My throat tightens. It’s stupid to get emotional over baked goods, but there you have it.
The contestants on The Great British Baking Show would understand. There are tears in every episode.
I keep my gaze on my plate. Shrug. “It just makes me happy.”
Makes me feel as if I’ve given them something, some small piece of myself. Like I’ve showed them, the only way I know how, how much they mean to me. That they’re important to me.
Sam leans over and presses a lingering kiss to my cheek. “You make me happy,” he murmurs.
“You’re not the only one, Sammy-boy,” Max says, not bothering to look up from his phone as he speaks. “Hadley and her cookies have made many a guy happy.”
While I got hot all over, my stomach turning sickeningly, he lifts his head and winks at me. Because he is Satan.
Or at least, he’s a mean, overaged brat who loves nothing more than messing with his brother. If only to get a reaction.
Which wouldn’t work so well—or be nearly as satisfying to Max—if Sam didn’t fall for it. Every. Single. Time.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Sam asks, tensing beside me. He’s a bristling mass of protective boyfriend, ready to leap over the table and put his brother in a choke hold.
Being around these two brings my appreciation for my sisters to a whole new, atmospheric level.
“Just that Charlie, Evan and I each ate three of those oatmeal pie things Had brought,” he says smoothly. “What else could I mean?”
Yeah. Ha ha. Not going there.
“Three?” Dr. Constable-Riester asks, horrified and thankfully ignorant—or ignoring—her son’s unsubtle subtext. “One would’ve been more than enough.”
“You know me, Ma,” Max says, typing on his phone. “No self-control.”
I slide a glance at his mom, who’s giving him the narrow-eyed, pinched-mouth look she gave me and Sam earlier.
Max might not have any self-control but he must have a death wish.
Dr. Constable-Riester is definitely nobody’s ma.
“No phones at the dinner table,” Patrick tells him, his tone quiet but firm.
“I’m done anyway,” Max says, pushing his chair back to stand. He tucks his phone into the front pocket of the cargo shorts he’d changed into after his strange and highly suspicious disappearing act with Whitney.
The one where she insisted nothing happened between them.
“You may be done,” his mom says, steel in her tone, “but we’re not. Sit down.”
“Can’t,” he says simply. Yep. Death wish for sure. “I told some people I’d meet them at seven.”
“What people?” she asks.
“You don’t know them.”
She and Patrick exchange a loaded glance.
“Where are you going to be?” Patrick asks.
“Out.”
“What time will you be home?” his mom asks.
He shrugs. “Later.”
Her expression turns downright scary. “Maxwell--”
“We’re heading out, too,” Sam says choosing that moment either because he thinks it’s our best chance at escape or he just can’t help stepping in and saving the day. Even for his brother. “We’re going to the early show at the movies.”
We’re doing no such thing, but he can hardly tell his mom we’re going back to my trailer to where we’ll spend the next few hours unsupervised.
He nudges my leg then stands. I give an inner sigh. There goes my chance for a third roll.
“But you were gone all last night,” Dr. Constable-Riester reminds him as I get to my feet. “I think you should stay home tonight.”
She looks across the table to her husband, who picks up some silent cue and nods. “You can watch a movie here. I’ll make sure Charlie and Evan stay out of your hair.”
Sam’s expression turns mulish. Never a good sign. “I told Jackson we’d double date with him and Fiona tonight.”
“I thought Jack was at his mom’s this weekend,” Max says, all calm and curious, as if he’s just bringing up a random fact.
Except his eyes gleam at the prospect of busting his brother for lying.
Dr. Constable-Riester straightens and turns to Sam. “You told me you spent the night at Jackson’s house last night.”
Last night when he spent the night with me.
And now Max is looking downright cheery.
Crap.
“I did,” Sam assures her while I stand there, my stomach in knots, my face flushed, doing my best to become invisible. “Jackson’s going to his mom’s next weekend.”
Sam’s mom is not buying this.
Oh, God. We are so dead.
