I stand, the stacked plates in my hands. “I just don’t want to.”
“It’s not a commitment,” Whitney tells me as I carry the plates to the sink. “It’s just seeing what it’s all about, what they offer in terms of courses and financial aid.”
I rinse the plates, scrubbing harder than necessary at a spot of jam. “I’m not college material.”
“Define college material,” she says.
“Uh…you. Sam. Tori and Kenzie. People who get good grades, who are in school clubs and sports and actually want to spend another four years of their lives sitting in a classroom, surrounded by their age-appropriate peers.”
I shudder. Ugh. That is so not me.
It’s also people who can afford to pay six figures for an education.
So, so not me.
“There are all types of schools,” Whitney says. “Community college. Trade schools. It’s not like high school. And if it’s not for you, that’s okay. But it doesn’t hurt to look.”
Drying my hands, I face her. Give a shrug, but my shoulders are so tense they barely move. “Even if I did want to go, I can’t. I have to work. Unless we’re sick, Mr. G. makes us give at least a week’s notice if we take a day off.”
Not that I ever do. If I don’t work, I don’t get paid.
Something Whitney obviously doesn’t understand.
“Oh, right,” she says with a blush and shake of her head. “Sorry. I wasn’t thinking.”
Why should she? She doesn’t have to work, has only just started looking for a part-time job so she can have some spending money. It’s times like these, times when Whitney seems so clueless as to what my life’s really like, that I start to wonder if this, us being friends, isn’t a huge mistake.
There’s a loud crash from what sounds like my bedroom immediately followed by Taylor yelling, “Not me!”
Which means it was definitely her.
“Want me to check on her?” Whitney asks, already getting to her feet.
I nod. “Thanks.”
Alone in the kitchen, I rinse Whitney’s plate and fork and put the tart away, our conversation replaying in my head.
It doesn’t hurt to look.
Where does she get this stuff? It does so hurt to look. Seeing what you want and knowing you can never have it?
Torture.
Better not to see all that’s out there.
Safer not to get any crazy, useless, hopeful ideas about getting more than you could ever possibly have.
36
“I just don’t get why she still hates me.”
“She’s two,” I remind Sam as I pull my bedroom door shut behind me. I had to lie down with Taylor in her bed in Zoe’s room to get her to fall asleep. Luckily it only took twenty minutes.
A new record. Usually it takes at least half an hour and I end up dozing off before her.
“The only things she hates,” I continue, “are getting her hair brushed, broccoli and being told no.”
“And me,” he insists, sounding pitiful. Looking anything but, the way he’s stretched out on my bed, back against the headboard, long legs straight and crossed at the ankles. His hands are behind his head, elbows out and his T-shirt pulls taut against his broad chest. I’m not sure if he’s posed that way on purpose, but it’s working for him.
It’s working for me, too.
“At least she no longer cries when she sees you.” Although she does tell him to Go ’way! whenever he shows up. I’m pretty sure Devyn taught her that. “You’re making progress.”
He gives an irritable shrug, hands still behind his head. “I guess.”
I grin. He’s adorable when he pouts.
And while I don’t think Taylor actually hates him, it is true that she’s not a fan, even after having Sam hang out here almost every night for the past month and him always bringing her little treats—toys and cookies and her new favorite, gum.
“You need to let her come to you in her own time,” I tell him, crossing to stand at the end of the bed. The better for me to look at all that pretty laid out before me. “Don’t worry so much.”
He also shouldn’t try so hard, but there’s no sense telling him that.
Trying hard is the essence of who Sam Constable is.
That and wanting everyone to like him.
Even a two-year-old.
“Cheer up,” I tell him, reaching up to take out the messy bun I’d put my hair up into when I’d given Taylor her bath. Sam’s gaze tracks the movement. Darkens. “There’s at least one Jones girl who likes you.”
More than one, truth be told. Zoe and Devyn have always thought Sam was great. Devyn would just rather I’d kept him tucked safely away in the friend zone.
But even though he’s out and running free, she’s still nice to him whenever she sees him. And, thankfully, she’s stopped acting so irritated with me and my life decisions.
“Yeah?” Sam asks, his voice a low rumble. He lifts his chin and uncrosses his ankles. “Show me.”
I crawl onto the bed and onto his legs, straddling his thighs. He’s smiling, looking confident and relaxed and very, very content. As if he has everything he’s ever wanted, right here, right now.
Because he has me.
And it hits me, as it does at random times—when we’re walking, our fingers intertwined, or sitting on the couch watching a movie, me pressed up against his side, or lying together on my bed, my head pressed to his chest, his heart beating beneath my ear, his fingers in my hair—that this, being with Sam, having Sam’s heart, is real.
It’s real and it’s right and it’s so good, so much better than I ever dreamed it could be between us.
And it scares me. God, it terrifies me, how much I feel for him. How much he means to me, to my happiness.
Sam’s eyebrows rise as I study him. “Well?”
“Don’t rush me,” I say with a tsk. “I’m admiring you.”
His grin turns cocky and he wiggles a bit, settling into the mattress. “Well, take your time, then.”
“Oh, I plan to.”
