“Please. I don’t need an app for a hookup,” she tells me, as if being hit on by guys at the bar all the time is a proud accomplishment. “It’s a dating app.”
I switch Taylor to my other hip. “You really think you’re going to meet Prince Charming on a hookup app?”
“Dating app,” she corrects in a singsong tone. “And maybe.” She shrugs. “You don’t know unless you try, right?”
Uh…wrong. Certain things are set in stone and all the effort in the world isn’t going to change them.
Then again, Zoe’s always been the optimistic Jones sister.
Even after being abandoned by her dad (Devyn, Zoe and I all have different fathers, the same backstory and Mom’s last name), getting pregnant at sixteen, then dumped by the father of her baby, and never having a guy stick around longer than a few months hasn’t put her off the opposite sex.
My sister’s addicted to love. She’s either chasing after it, falling into it or recovering from losing it.
But at least she’s finally moving on from Ethan the Ass. Four weeks of her moping around heartbroken was more than enough for any of us. Devyn warned her that hooking up with her boss—although he isn’t, like, the boss boss at the store, he is assistant manager and, therefore, Zoe’s superior—was a mistake, but Zoe prefers to learn her lessons the hard way.
Hopefully this one will stick.
If only because Ethan broke things off with her so he could get back together with his on-again, off-again girlfriend and refuses to speak to Zoe unless it relates to—and this is a direct quote—Top-Mart business.
Hence his nickname.
“I’m going to shower,” I say, but when I try to hand Taylor over to Zoe, Taylor screeches like I’m about to drop her into an active volcano and clings to me, arms around my neck, legs around my waist and juice dripping steadily down my back. “Or I could stay sweaty and stinky for a little bit longer. No problem.”
Getting her way, Taylor loosens her grip on me and finishes her drink. When she’s done, she throws the cup onto the floor, looks me in my eyes and says, “Stinky.”
“She’s right,” Zoe says as I join her on the couch. “You’re pretty ripe.”
“Yeah? Then why don’t you peel your kid off me?”
Zoe sets her phone on the side table. Holds out her arms to Taylor. “Come sit with Mama.”
“No!” Taylor yells and turns her head away from Zoe. “No want you, Mama! Want Haddy!”
It’s nice to be someone’s favorite.
Even if that someone is sort of a terror.
Zoe shrugs and stretches, arms straight over her head, bare toes pointed, then stands. “Sorry I let her fall asleep. She refused to nap for Mrs. Richter and was so whiny I couldn’t take it.”
Mrs. Richter watches Taylor during the day, which is pretty much why Zoe tends bar five nights a week. To cover the cost of daycare.
“How long was she asleep for?” I ask.
“Maybe half an hour,” Zoe says, going into the kitchen for a ginger ale. She opens the can, takes a sip. “She should still go down for you tonight.”
I reach back and gently untangle my hair from Taylor’s fingers. Turn her so she’s sitting on my lap. “Is that right, baby girl? You going to go to bed on time tonight?”
She’s shaking her head before I even finish my question. No is a big part of our lives. Saying it almost constantly to Taylor: No touching this or that. No coloring on the furniture. No yanking the dog’s tail. Hearing it from her even more often: No, no, no!! complete with fall-on-the-floor, leg-kicking, body-thrashing tantrum.
Those are tons of fun.
“No bed, Haddy,” she tells me. “No.”
I give her a gentle squeeze because tiny, terrible-two terror or not, I’m crazy about her. “Okay, no bed. But how about hanging out with Mommy so Haddy can take a shower?”
And that’s what happens when you’re around a toddler all the time.
You start speaking in the third person.
Taylor wiggles off me. “I showah, too,” she says, shoving at her saggy diaper. “I showah with you, Haddy.”
“Great,” I say flatly. The past two years have taught me why, exactly, when my mom was still around, she used to spend so much time in the locked bathroom when Devyn, Zoe and I were little. That place is like a sanctuary, a tiny oasis—complete with waterfall if you turn on the shower—and a great place to hide when you live with anyone under the age of ten. “Just what I was hoping for.”
