“She’ll get all of that by you taking me home.”
“I can’t leave her like that,” he says, gesturing to the room. “Just give me five minutes. Please. Then we’ll go.”
And Sam Constable always does what he says he’ll do.
Because that’s the kind of guy he is. The kind who tells the truth. Who’s always there with a shoulder to cry on. Who’s kind to everyone. Who always does the right thing.
I shouldn’t be surprised he wants to make things right with Abby. That he wants to help her get through her heartbreak—pain he caused, whether knowingly or not.
I shouldn’t be surprised, but I am.
I’d gotten too complacent. Had been lulled into a false sense of security. Things between me and Sam had been going really well ever since our kiss in his bedroom. Too well.
I should have known it was only a matter of time before reality came knocking.
Nothing that good lasts forever.
“Whatever,” I grumble. “I’ll wait in the car. But if you’re not out there in five minutes, I’m finding another ride home.”
As threats go, it’s not a very strong one considering these are Sam’s friends and none of them would ever give me a ride, especially if they knew we were fighting.
Also there’s the little fact that I’d never ask any of them to.
Still, I make what I feel is a very dramatic exit…you know…chin lifted and righteous indignation in the set of my shoulders. It’s not until I’m downstairs, have gone through the living room and am standing on the front porch that I realize it was all for nothing.
I didn’t ask Sam for his keys and Sam always locks his car doors.
Waiting for him in the SUV is out. And I’m sure not going to wait inside surrounded by all those people. I could stand in the driveway until he comes out or, better yet, start walking home. Except it’s raining. And dark.
Chewing my lower lip, I look at the house. Maybe going back inside isn’t such a bad option. After all, it’s brightly lit, warm and dry.
And filled with people.
People like my boyfriend, who is currently cuddled up with his ex in the purplest of all purple bedrooms.
I turn back again, walk to the stairs leading to the driveway. The wind picks up, blows rain onto my arms and face.
“What’s it going to be, Hot Hadley?”
At the soft, deep voice, I whirl around, my heart in my throat. Great. I’m not alone. Stepping toward the far corner of the porch, I see a dark figure sitting on the porch swing.
My stomach does a loop, like I’m on a roller coaster. “What?”
“What it’s going to be?” Max repeats. “You staying? Or going?”
Going. Definitely. I can’t stay. Not with him.
It’s like Fate is telling me to go back inside. To wait for Sam in some quiet corner like a good little girlfriend. One who’s just so darn grateful to be with him that she lets him do whatever he wants and doesn’t complain.
Even when he sits on a bed with his arm around his drunk ex-girlfriend, who he’s been texting on the sly for only God knows how long.
I stalk toward Max. “Staying,” I tell him, like I’m accepting a dare he’s issued.
Which, let’s be honest, he sort of has.
He’s sitting in the middle of the bench seat, feet planted wide, legs spread, one hand holding a plastic cup, the other arm stretched out along the back of the seat.
The Constable brothers. Always taking up more than their fair share of space.
“You going to move over?”
“Plenty of room right here,” he says, patting his thigh.
I kick the side of his foot.
Hard.
“Ow.” He slides to his left. “No need to get violent.”
I sit down and Max once again settles his arm along the back.
Then starts playing with my hair.
I slap his hand away. “I’m not in the mood for you, Max.”
“And yet, here you are, sitting with me in the dark.” He leans toward me, his voice dropping to a husky, seductive tone. “Bet I could put you in the mood.”
I jump to my feet, setting the swing into motion, but before I can walk away, Max catches my wrist.
“Aw, come on. I’m just messing with you.” He tugs gently. “Sit down. I’ll behave. Promise.”
Unlike Sam, Max’s promises don’t mean much.
I sit anyway. It’s reluctant, and as soon as I do, I scoot as far away from Max as I can get and cross my arms. But still, I sit.
Because I am a glutton for punishment.
Or maybe just a complete idiot.
Max takes a drink then slouches, reclining against the hard seat. “What has you hiding out on the porch, Hot Hadley? Party not up to your usual high standards?”
“Just needed some air,” I say. “What about you? No freshman girls inside to practice your pickup lines on? No buddies from high school to reminisce about the good old days?”
“Oh, there are plenty of girls for me to practice all sorts of things on.” He meets my eyes. “As you well know.”
My face goes hot. Yep. Staying was definitely a mistake.
Walking home doesn’t seem like such a bad idea after all.
I’ve had more than enough of the Constable brothers tonight.
“You don’t always have to be such a dick, you know.”
“But I do. We all have our parts to play. I’m just better at playing mine than most. Sam’s the golden one and I’m the fuck-up.” He shrugs and gives me a grin. “And more often than not, that means being a dick.”
He drains his drink. There’s something off about that smile, something not right in his tone. Something that puts me on edge. Makes me nervous.
Makes me realize what a very bad idea this is, being with him.
I shift, suddenly uncomfortable. Wary of this boy I’ve known for years. Certain I should have waited for Sam inside.
“No one expects you to play the part of an asshole,” I say.