“And if I call Mr. Vecellio,” she says, flicking a suspicious, I-know-you’re-corrupting-my-sweet-virginal-boy-with-your-wild-and-seductive-ways glance at me before focusing on Sam again, “he’ll confirm this?”
So very, very dead.
Because Jack is at his mom’s place in Columbus for the weekend. He left Thursday and won’t be home until tomorrow night.
“Of course,” Sam says easily, like it’s the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. He even goes so far as to take out his phone, unlock it and pull up Jackson’s number. “Here.”
And he holds it out to her.
Turns out my boyfriend can be a very convincing liar when he has to be.
Something else to ponder later.
What follows are some of the tensest, most uncomfortable moments of my life, where neither Sam nor his mom moves, gazes locked, each waiting for the other to break.
Seriously. Where are those locusts when you need them?
“You’re right,” Max says, breaking the silence. “Jack’s going to C-bus next weekend. I just texted him.”
He, too, holds his phone out to his mother and whatever she reads has her relaxing in her chair, her eyes closing briefly as if in silent prayer.
It’s enough to convince her Sam’s telling the truth.
Max must’ve sent Jack a text telling him what to say.
Now it’s Sam’s and my turn to exchange a quick glance. Max just helped Sam out. Willingly.
That is so not good.
“Fine,” Dr. Constable-Riester says, relenting in a way that makes it clear it’s anything but fine. “You may go to the movies. But I want you home by eleven tonight.”
“Sure,” Sam says, quick to agree now that he’s got his way. He shoves his chair in. “Eleven. No problem.”
“Thank you for dinner,” I tell Patrick, as there’s no way I can ever, ever look Sam’s mom in the eye again. “Everything was delicious.”
He smiles at me. He’s always liked me, anyway. “Anytime.”
“Oh, hey,” Max says as Sam and I are turning to leave. “Do you have that fifty bucks you borrowed from me last week?”
And there it is.
Max’s payback.
That boy does nothing for free.
There’s no way Sam borrowed money from Max. For one thing, even though Max makes more than minimum wage working for his stepdad at Patrick’s accounting firm, he only works about twenty hours. And he blows his paycheck pretty much as soon as he gets it.
For another, Sam knows better than to owe Max anything.
Yet here we are. Sam getting out his wallet and counting out bills until he gets to fifty. “Here,” he says through gritted teeth, holding the cash out.
Grinning, Max takes it. “You ever need anything else, just let me know.”
The offer, made to sound all full of brotherly love and generosity, has Dr. Constable-Riester’s expression softening.
For someone so smart, she’s super gullible.
Eyes narrowed to slits, Sam grunts. Then puts his wallet back, grabs my hand and heads up the walkway toward the garage, his stride long and ticked off. I jog to keep up.
A few minutes later, we’re pulling out of the driveway when Sam’s phone buzzes from its place in the console between us.
“Can you c
heck that?” he asks.
“It’s Max,” I say, opening the text. “That’ll be another fifty,” I read. “Next time, show some gratitude.”
Sam’s jaw clenches, his hands so tight on the steering wheel they turn white. “Asshole,” he mutters.
“If you keep paying him, he’ll just keep asking for more.”
“He’s just yanking my chain. He’ll get tired of it eventually. It’s not like he needs my money.”
Good point. While Max does blow through the cash he earns, he has plenty of his own. Well, not his own really, more like his parents’. And he does get bored easily, hence his endless drive to get drunk or high whenever possible.
“Besides,” Sam continues, “he knows if he pushes me too far, I’ll push back.”
True.
God knows Sam has dirt on Max.
I just can’t imagine him ever using it.
Am afraid of Max’s reaction if he does.
“Just…be careful,” I warn him softly. “Max isn’t like how he used to be. The last thing you want is him being the keeper of one of your secrets.”
Something I know for a fact.
42
When I hear Devyn’s alarm going off in her bedroom two days later, I’m setting the pan of brownies with white chocolate frosting I made after dinner onto the table.
