am not welcome wagon material.
It’s that whole not-friendly thing.
But Whitney is friendly. Always waving and smiling and asking how I am whenever she sees me. Now she’s inviting me over so we can spend some good, old-fashioned quality teenaged-girl time together.
God, she must really be desperate.
Or lonely.
It’s that last thought, that she might be lonely, that has me thinking I should ask if she wants to spend the evening watching Taylor with me. I made pizza dough last night and she could eat with us. Maybe we could make some cookies later, too.
But what would be the point? It’s not like we’re going to be friends.
Something she’ll figure out soon enough.
“I can’t,” I say. “I’m watching my niece.”
She keeps right on smiling because she is probably the kind of person that never gets down, disappointed or disheartened.
“Okay,” she says. “Maybe another time?”
“Yeah. Maybe.”
She waves and heads back across the street and I turn and walk past the carport and around the back of the trailer. I doubt there’ll be another time. The only reason she even asked is because we live across the street from each other. I’m convenient.
She has all summer to meet people. She can join a club or get a job or just start hanging around the pool or the Tastee Freeze. I mean, I’m hardly well-versed in the art of friendship making but those seem like practical options.
And when school starts, she’ll have our entire senior class of two hundred and thirteen students to choose from. She’ll meet people who have more in common with her than living in the same trailer park.
Even if I was in the market for a new BFF, which I’m not, there’s no point in Whitney applying for the job. A year from now, we’ll graduate and then she’ll go her way—probably to a college in some city like Philadelphia or DC or where she used to live before—and I’ll go mine.
And by that, I mean I’ll stay here.
That’s how it is. Those who can get into and afford college or who are brave enough to join the military, they leave. And don’t come back.
The rest of us, the ones with below-average grades, below-average incomes and generations of stupid decisions?
We stay.
We have to. We don’t have anywhere else to go.
3
I climb onto the back deck, open the door and step into the kitchen. Sitting at the table, I take off my boots and socks, then set them on the mat next to the door before crossing to the sink and wetting a paper towel. I wipe the blood from my leg, then carefully wash and dry my hands. The scrape isn’t as deep as I’d thought and my palms are only slightly abraded, so good news all around.
After tossing the dirty paper towels into the garbage, I go into the living room, which is separated from the kitchen by a short eating bar. Eggie (short for Egbert, our squat, muscular Rottie/boxer mix), is on his ratty blanket in the corner. He lifts his golden head, tail wagging, and I bend and give him some love before moving on to stand in front of the clanking AC unit in the window. Arms spread, eyes closed, I let the cool air wash over me.
Behind me, Zoe and Taylor are sound asleep on the grubby sofa, Zoe against the back of the couch, one arm wrapped around Taylor’s tiny middle to keep her from rolling off. Frozen is playing on the TV, the part where a sobbing Elsa hugs the iced-over Anna.
There’s nothing like the bond between sisters. Nothing.
God knows I’d be lost without mine.
Lost, in the foster care system and totally, completely alone.
I head down the short hall, the air getting thicker and hotter with each step. We had another AC window unit that we rotated each year between our bedrooms, but it broke two summers ago, and even with Dev picking up extra hours at the hotel, we can’t afford a new one because her ten-year-old Focus needs new brakes if it’s going to pass inspection in two months, and we’re still saving up to have the roof redone. So during summer this entire half of the trailer is like a sauna, my room at the end of the hall especially.
I set my backpack on my bed, take my hat off and toss it onto the dresser. I’d planned on showering before making dinner, but if I don’t get Taylor up now, she won’t sleep tonight. And as I’ll be the one watching her while Zoe tends bar at Changes Bar and Lounge (more bar than lounge), and Devyn works the front desk at the Red Dog Inn, I’d really like her to go to bed at a decent time so I can have a few hours to myself.
With my sisters both working two jobs and ever since Sam left town and our friend group—I mean…his friend group—decided they no longer want anything to do with me, I spend a lot of my time alone.
Not going to lie. It sucked at first, being a pathetic loser with no friends to sit with at lunch, no one to hang out with on the weekends, but I got used to it.