He makes a tsking sound. “But I’m so good at it. You wouldn’t want to take that away from me, would you?”
What I want to take away from him is his drink. But that’s not my job. I’m not his girlfriend. I’m not even his friend. The only thing we have in common is Sam—who, of course, chooses that moment to join us.
So glad he could tear himself away from Abby’s tears and heartache just in time to find me sitting in the dark with his brother.
Sam’s gaze shoots from me to Max and back to me. Huh. That must have been my expression when I saw him on the bed with Abby: Surprised. Suspicious. Angry.
I liked it a lot better when I was giving that look, not receiving it.
“Sammy!” Max calls as if they don’t live in the same house, have bedrooms next to each other and share a bathroom. “Come on.” He slides over next to me—as in super close to me, our hips pressed together—and pats the now-empty space on his other side. “Join us.”
Sam steps toward us, all stiff and robotic. Gives his brother the flint eye—either because Max is draining his drink or because he’s put his arm around my shoulders. Nods at Max’s cup. “You sure that’s a good idea?”
“What? This?” Max holds the empty cup upside down. A drop lands on my thigh just below the hem of my shorts and I brush it away. Hard to believe he missed even that much. “Yeah, it’s no problem. I came prepared.”
He reaches across me, pressing against me as much as he can, and picks up another cup from a small side table, this one full and, I’m guessing from the smell, Coke and whiskey and not the beer everyone else inside is drinking. Then he takes his good old time easing back.
He lifts the cup in a mock toast. “See? It’s all good.”
Sam’s mouth thins, and when he speaks, his lips barely move. “I meant do you think getting drunk is a good idea.”
“Always, little brother. Always.”
Sam’s expression gets even more fierce. “Your flight leaves in nine hours
.”
“I’d better not waste any more time, then.” He drains the cup in several long gulps.
“Where are you going?” I ask Max.
“You didn’t tell her?” Max shakes his head at Sam. “Shame on you, Sammy boy. Always tell your girlfriend everything. No secrets and all that when it comes to true love, right?”
I tense, that sick taste back in my mouth, threatening to spill out.
“He’s going to our dad’s,” Sam tells me.
“Mandatory annual summer visit,” Max says and his attitude, and the heavy-even-for-him drinking, become crystal clear.
Max and his dad do not get along.
“Sammy gets to skip it,” Max continues, “because he lived with the bastard last year. So it’ll just be me and Pops for an entire month. Plenty of time for father-son bonding. Though I doubt we’ll ever have that special relationship he and Sam have.” Max nudges me, leans toward me to say in a loud whisper, “Sam’s the old man’s pride and joy.”
Sam’s the golden one and I’m the fuck-up.
For the first time in my life, I feel bad for Max.
It must be hard always being compared to the perfection that is Sam Constable. Especially when that perfect boy also happens to be your younger brother.
“Give me your keys,” Sam tells Max.
Max smirks. “I won’t drive.”
Sam just holds out his hand. “Give them to me.”
They stare at each other, a real, honest-to-god, Constable Brother stare down that seems to go on forever.
One of the few things they have in common is stubbornness.
Finally, Max gives another shrug and, holding his cup in his mouth, reaches his free hand into his front pocket, pulls out his keys and throws them at Sam, who catches them before they hit him on the nose.
Sam turns to me. “Had?” he asks in a low, rough tone. “You ready to go?”
Max takes his arm from around my shoulders to grab my hand. “You don’t have to go with him,” he says, an unreadable intention in his eyes. That’s the thing with Max. You never know what’s real. “You can stay here, continue our conversation. Sam’s such a good brother, I’m sure he won’t mind sharing you with me.”
Oh, God.
I have no idea what game he’s playing, but I have no intention of joining his team.
And there’s no doubt in my mind that Max is playing at something. He doesn’t do anything without a reason. One that benefits him.
Sam’s shoulders are rigid, his hands fisted at his sides. And Max is loving every moment of messing with his brother.
Torturing me is just a by-product.
Brothers are so freaking weird, always giving each other a hard time, competing over everything.
But in this, there is no competition. Just as there’s no question of who I’d rather be with.
I yank free of Max’s hold and step closer to Sam. Take his hand.
I pick Sam.
Always.
I just hope that no matter what happens, Sam believes that.
33
Neither Sam nor I speak the entire drive to my house.
It’s a tension-filled, nerve-wracking ten minutes.
I wish it could last forever.
“What the hell was that all about?” Sam asks the moment he pulls to a stop in my driveway.
And here we go.
“What was what about?” I shoot for nonchalant and innocent, as if I have no idea what he’s referring to. Maybe if I play dumb, we can avoid this entire conversation altogether.
A girl can dream.
“Back there.” He jerks a thumb in the direction we came from. “That…thing…with you and Max.”
A girl can dream, but for girls like me, those dreams never come true.
“There is no thing with me and Max.”
Sam glances at me but keeps his hands on the steering wheel. “You were sitting with him. In the dark.”
“I was waiting for you. He just happened to be there.”
“You could have waited inside.”
