The Art of Holding On

by Beth Ann Burgoon

  He held up his hands, pacifying the crazy, overly emotional girl, his tone meant to soothe. “Okay. I’ll take you home.”

  I nodded and got into the truck. Fought those stupid tears as I waited for him to shut the tailgate and climb in beside me. We drove in silence, him shooting me glances, me staring out the passenger-side window.

  He pulled into my driveway and I unbuckled and grabbed my phone. Opened the door and got out but his voice stopped me.

  “Hadley.”

  I shut my eyes. It wasn’t fair that out of all the boys in the entire world, Sam could reduce me to a puddle just by saying my name.

  I waited, expecting him to get out and walk me to my door, insisting we talk about what just happened. But he was full of surprises today, this boy who, fifteen minutes ago, I would have sworn I knew better than anyone. Whose every move I thought I could predict.

  Guess not.

  “I’ll tell Mr. G. you went home sick,” he said. “Feel better.”

  It was a momentary reprieve, one I couldn’t refuse.

  So I shut the door and turned.

  And for the first time, I ran from Sam Constable.

  18

  Letting you go wasn’t easy. It was the hardest thing I’ve ever done.

  Freeing myself from the sheet, I carefully roll onto my stomach so I don’t wake Taylor and pull my pillow over my head. But it doesn’t muffle the sound of Sam’s voice echoing in my thoughts. Nope, it’s as clear this morning as it was last night when he spoke those words. As clear as it was for hours after that, the memory of it spinning around in my mind while I tossed and turned in bed.

  Figures the only time I have perfect recall is when it comes to Sam Constable and the things he’s said and done.

  I stretch out my right arm and leg to the side, let my hand and foot dangle off the edge of my bed. Eyes squeezed shut, I try to even my breathing, calm my mind and think of the most boring, mind-numbing things I can—algebra class and the Weather Channel and baseball.

  It’s no use. Sleep isn’t returning anytime soon.

  Sam is ruining my life. Not only did thoughts of him keep me up half the night, but now I’m wide awake before seven a.m. on a Saturday because I’d been dreaming of him.

  Stupid, vivid dreams of him kissing me again the way he did that day last summer. Of me kissing him back.

  I can’t even escape the boy when I’m asleep. He’s always there, hiding in my subconscious, ready to jump out and show me all the things I can’t have.

  The things I could have had if I hadn’t been so scared last summer.

  If I hadn’t done what I did at Christmas.

  With an inner groan, I pull the pillow down, curving the ends over my ears, and push my face to the mattress until my lungs burn.

  I lift my head with a soft gasp, then take a deep inhale of the stale, hot air. It’s like a sauna in my room, the morning sun heating it up despite my fan whirring like mad. And I have my own little human furnace next to me, warmth pouring off her.

  At least Taylor’s still conked out, her breathing deep and even, her hair sweaty at the temples, her pudgy hands curled together under her round cheek.

  I set the pillow aside and slowly roll onto my back. Push the hair out of my eyes. I might as well get up. I want to shower by myself, which will only be accomplished if I do so before Taylor wakes up since Devyn left an hour ago for her early shift at the nursing home and Zoe didn’t get in until after three.

  So, yeah. As much as I’d like to put off facing the current situation that is my life for just a little while longer, I can’t.

  I stare up at my ceiling, eyes narrowed as if I can see through it to the sky and whoever’s running things up there. “Let’s see what fresh hell you have in store for me,” I say under my breath, then I get out of bed.

  A new day awaits.

  Hooray.

  I grab some clothes then step out into the hall, leaving my door open an inch behind me. I tiptoe past Zoe’s room toward the bathroom, each creak and groan of the floor beneath my feet making me wince. Nobody wants Zoe awake before she’s had at least seven hours of sleep.

  She doesn’t have my bright and sunny disposition.

  Fifteen minutes later, I’m showered, wearing shorts and a bra, wet hair combed away from my face and dripping down my back. Steam coats the mirror above the sink and I’m wiping it off with my damp towel when the bathroom door opens.

  I don’t even glance over.