Trying to step out of her diaper, Taylor nods. Sarcasm is lost on her. Too bad. It’s one of the few things I’m really good at. But no matter how many times she does her march step—lifting and lowering her legs—the diaper stays on her ankles. Finally, she sits down and kicks it off. It arcs in the air, flying across the room. Eggie, with an excited bark, gives chase.
Me, too. Minus the excitement. And the bark.
I’ve seen what our dog can do when he gets a hold of a diaper. It’s ugly.
And I’m in no mood to clean it.
“Egbert! No!” I yell at the same time Zoe lunges for Taylor and says, “Don’t even think about peeing on the floor.”
We’re both too late as Eggie, snarling in pure bliss, shakes the diaper so hard pieces of it fly. And Taylor does, indeed, pee in the middle of the living room floor.
4
I’m washing dishes when Devyn shuffles into the kitchen in a black tank top and blue boy-cut underwear.
“The coffeepot’s all set up,” I tell her.
Eyes half-closed, she grunts her appreciation, grabs a clean mug from the drying rack as she brushes past me and heads to the pot to turn it on. I’m scrubbing the pizza pan when the machine starts gurgling. A moment later, the scent of coffee fills the air.
I rinse the pan and set it in the rack, then let the dishwater out of the sink. When I turn to reach for the towel to dry my hands, Devyn’s staring at the pot like she’s been hypnotized by the slow drip, drip, drip of the magical brew.
Devyn hates mornings.
Except it’s not morning. It’s after ten p.m.
Guess it’s just waking up that she has a problem with.
Probably because it means facing reality once again.
On nights she works at the Red Dog, Dev tries to catch a couple hours of sleep after she’s done at the nursing home where she’s a nurse’s aide. She crashed the moment she got home, so Taylor and I ate without her. True to her vow of no bed, Taylor fought going to sleep despite my letting her lie down in my bed, reading her four bedtime stories and scratching her back for twenty minutes. When she finally drifted off half an hour ago, I didn’t even bother moving her to her own miniature bed in Taylor’s room. What’s the point? She’ll just find her way back to mine in the middle of the night, and this way, she won’t wake me.
Except for the dozen or so times she kicks me in the face.
That child is a flopper.
The dripping coffee slows and then stops but Dev doesn’t move. Doesn’t even blink, just stands there, barefoot and sporting a serious case of bedhead, empty mug in her hands. Out of the three of us, she looks the most like Mom. Same dark hair and brown eyes. Same sharp cheekbones and heart-shaped face.
That’s not to say Mom didn’t leave her mark on all three of us. Dev looks like her, Zoe laughs like her and I have her sweet tooth.
And all three of us have crappy track records when it comes to guys.
Just keeping it all in the family!
When Dev continues to stand there, I take the cup from her hand—which does cause her to blink, once, so slowly I’m pretty sure she falls back asleep for the few seconds her lids are closed—then get the vanilla flavored creamer from the fridge. I pour some into her mug, top it with coffee, then press the cup back into her hands.
God. Sometimes I wonder if I was put on this earth just to make sure my sisters and niece are well-fed and hydrated.
Dev makes another sound, more groan than grunt, and lifts the cup to take a cautious
sip. While she fuels up on caffeine and artificial colors, flavors and very real chemicals, I go about my business.
Except, everywhere I turn, there she is, in my way. Blocking the oven when I go to preheat it. Giving Eggie a pat in front of the cupboard that holds the cookie sheets. Holding the refrigerator door open with one hand, searching for something when I’m ready to get the cookie dough out.
I give her a gentle hip nudge to move her out of my way and she stumbles to the side like I just rammed into her with the car.
My sister. The drama queen.
“Creamer,” she grumbles, voice husky with sleep, as I pull out the mixing bowl.
“Right there,” I say, nodding at the creamer that’s on the counter right where I left it not three minutes ago.
Seriously. What would these people do without me?