“I didn’t want to wait inside. I wanted to go home. But you couldn’t tear yourself away from Abby--”
“I told you,” he grinds out, his hands moving back and forth as if strangling the steering wheel, “she was drunk. And upset.”
“Yeah? Well, so was your brother.”
Now he stills. “Did he tell you that?”
“Yes. Max and I had a deep, honest, heart-to-heart conversation. He really opened up to me, told me all of his secrets and hopes and dreams and wasn’t a jerk once.”
Sam sighs, frustrated and impatient with me or Max or maybe his life in general at the moment. “He’s just being an ass because he doesn’t want to go to Dad’s. He probably wanted you to feel sorry for him.”
“He’s spending a month in LA. Hardly a reason for me to pity him.”
Except, I sort of do. Their dad is a complete tool.
And Sam really is his favorite.
Sam’s the golden one and I’m the fuck-up.
No, it can’t be easy being Sam Constable’s brother.
“He had his arm around you.” Sam stops trying to murder the steering wheel and unbuckles, then turns to face me fully. “Why did you let him put his arm around you?”
“First of all, I didn’t let him do anything…”
“You sure as hell didn’t stop him.”
True. I didn’t push him away like I had earlier, before Sam arrived.
Just like Sam hadn’t pushed Abby away. Knowing Sam, he was probably the one who initiated their hug.
The only thing he loves more than being the good guy is playing the hero, swooping in to make things right.
“Max put his arm around me. Probably because he knew it would bug you. It’s not like you walked in on us…oh, I don’t know…embracing on a bed or something.”
“Jesus, do we have to go through this again? She. Was. Up. Set. What was I supposed to do?”
“You were supposed to find someone else to babysit her,” I cry, unbuckling my own seatbelt with jerky motions. “You were supposed to take me home when I wanted to go. And you sure weren’t supposed to be texting her all this time.”
“I don’t text her. She texts me.”
“Oh, well, that makes it all okay. So, if a guy texts me, I can text him back and you won’t get mad. Good to know.”
“That’s not what I said,” he mutters darkly.
“No? You mean, you don’t want other guys texting me?”
“You know I don’t.”
“And I don’t want other girls texting you!”
Sam tips his head down as if praying for guidance or patience or maybe just a miracle that’ll make his silly, harpy girlfriend see reason. “I was just being nice. She’s going through a hard time--”
“What sort of hard time?” I ask, because I am a suspicious person like that.
I know how people work, how they’ll twist things to their advantage, say whatever they have to in order to get what they want.
Tell lie after lie to protect themselves, to hold on to the good things in their life.
“I can’t tell you that,” he says.
“You’re sharing secrets with her?”
“Not sharing secrets.” But he’s hedging. Forthright, honest, Boy Scout Sam Constable is hedging over telling me what he and another girl chat about. “Just…keeping one of hers.”
My throat is so tight I have to clear it twice before I can speak again. “How long?”
“What?”
“How long have you been keeping Abby’s secrets? How long has she been texting you?”
“It doesn’t mat--”
“A few weeks?” I ask and he presses his lips together. “Since you’ve been back?” He still doesn’t answer and my mouth dries. “Did you talk to her while you were gone? When you were at your dad’s?” He remains silent. “Sam?”
“Yeah,” he says after a long moment. “We talked a few times when I was gone.”
When I came over, he was cold. Unforgiving.
And crueler than I’d ever thought he had the capacity to be.
But I can’t think about that now, not when my emotions are so messed up. Can’t take the chance of a truth about that night coming out.
“You talked to her,” I say again, “but you wouldn’t talk to me.”
It’s too much. Too painful, remembering how he’d ignored me. Remembering how his walking out of my life had so completely destroyed me.
“No more past,” Sam says. “Remember? We agreed the past doesn’t matter. That we’d focus on the here and now.”
“You mean the here and now where you chose staying with your ex-girlfriend over taking me home? Where you’re texting her? Keeping her secrets and giving her your big, strong shoulder to cry on whenever she needs it? That here and now?”
His brows lower. His mouth turns downs at the sides. “It’s not like you’re making it sound. She just needs someone to talk to, that’s all.”
“If that was all, she wouldn’t have thought there was a chance of you two getting back together.”
“I told her I was with you.”
“Did you tell her to stop texting you?”
He doesn’t answer.
Which is answer enough.
I blink but it does nothing to erase the red haze covering my vision. “Are you kidding me?”
He takes my hand. “I couldn’t tell her tonight,” he says as if I’m an idiot for even suggesting such a thing. “But I will. I promise.”
Another promise. One he’ll keep because he’s true-blue and honest.
As most heroes are.
But it doesn’t matter if he’s a freaking saint, Superman and Ghandi all rolled into one, because for the first time ever, I don’t believe him.
For the first time ever, I don’t believe in him.
I tug free and bend over to grab my purse from the floor. “You know what? Talk to her as often as you want. Keep all her secrets and cozy up to her as much as your heart desires. I don’t even care.”
The Art of Holding On Page 23