His arms are still behind his head and I rise to my knees, lean forward and lay my hands on his biceps, just above his sleeves.
The muscles under my fingers tense and get bigger.
“Are you flexing right now?” I ask.
The look he gives me is pure innocence. “This is just what they’re like all the time.”
With a laugh, I shake my head.
Boys and their egos.
His skin is warm and silky soft. I’m forever amazed at that, at how smooth parts of him are—the insides of his arms, the slope of his shoulder, the nape of his neck. How sensitive to my fingers. My lips. Just as I’m always surprised how often I want to touch him. How badly I want to.
I glide my hands up to his elbows and he twitches. “Tickles,” he murmurs.
I drag my nails lightly up his forearms. “Better?” I ask on a whisper.
He nods on a sharp exhale.
He’s only gotten a trim once since he’s been home and his hair is the longest it’s been in a few years, all thick and waving wildly. I smooth it back from his forehead then comb my fingers through it from his temples to where his hands are connected at the crown of his head. He inhales sharply.
I skim my gaze over his face. His eyes are hooded, his lips parted. I trace the outline of his mouth with my index finger then trail my fingertips over the sparse, patchy stubble on his cheeks. Leave them there, cupping his handsome face as I lean forward, the scent of his aftershave filling my nostrils. I press a soft, lingering kiss against the right side of his mouth, then skim my lips over his to repeat the process on the left.
I pull back and our gazes lock, and while his breathing has quickened, mine has stopped, caught in my lungs at the glittering, intense look in his dark eyes. The hunger. The yearning.
“Hadley,” he says, my name a rough sound that could be a curse, could be a prayer. I’m not sure. Can’t make myself care as he surges up, one arm going around my w
aist, the other hand going behind my head, his fingers spearing my hair as he holds me still for his kiss.
Like his voice, it, too, is a bit rough, but again, hard to care. Not when there’s a pleasant humming in my head, an electric buzzing coursing through my veins. My skin tingling. My pulse racing.
Gone are the slow, indulging explorations of each other. The hesitancy. The doubts.
It’s…freeing.
And I give myself over to it. To that freedom. To the heat. The urgency. Let it rush over me, through me, sweeping me along so I don’t have to think about whether this is too soon. Don’t have to worry about what this next step will mean for us. What it’ll change.
If it’s a mistake.
Kissing Sam harder, I slide my hands under the hem of his T-shirt. His hand in my hair trembles. I shove the material up and he pulls back, breaking the kiss so I can yank the shirt over his head.
He’s so beautiful, all golden, tanned skin and lean muscles, and I smooth my hands over his chest. Down to his abs. It’s a stark contrast, my pale hand against his darker skin, my slender fingers against the visible ridges of muscle.
“Hadley…”
This time my name is a question.
But I don’t want Sam to ask if I’m sure. Or if I want to slow down.
So I kiss him again, pressing against him.
No, I’m not sure. Not at all. Part of me does want to slow down. Part of me thinks we should stop.
But another part of me wants to keep going. Because it’s Sam. Because it feels so good to be with him this way.
And if we have sex here, now, I can blame it on being carried away in the heat of the moment.
If it happens here, now, like this, I don’t have to take responsibility if it turns out to be a mistake.
If I lose my heart to him over it.
I kiss him again and again, my hands smoothing across his chest, his hand sliding from my hair to my jaw then down to my throat. Then lower, his fingers hot against my collarbone. Lower, rubbing along the neckline of my tank top.
Lower.
My heart is pounding and I wonder if he can feel it there, against his palm. He makes a sound in the back of his throat and his kiss gets deeper. His touch surer.
I tug on him, wanting, needing him closer, and he scoots forward, lifting me off the mattress. Still kissing, I wrap my legs around his waist as he gets to his knees then lays me on my back.
Except my bed is small, tiny even, and pushed up against the wall so Taylor doesn’t roll out at night, and I hit my head against it.
Hard.
As Sam is still kissing me, my grunt of pain is muffled by his mouth, but the loud thud of my skull bouncing off the drywall gets his attention.
“Shit,” he breathes, his hand going to the tender spot on my head. “Are you okay?”
Wincing, I nod but…ow. That hurt.
He lowers his forehead to mine and we stay that way for a moment, breathing hard, bodies warm and, in Sam’s case, sweaty.
He exhales heavily and lifts himself onto his elbows. “Should I go?”
His hopeful tone and physical state make it clear he wants me to say no.
But now that I’ve literally had some sense knocked into me, I no longer have the excuse of that whole heat-of-the-moment thing.
If I decide to have sex with Sam, it’s going to be because I made a careful, conscious decision to do so.
Oh, who am I kidding? There’s no if about it. And when it happens, it’s definitely going to change everything between us again.
Which makes the careful, conscious deciding part of it even more important.
“You can stay,” I say and his eyes gleam until I add, “We can watch a movie.”
And the way his expression falls would be hilarious if I wasn’t just the tiniest bit disappointed, too.
But I’m also relieved.
He gives me a sheepish, good-natured grin. “A movie sounds good.”