  You know how you’re not supposed to make eye contact with an unfriendly dog or they’ll take it as a sign of aggression on your part?

  The same theory holds true with a sleep-deprived Zoe.

  “I barely made a sound,” I say, because when it comes to dealing with this particular sister of mine, the best defense is a good offense, and the last thing I need is her yelling at me about waking her up. “So don’t start.”

  “I’m not starting anything.”

  Leaning over the sink, I freeze. My fingers tighten on the towel. Guess I should have glanced over after all, because that wasn’t Zoe’s voice.

  I turn my head to find a skinny, shirtless, heavily tattooed guy standing just inside the door, his low-slung jeans unbuttoned.

  “Unless,” he continues, giving me a slow-once over that is the creepiest thing I’ve ever experienced, “you want me to.”

  And he grins.

  Okay. The once-over was the second creepiest thing I’ve ever experienced. That smile of his is number one.

  Keeping my eyes on his, I ease back, holding the towel in front of me like a shield. I dart my gaze to the door but he’s blocking the way. He’s wiry, the muscles of his arms, chest and stomach well-toned, his expression telling me he’d enjoy me trying to get past him. Especially if it means he gets to try and stop me.

  I consider screaming, but that would only scare Taylor and I’d rather she not know there’s a strange man at our house.

  Plus, she might say something to Devyn about it and then all hell would break loose.

  Right on Zoe’s head.

  Then again, I’m standing in our cramped bathroom in shorts and a bra while some creeper is edging closer and closer to me by the second.

  Hell breaking loose seems pretty fitting.

  “Zoe,” I whisper-shout, hoping that while she can hear me, the sound doesn’t travel over to my room. “Come and get your sleepover pal.”

  His smile amps up a few degrees and I see it, why Zoe brought him home. The sexy grin, the long, light brown hair and sharply planed face, the faded jeans and hard body covered in ink. He’s got the whole bad-boy vibe down pat.

  And Zoe loves nothing more than falling for a guy who’ll never fall back.

  Guys like she used to hook up with in high school, who strung her along until they got bored or found some new girl to mess with. Guys like Taylor’s father, who spent months lying to her and cheating on her, always begging her to take him back, promising he’d change, that he loved her and wanted to be with her forever.

  Until she told him she was pregnant.

  Forever. Not as long as you think.

  I skim my gaze over shirtless guy. Gah. Her taste hasn’t improved.

  “No need to be scared,” he says, still coming at me. The hard edge of the counter digs into my lower back. “I’m just being friendly.”

  I open my mouth to yell for Zoe again when she steps into the room. My hero has arrived and she’s wearing a faded Minnie Mouse T-shirt that barely covers her white underwear, her hair is flat against one side of her head, sticking out on the other, and last night’s makeup is smudged and smeared around her eyes, making her look like a raccoon after a bender.

  Wonder Woman she’s not.

  Zoe’s gaze narrows. “What’s going on?”

  I incline my head toward the guy. “He’s being friendly.”

  Mouth thinning, she crosses her arms, her lips barely moving when she speaks. “Get out.”

  My jaw drops. “Hey, I was in here first.�
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  She rolls her eyes but then holds her head with both hands as if afraid it’ll fall off her shoulders with any other movement.

  Hangovers: Nature’s Karma.

  “Not you.” She jabs a finger at the guy. “You.”

  I frown as that processes. Nod. “Okay. Yeah, that makes more sense.”

  Sisters over misters and all that.

  Shirtless guy holds up his hands as if in surrender, but he’s still sending me I’d love to eat you up looks, like he’s the Big Bad Wolf and I’m Little Red Riding Hood. Next thing I know, he’ll lick his lips and start howling.

  I tug the towel around myself tighter. Wish I could drop it long enough to put on my tank top but I’m not giving this guy any more glimpses of my skin than he already has.

  “Come on, babe,” he says to Zoe in a low, and what I’m assuming is supposed to be seductive, tone. “Don’t be jealous. The three of us could have some fun.”

  Oh. Blech.