Setting the bowl on the counter, I use my foot to close the refrigerator door Devyn’s left open, then take the plastic wrap off the dough. I turn to get a spoon from the drawer only to rear back in surprise to find Dev crowded even closer to me.
That’s the thing about living with sisters. They’re always borrowing your clothes, butting into your private business and invading your personal bubble.
“Give a girl some room, would you?” I say as I nudge her again—this time with the drawer to her butt—which moves her a few inches, just enough for me to get a spoon. “Don’t you have to get ready for work?”
She shakes her head. “Not yet.”
At least she’s waking up enough to stop with the grunts, groans and grumbles. Before you know it, she’ll be speaking in full sentences.
“If you’re going to stay in here,” I say, “could you at least sit down?”
I’m not used to people being in the kitchen with me when I’m baking. I like my space. It’s why I bribed Taylor with two episodes of Paw Patrol earlier so I could mix up the cookie dough while the pizzas baked.
“What are you making?” Dev asks.
Not only has she not sat down, but she’s moved even closer to me and is on her toes, pressing against my back as she tries to peer over my shoulder. Doesn’t work. I’m taller than both of my sisters and Dev’s the shortest of us all.
“Chocolate chip cookies.”
Though I’m busy scooping rounded balls of dough onto the cookie sheet and don’t actually see her face, I swear I can feel her expression brighten.
Dev loves my chocolate chip cookies.
She lowers down to her heels. “Will they be ready for me to take to work?”
“Possibly. If you give me some room to work.”
She immediately crosses the few feet to the table and takes a seat.
Both my sisters appreciate my baking and are usually good at leaving me in peace to do it. Though tonight, for some unknown reason, Dev stays in the kitchen, sipping her coffee at the table, giving Eggie a belly rub with her bare foot while I fill the sheet tray, then sprinkle the dough with flaky sea salt. The oven beeps, letting me know it’s reached the right temperature, and I put the first tray in and shut the door. Set the timer, then start scooping dough for the second sheet.
“Heard you ran into Sam today.”
I go still at Dev’s words, my hand tightening on the spoon handle.
Guess there’s a reason for her sticking around after all.
“Zoe has a big mouth,” I mutter.
“Was it a secret?”
Sighing, I lay the spoon down and face her. “No. And it’s also not a big deal.”
It’s why I told Zoe in the first place. Just a calm, casual, oh, hey, guess who I saw after work? sort of thing.
Yeah, okay, so at the time I calmly, causally mentioned it, she just so happened to be walking out the door for work—and was already ten minutes late.
What can I say? Just because it’s not a secret, or a big deal, doesn’t mean I want to talk about it.
“Not a big deal, huh?” Devyn asks sounding less than convinced.
“Nope. I saw Sam. We talked for a few minutes. He went his way. I went mine.” I force a shrug. “No. Big. Deal.”
“You sure about that?” she asks softly.
My throat gets tight and I drop my gaze. Rub at the dot of dried pizza sauce on my tank top.
Both my sisters know what really happened between me and Sam last summer. How our friendship imploded. Why he left.
They witnessed firsthand what a mess I was. How heartbroken. How pathetic.
They got me through.
Jones sisters stick together. Always.
But they don’t know everything.
And they never will.
I lift my head. Nod. “I’m sure.”
She studies me, searching and intense, trying to see in my brain. Trying to dig out my truth.
But there are some things not even a sister can know. Some mistakes too huge. Too humiliating. Some feelings too private to share, even with her.
Like how I felt—how I still feel—after seeing Sam today. After hearing his voice. Angry that he came back, that he approached me after ghosting me for so long.
Confused that a part of me—a big, huge, loud part—was so relieved to see him again. So happy.
Scared that relief and happiness might shove aside everything I need so desperately to hold on to—all the bitterness I’ve felt for almost a year, the pain—leaving me weak. Giving him an opening he’ll take advantage of.
One he’ll use to hurt me again.
“Are you going to hang out with him again?” Dev asks.
Jeez. I hope my fake nonchalant tone is better than hers because hers sucks.