He kisses me, a quick, warm press of his lips, then pushes himself up and off me to sit at the edge of the bed.
I sit up and straighten my tank top as he looks around, combing his fingers through his hair.
“It’s over there,” I tell him, inclining my head to the other side of the room. Yes, we’ve become that couple that reads each other’s minds and I know he’s looking for his shirt, which I’d chucked aside like it’d personally offended me, covering up all that golden skin I’d wanted to get to. “On the dresser.”
He grins at me over his shoulder and stands to take the two steps needed to reach his shirt, hanging from the corner of my dresser. When he picks it up, the brochure beneath it slides to the floor.
Tossing his shirt over his shoulder, he picks up the brochure and sits back down on the bed. “What’s this?”
“Just some stuff Whitney left here.”
“I thought Whitney wanted to be a teacher.”
“She does.”
He turns, setting his bent leg on the mattress. “Then why is she looking into Pittsburgh Technical College?”
I shrug. “She’s not. I guess she thought I’d be interested in seeing the information.”
I’m not. Whitney brought it over after her trip to Pittsburgh. Said she’d picked up the information just in case I changed my mind.
I won’t. I mean, yeah, I may have looked it over once or twice or a dozen times but that’s only when I get bored.
Or let my guard down.
Guard goes down, hope goes up, reality crashes in.
It’s a vicious cycle.
Sam flips through the information. “They have a baking and pastry program. Had, this would be perfect for you.”
He takes out his phone.
I frown. “What are you doing?”
And why hasn’t he put his shirt on? His naked chest and those abs are super distracting, not to mention making me think watching a movie might not be the best use of our time together.
“Seeing how far it is from Pitt.”
“Is that…is that where you’re going?”
I’d always suspected as much, seeing as how it’s his mom’s alma mater and Max’s current school, but I’ve never asked. If I ask, it’ll make it real—Sam leaving. Moving on with his life after we graduate next year.
Moving forward without me.
“I hope so,” he says, distracted by his phone. “If I can get accepted there.”
Please. As if Sam Constable, with his doctor parents, high GPA, AP course load and upper-tier SAT score, couldn’t go to any school he wanted.
There’s a lump in my throat that tastes distinctively like bitterness.
I clear it away.
“Seventeen miles,” he murmurs. “Not perfect, but doable.”
“Doable for what?”
“For seeing each other.” He puts his phone in his pocket and finally tugs his shirt on. “At least every weekend. And maybe a few times during the week, depending on our class loads.”
I’m shaking my head before he finishes. “I’m not going to school. Not in Pittsburgh. Not anywhere.”
He frowns, baffled by this development. “Why not?”
Why not? It’s the same thing Whitney asked me when I told her I didn’t want to tour any schools or get information on them.
Information she pushed on me anyway, I might add.
God. What is with these people? You’d think my best friend and my boyfriend would understand the reality of my life.
I swing my legs to hang over the side of the bed then stand, intending to tell him what I’d told Whitney: I don’t want to. Instead, the truth comes out. “I just…It’s not something I’ve ever even thought about before.”
“So? Just because you never thought of it before doesn’t mean you can’t think about it now, right?” I give an irritable shrug and Sam reaches over and gently snags my wrist. Tugs me around the corner of the bed and into his lap, his big hand pressing against my lower back. “The future’s not set in stone. We can shape it into whatever we w
ant.”
“Maybe you can.”
He tips my chin up so he can meet my eyes. “Anyone can.”
Of course Sam believes that. He’s never not gotten something he’s wanted. But there’s no use explaining, no sense trying to get him to understand.
It’ll only prove to him how different we are. How different our futures are going to be.
But what if…what if they’re not so different? What if Sam’s right?
What if I can have more than I ever dreamed possible?
There’s a twinge in my stomach that I want to be irritation or frustration or disappointment, but I’m terrified it’s not.
It’s worse than any of them. And so much more dangerous.
It’s hope.
Not much. Just a tiny flicker, like a match flaring to life.
I should snuff it. Should douse it before it grows stronger, brighter, but I don’t want to. Not yet. I want to pretend, just for a few moments, that I can have more than I ever dreamed possible.
“I don’t know how to do it,” I admit.
“Do what?”
“Any of it. How to find schools or apply.”
How to want something more.
How to believe in something good.
He settles both hands on my waist and draws me closer. “We’ll figure it out.”
Oh, to have his confidence.
But maybe I don’t need it. Maybe him having it is enough.
“I guess…” I stop and take a long, careful breath. “I guess I can at least think about it some more before I make a decision.”
Grinning, he tugs me onto his lap. “That’s all I’m asking.”
“What if I don’t go?” I glance at him then drop my gaze to my hands in my lap, my fingers linked together. “What if you’re in Pittsburgh and I’m up here…”
“We’ll still be together,” he says, quick and intent. “We’ll always be together. You’re my girl, Hadley. No matter what.”
“Promise?”
The one word is soft. Pleading.
And something I have no right to ask for.
“I promise,” he says gruffly.
I believe him. I believe him because this is Sam. He doesn’t say things he doesn’t mean. He doesn’t lie.
The Art of Holding On Page 25