Hopefully they’ll lull Dev into a sense of complacency. Or a state of sugar-induced bliss. I’ll take either one as long as she hears me out.
By the time she steps into the kitchen, her mouth opened in a huge yawn, hair messy from her nap, I have a cup of coffee poured, doctored up with copious amounts of vanilla-flavored creamer and am holding it out for her. “Hi. You’re just in time.”
She blinks at the coffee. Frowns. Then finally takes it with way more wariness than the situation calls for. It’s not like I spit in it. “Just in time for what?”
Older sisters. So mistrustful.
“Just in time to have a brownie,” I say with a sweeping hand gesture at the deliciousness before her.
Eyebrows drawn together, Dev sits at the table. “What do you want?”
Rolling my eyes, I cut into the brownies. “Nothing. God. Suspicious much?”
As she sips her coffee, she eyes me over her coffee cup. “You’re not taking another day off work, so don’t even ask.”
“I don’t want a day off.” I want all the days off, but now is not the time to bring up how much my job sucks or that I hate it. Plus, she already knows as I may have mentioned it once or twice or a thousand times.
I set a huge piece of brownie on a plate and slide it in front of her. “I just thought you’d like a brownie.”
She glances from my face to the brownie and back to my face. But the lure of rich, dark chocolate is too much for her to resist and she breaks off a corner and pops it into her mouth.
I put a smaller brownie on a second plate and sit down. Swipe my finger through the frosting and suck it off as I sneak glances at Dev and try to decide how best to start this conversation.
It’s not that she’s unapproachable. Or difficult. It’s more that she’s always busy. And tired. And stressed.
That’s her life: working, sleeping and stressing. All because she chose to stick around when no one else would.
I wonder what her life would be like if she’d made a different choice. If she’d had a chance to follow her dreams.
Wonder if I deserve my own chance. If it’s selfish to want one.
I wipe my fingers on a paper towel. “Did you see that brochure I left on your bed?”
In the midst of breaking off another piece of brownie, Dev freezes. Then slowly sets the bite down. “Yes. I saw it.”
I wait but that’s all she gives me. “Did you read it?”
She sits back. “No.”
“Oh,” I say, determined to be hopeful no matter what. To have a positive attitude, see the glass as half-full and think only the happiest of happy thoughts. “That’s okay. I mean, I guess you don’t have to read it.”
Even if I do say it in a way that makes it clear I want her to read it.
If she notices my bait, dangling there in front of her, all shiny and tasty, she ignores it. Just makes a noncommittal sound and sips her coffee while avoiding my eyes.
“It’s just I wanted to get your opinion…” I push my plate forward then drag it back. “I’m thinking of applying there in the fall.”
My tone is super casual, as if it’s a passing thought I’d had, and not one that’s been plaguing me for days. As if I couldn’t care less about it, when the opposite is starting to be all too true.
Silence surrounds us. Thick, heavy, oppressive silence, the kind that does not bode well for my happy thoughts.
The kind that smothers those thoughts. Strangles my hopes.
Dev sighs and finally meets my eyes. “Had--”
“They have a lot of really good programs,” I blurt out before she has the chance to tell me why that’s a bad idea. Before she can list all the reasons I shouldn’t want more for my life. “They have degree and certificate programs and both of them are less expensive than a four-year university.”
“It’s still too much.”
“They have scholarships,” I point out, feeling like Taylor, trying to defer and deflect. Trying to get my way.
Her mouth twists. “Not everyone can get a scholarship, and even if you do, it probably won’t cover the costs of tuition and room and board.”
“Yeah, but I’ll be working at Glenwood all year making good money.” Yes, I agreed to stay on after summer to continue working with Sam, but that was only part of it. This, this chance, was the main reason. “I can save most of that money. Use it toward tuition or whatever. And I can get loans.”
She stands, her movements jerky, her focus on picking up her plate and cup. “That money needs to go toward living expenses. There won’t be any left over to save. And loans have to be repaid. Whether you finish school or not.”