“I didn’t hang out with him today. It was an accidental meeting.”
“Uh-huh. So he didn’t ask you to spend any amount of time with him?”
I roll my eyes. “I’m not going to hang out with him,” I say, leaving out the part about Sam offering me a ride home. About him saying he wanted to talk to me. “I doubt I’ll even see him again while he’s in town.”
“Make sure you don’t,” Dev says, standing. “The last thing you need is him messing with your head again.”
I snort softly as she walks down the short hall off the kitchen toward her bedroom on the far side of the trailer.
Too late for that warning. I’ve spent less than ten minutes with the boy and already my mind’s a tumbling, freaked-out mess.
But it doesn’t matter because, like I told Dev, I probably won’t even see him again. I’m sure he has plans to keep himself occupied for the week or two that he’s in town. Spending time with his family. Catching up with the friends he didn’t completely ditch last year.
And if I do just so happen to see him again, I’ll ignore him.
Sam will not hurt me again.
I won’t let him.
5
My arm lying on the open truck window, I rest my head on the doorframe as we drive down School Street. The morning air is cool and damp on my face and forearm and I breathe in deeply, letting it fill my lungs. And pretend I’m somewhere else. Anywhere else—the wilds of Alaska or a Hawaiian beach. Somewhere far, far away from northwestern Pennsylvania.
Anywhere except the passenger side of one of Glenwood Landscaping’s pickups.
Miles and continents and worlds away from Sam Constable.
I’m not. Far from Sam, that is. Nope, I’m super close. Well, closer than I’d like considering there’s only about two feet of space between us. Empty space.
Where’s Kyle when you need him?
Oh, that’s right, Kyle Caldwell, the college kid I’ve been working with for the past two weeks, is now happily mowing, weeding, trimming and mulching with John Butler and Cody Finlay. Because, as has been noted, Sam is back in town.
And back working for Glenwood Landscaping.
If it wasn’t for crappy luck, I wouldn’t have any luck at all.
Yeah, I know, whine, whine, whine. But I’d talked myself into believing the only time I’d see Sam again was in passing. So much for that hopeful thought.
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Although I’m still giving that whole ignoring him thing my best shot.
I sure wasn’t expecting him to be there this morning when I walked into the garage where Mr. Glenwood was assigning today’s jobs. Didn’t think he’d be wearing his green GL T-shirt and a pair of khaki cargo shorts looking like some poster child for hot yard boy. He’d been talking with my coworkers, all chatty and grinning and more comfortable around them than I ever was.
Like he never even left.
Am I the only one who remembers that he did leave? That we all got along just fine without him?
I guess so because not only were Kyle, John and Cody tickled pink to have their buddy back, Mr. G. was ecstatic at the return of his favorite employee. And he obviously thought I’d be equally thrilled to be assigned to work with Sam. Like we used to. After all, Sam’s stepdad helped us get these jobs when we were both fifteen, and the previous two summers we always worked together.
As far as Mr. G. is concerned, it always has been, and always will be, Sam and Hadley. Hadley and Sam.
It’s like we have our own freaking theme song, for God’s sake.
So, yeah, there was much celebration and excitement at my work place this morning.
Whoopee.
And now, as has been noted, I’m in a truck with Sam, who, for some reason, thought it’d be a great idea to get his old job back.
Can’t I have one thing, one simple, little thing, that’s just mine?
Even if it’s a job I hate?
I shift, pretend to check my phone but really sneak a glance at Sam’s profile, his straight nose, the sharp line of his jaw. Yeah, definitely hottie poster child material. The kind that gives a girl all sorts of tingly feelings.
Stupid tingles.
He’s driving in his careful, cautious way, both hands on the wheel, speed just under the limit.
No rule breaking for Sam Constable.
That’s why I thought I was safe being his friend. I figured he’d keep to the rules of that friendship. Stay within the boundaries.
I hadn’t expected him to toss those rules aside. To knock down those boundaries.
Hadn’t expected him to ask for more.
The Art of Holding On Page 3