Now I like being alone.
I don’t have to worry about how long someone is going to want to be in my life. Knowing there’ll come a day when they decide they’re better off without me but not knowing, exactly when that day is.
I was too content before. Too trusting. I let myself get too comfortable being Sam’s friend, being a part of his group.
I was stupid, veering out of my lane. Believing things would be different with Sam. With the others. Forgetting all the lessons my life had taught me.
It’s better the way it is now. Easier.
Safer.
Back in the living room, the movie’s now at the part where Anna and Kristoff are in a serious lip-lock, because the only happy ending allowed is when boy and girl wind up together. Love conquers all.
Such a nice sentiment.
Such a nice, delusional sentiment.
I turn the TV off. They shouldn’t fill little kids’ heads with that crap. It just sets them up for disappointment when they’re older and realize that in real life royalty doesn’t fall for commoners.
Not even if that commoner is a cute Viking with wide shoulders, floppy blond hair and an adorable reindeer sidekick.
Kneeling next to the couch, I rub Taylor’s arm. “Hey, baby girl.”
She doesn’t wake, but Zoe does. “What time is it?” Zoe asks, her voice husky with sleep.
“Almost five.” I brush back Taylor’s pale hair. Even though the only thing she’s wearing is a diaper and the AC is on full blast, she’s sticky and sweaty, the curls at her temple damp. “Come on.” I lift her. “Time to wake up.”
She whines and snuggles against me, her head on my shoulder, her hot breath against my neck. She’s deadweight in my arms, all skinny arms and legs. I rub her back, can feel the tiny bumps of her spine. God, it seems like just yesterday she was a baby, round and squishy soft, the rolls of her legs and arms settling on each other, making her look like the Michelin Man.
Now she’s less baby and more real person.
A mini, real person with thoughts and opinions and absolutely no interest in learning how to use the toilet.
I kiss the top of her head. “Want some juice?”
“Juice,” she repeats. She wiggles, trying to get closer to me, her toes digging into my rib cage. “Juice!”
“I’ll take that as a yes.”
We walk into the kitchen and I get a sippy cup and matching lid out from a lower cabinet, then open the refrigerator. Taylor keeps her head on my shoulder, wraps my hair around and around and around her finger, the way she has since she was nine months old. It comforts her, holding on to my crazy, friz
zy hair.
That’s me. A walking, talking security blanket.
Glad I’m able to do something useful with my life.
It’s a production, getting a toddler juice while holding that toddler, your hair in her death grip. I pour apple juice into the cup, cross to the sink to water it down, then heft Taylor higher. Holding the cup in my left hand—the one under her butt—I twist the cap on with my right.
Mission accomplished.
“Here you go,” I say.
She takes it, her head still on my shoulder, hair still in her other hand. “Juice,” she whispers, a solemn prayer to the nectar of the gods as she holds the cup up like a holy sacrifice.
I bow my head—seems like the appropriate thing to do. “Amen.”
She guzzles it. I mean, the child chugs it down in mere moments then shoves the cup at my face. “Mowah.”
She hasn’t quite mastered rs.
“More please,” I say.
She’s now pressing the cup against my cheek, pushing my head in the opposite direction of the hand still holding my hair. “Mowah please.”
I take the cup from her before she rips out a chunk of the hair she loves so and repeat the juice-getting process. While she’s drinking this second cup, I put the bottle back in the fridge and take out the bowl of pizza dough and set it in a sunny spot on the counter to warm up.
Curled up on the couch, Zoe’s reading something on her phone, smiling. She’s still in her black pants and red Top-Mart polo, her light brown hair falling out of the French braid I’d given her this morning, pieces clinging to her neck, sticking out above her ears. The nubby material of the couch left its imprint on her cheek and her mascara is smudged.
Ah, the life of a Jones girl. So much glamour. Such excitement.
“What’s got you so happy?” I ask.
“Just a text from Rob.”
“Who’s Rob?”
She’s still focused on her phone. Still smiling. “A guy I matched up with last night.”
“Matched up with? You’re on a hookup app?”
The Art of Holding On Page 2