“I would finish.”
“How do you know that? You’ve never taken piano or ballet lessons, have never joined a club or sports team. How can you be so certain that you’ll finish something, something this huge, when you’ve never started anything?”
My head goes back like she’s slapped me. Well, in a way, she has.
Even if what she said is true.
“I just want to apply,” I say, my voice thick with tears. Husky with pleading. “I’ll apply and we’ll look into the scholarships, the loans. Maybe there’s a way to figure out how to make it work.”
Dev stares out the small window over the sink, her face in profile, and I notice the faint lines around her eyes. The paleness of her complexion. The way her shoulders are rounded as if she’s carrying a great weight.
She’s just tired, I tell myself, but it’s more than that. She looks defeated. Muted, like an old painting, the colors faded, the canvas worn.
It’s partly my fault, I know, for adding to her stress. To that invisible weight. My fault for asking for something out of reach when I’m not supposed to ask for anything.
My fault for wanting even the possibility of more—more than the life she’s given me. More than the life she’s lived.
It’s not fair of me to ask for a chance when she didn’t get one. When Zoe didn’t.
It’s not fair.
But I still want it. That chance. That possibility.
“There’s no point in applying,” she says, turning to face me. “You’ll just get your hopes up.”
Hope. The most dangerous thing of all to a girl like me.
I nod but I can’t look at her. She’s not being mean. Or at least, she’s not being mean on purpose. She just doesn’t want me to be disappointed.
Like she is.
“It was just an idea,” I say, soft and small.
A stupid, useless, hopeful idea.
The worst kind.
I don’t tell Sam.
He’ll just try and cheer me up. Will reassure me that the
re’s a way to make it work, that we’ll figure out something. In Sam’s world, everything he touches turns to gold.
Must be nice, living in that fantasyland.
But I live in the real world. So I don’t tell my boyfriend I won’t be applying to PTC or any other school. That I won’t be moving to Pittsburgh with him after graduation. That all the dreams and plans we’d made the past two weeks will never come true.
I’m not going to be a pastry chef or own a bakery someday. I’m going to stay right here, in this town.
I don’t tell him I threw away the brochure Whitney brought me. That I deleted all the sites I’d searched for and saved on my phone—sites for other schools in both Pennsylvania and New York, that offer programs in the arts and restaurant management.
I don’t tell him how excited I’d gotten about the possibility of going to PTC, of going anywhere. How hopeful I’d let myself get about having a different future. It’d been stupid, thinking I could change my circumstances. Selfish, wanting more than what I already have.
I don’t tell him any of that.
And I try really, really hard not to blame him for getting my hopes up. For pushing me in a direction I can’t go.
I keep it all to myself.
No more hoping. No more dreaming.
No more wanting things I’ll never have.
I’ve always known what my future looks like. Living in this trailer with my sisters, helping take care of Taylor. Doing my share. Working two or three jobs and scrimping and saving.
It means never having enough.
Not enough money for anything other than the basics.
Not enough time for a social life.
Not enough energy to even hope for something more.
For people like Sam and his friends, the four to eight years after high school mean college and grad school. Summers off and Christmas break binge-watching Netflix. Spring breaks in Mexico. It’s travel and parties and friends. All leading to some fabulous life working an exciting, well-paying, fulfilling job.
I’ve always known Sam wouldn’t be a part of my future. It’s why I fought my feelings for him for so long. This time next year he’ll be making plans to leave me. Again. He’ll start a whole new life on some college campus I’ll never see, filled with people I’ll never meet. He’ll have a routine I’ll never know. New friends who’ll replace Jackson and Graham, Kenzie and Tori. New girls who’ll replace me. Girls who are smarter. Who have goals and ambitions and bright futures. Girls who aren’t afraid of their feelings. Who are open and honest and willingly give their hearts, trusting they won’t be broken.
The Art of Holding On Page 29