  “I’d rather lick the toilet brush,” I tell him. “Which should give you a huge clue about what I think of that idea.”

  The gleam in his eyes makes my skin crawl but it’s nothing compared to the fear when he winks at me, like I’m flirting with him or something. “I bet you’d like it just fine.”

  “Get out,” Zoe repeats in an icy tone that means she’s nanoseconds from ripping your heart from your chest and shoving it down your throat.

  If shirtless guy wasn’t a freaking sexual predator trying to talk me into a threesome with him and my sister, I’d almost feel bad for him.

  Obviously he and Zoe hadn’t spent the past few hours discussing their personality quirks, their likes and dislikes, because he smiles at her, like she’s the cutest thing he’s ever seen with her bare legs and crazy hair and scary scowl.

  “I bet you’re that fiery, too,” he murmurs to me, his gaze flicking to my slicked back hair. “Aren’t you, Red?”

  “Don’t look at her,” Zoe says, yanking his arm and whirling him around to face her. “Don’t talk to her.” She shoves his chest hard and he stumbles back, landing against the doorframe with a dull thud. Before he can fully catch his balance, she’s pushing him out into the hall. “Just leave.”

  As soon as he clears the room, I drop the towel and yank on my shirt, then hurry after them in case he starts pushing her back.

  Leaving him by the bathroom door, Zoe goes into her bedroom. A moment later, a motorcycle boot is tossed out, landing next to his toes with a thump that has him hopping out of the way and me wincing and glancing at my bedroom door. I peek through the crack. Taylor doesn’t even stir.

  The second boot flies out of Zoe’s room, landing next to the first one and I quickly pull my door shut. A wallet follows, then his phone. Last comes a balled-up T-shirt that he snags out of the air.

  A T-shirt I bet has the logo of some metal rock band from the nineties on the front and is missing its sleeves—the better to show off all that ink on his arms.

  Shaking it at her, he steps forward and I move over to stand by Zoe’s side.

  As always, it’s the Jones’ girls against the world.

  Or, in this case, against one wannabe biker badly in need of a haircut.

  “What the fuck is your problem?” he growls.

  He’s glaring, a greasy, riled-up dude whose morning is not going the way he’d hoped and that’s ticking him off but good.

  Though she’s six inches shorter and fifty pounds lighter, Zoe is not intimidated.

  My sister is fearless.

  The reckless usually are.

  “My problem is you’re still here.” She points dramatically toward the door, arm straight at shoulder height, chin lifted—a hungover queen in underwear and a Disney shirt. “Leave. Now.”

  He swipes up his things. “Whatever.”

  But as he passes her, he knocks into her shoulder, pushing her back a step. She makes a low sound and leaps at him, fingers curled, nails ready to do some serious damage to his face. I grab her around the waist and haul her back before she can reach him. Hold on while she kicks and swipes at him.

  He sneers at her, like she’s so far beneath him, and I want to scratch his eyes out myself.

  “Crazy bitch.”

  He stomps down the hall in full temper tantrum, reminding me of Taylor when she feels the world has treated her unjustly. Eggie comes racing over, barking like mad, tail wagging in excitement about this new, interesting person in the house, wanting to get to know him better. Is he a head patter or a belly scratcher kind of human?

  Neither, it seems. Shirtless guy ignores our dog and keeps going. A moment later, the front door slams shut.

  His potential new buddy gone, Eggie runs over to me. Males. So fickle.

  Zoe sags against me, the fight in her gone. I let go of her and she slides down to sit, back against the wall.

  I frown at Eggie. “Some watchdog you are. You need to be more discerning about the people you want to be friends with.” His tail wags harder and I crouch so I can pet him. “It’s not your fault. You get it from Zoe.”

  “Shut it,” she says, head back, eyes shut.

  “You’re right. I shouldn’t be so darn quick to judge. I’m sure once I get to know your new pal, I’ll see how nice he is. It’s already clear he’s a class act. I mean, he did want me to join you two in bed. That was super polite of him, making sure I wasn’t left out of the fun. Hey, where’d you two crazy kids meet? A church social?”

  “Not in the mood.” Opening her eyes, she swallows carefully. “Why didn’t you lock the bathroom door?”

  I raise my eyebrows. “Silly me, thinking I was safe in my own home and could take a shower without having to barricade myself in the bathroom in case some greasy-haired pervert waltzes on in and tries to molest me.”

  Like we used to have to do when Mom was still around and brought one of her male friends home for the night.

  “Axel wouldn’t have hurt you,” Zoe says.

  “Axel? What happened to the guy from the hookup app?”

  “Dating. App. And he lost interest once he found out about Taylor.”

  Of course he did.

  Jerk.

  But that doesn’t excuse her for bringing home some random guy. “When did you meet Axel?”

  Getting to her hands and knees, she pushes to her feet, then lurches toward the bathroom.

  “Too hard of a question?” I ask as I follow her. I lean against the counter while she fills a paper cup with water from the sink. “Let’s try something easier. What’s his last name?”

  She takes a tiny sip. Inhales slowly and deeply through her nose.

  And doesn’t answer.

  Un-freaking-believable.

  “Please,” I say through gritted teeth. “Please, please, please tell me you know his last name.”

  “It didn’t come up.” Her lips roll inward and she swallows again. “Don’t look at me like that.”

  Turning to face the mirror, I pick up my hairbrush and pull it through my already combed hair. “I’m not looking at you at all.”

  “You are.” She takes another sip of water. “You’re judging me.”

  I whirl on her. “You brought a man home! A man I’m guessing you met just last night, whose last name you don’t even know. You had sex with him two doors down from where your daughter is sleeping. What if she would have woken up and needed you? What if his tastes don’t just run to teenage girls but to toddler ones?”

  Zoe blanches and makes a choking noise and I wonder if I’ve gone too far but I push the worry aside. She’s the one who went too far. But at least what I said seems to have gotten through to her. She stares at me wide-eyed, a hand over her mouth, her face sickly pale.

  Good. She should feel sick over what she did. But then I look closer and she doesn’t look just sick. She looks ready to pass out.

  Which is the last thing I need.

  “Are you okay?”

  She turns, drops to her knees in front of the toilet and throws up.
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  Definitely not okay.

  I set the brush down and gather her hair in both hands, holding it out of the way while she heaves. Rub her back with my other hand.

  “Done?” I ask when she stops gagging. She nods and leans back against the tub, tears leaking from her closed eyes, face drawn.

  I straighten and flush the toilet, then refill her cup at the sink. When I turn back, Zoe’s head is on her bent knees, her T-shirt tugged over her legs.

  I hand her the water. “Here.”

  While she rinses her mouth and spits into the toilet, I wet a washcloth with cool water then take the cup and set it aside. Sitting next to her, I brush her hair back, curling my finger under a few sweaty strands sticking to her temple, then dab her forehead and cheek with the cloth.

  She tips her head onto my shoulder, her voice raw when she speaks. “Thanks, sissy.”

  “Better?”

  “Yeah.”

  I start to rise. “I’ll get you a ginger ale.”

  She grabs my hand. Holds on, her palm clammy. “Can you just…can you sit with me? For a few minutes?”

  I settle back and we sit there, side by side, shoulders touching, hips pressed together. I give her hand a squeeze to let her know I’m not mad at her anymore. To let her know everything will be okay.

  That I’m here, beside her, no matter what.

  19

  After sitting on the bathroom floor for a good ten minutes, I helped Zoe back into bed, leaving the washcloth on her nightstand and the garbage can from the bathroom on the floor near her head. Then I let Eggie out back to do his business and grabbed a can of ginger ale for Zoe. I was making my second trip down the hall when Taylor padded out of my room, crying that she was thirsty. I picked her up only to discover she was soaking wet.

  As was my bed and, thanks to me picking her up before checking for any dampness, my shirt.

  Devyn’s fault. She insists on putting Taylor in pullups at night even though they’re not as absorbent as diapers. But she thinks Taylor will get tired of sitting in her own pee and start being more agreeable to potty training.