Girls who are so much better than me.
The next time he leaves, he won’t come back. Oh, there’ll be visits, but those will become less and less frequent, his time spent here shorter and shorter until it simply ends.
It’s a truth I’ve always known. A reality I’ve always been aware I’d face. I let myself forget it for a few days. Let myself get carried away with stupid, useless dreams.
It won’t happen again.
Of course, I could guarantee that by texting Sam right now.
By breaking things off between us.
I should. All we’re doing is delaying the unavoidable:
Our ending.
But I can’t. And it has nothing to do with my being brave or wanting to keep the promise I’d made Sam to give us a chance. And it’s not because I believe Sam and I will somehow find a way to stay together after graduation.
I’m not delusional.
Just selfish.
Sam isn’t going to be a part of my life forever. I accept that. But he’s a part of it now.
And I’m going to hold on to him, to us, for as long as I possibly can.
The more time I spend with Sam, the deeper I fall for him. And the harder it’s going to be when he leaves. But I don’t care. I want that time. I want today and tomorrow and every minute between now and then.
And when the end comes, I’ll move on with my life.
Just like I did the last time Sam left.
43
Sam’s quiet as we walk hand in hand down the long driveway toward the Vecellios’ lake house, his phone in his free hand, the light from it guiding our way in the twilight. There are so many people here we had to park on the main road, but luckily the house is close to the water, surrounded by trees and set far enough away from any neighbors that we shouldn’t have to worry about having the cops called on us.
We pass a seemingly endless line of cars, trucks, SUVs and even a lone motorcycle as we head down the steep, winding slope. The sounds of the party—music and laughter and happy shouts—that were muted and dull when we got out of Sam’s Explorer grow louder, sharper, with each step we take.
And Sam gets quieter. Or at least, more withdrawn.
“You okay?” I ask him.
He glances at me. “Huh?”
“Are you okay?” I say again, slower this time and with more care, a touch more volume and a surplus of patience.
I’ve gotten this part of our evening down pat after our hour drive out here, where I became quite the chatterbox, yammering on and on about Taylor finally using the potty, Zoe acting weird and secretive, spending most of her time at home on her phone like she has some secret boyfriend, and the latest chocolate chip cookie recipe I tried, because the long, empty silences made me antsy, like my skin was too tight.
Anxious, like we were heading straight for imminent doom and the only way to delay it was to talk and talk and talk.
Which turned out to be easy enough as I got double use out of my words because whenever I brought up some new topic or mentioned another scintillating tidbit about my life or shared one of my thoughts, Sam frowned slightly at being torn from his internal musings and huh?-ed me.
“I’m fine,” he tells me.
That, too, has been said many, many times since he picked me up, as I’ve asked him some variation of that same are-you-okay theme a few times now.
And we keep walking.
Silently.
All the better to let that anxiousness dig a little deeper. Grow a little bigger.
I chew on my bottom lip. I should’ve stayed home.
I wanted to. When Sam mentioned yesterday that there was going to be an end of summer blowout party, I told him I would skip it since Tori was throwing it along with Jackson. But he insisted that Tori specifically said I was invited and, between his pestering me to go even though I told him to go without me, and Whitney wanting me here as well, I gave in.
That doom-and-gloom cloud has been hanging over my head ever since, a premonition of things to come. Namely several long, awkward and painful hours of me standing by myself while Sam’s friends ignore me or, in the case of Abby and Macy, try to incinerate me with their death glares.
So, yeah. Should be a blast.
The music gets louder and the glow from the party reaches us as we near the last curve. Sam turns off his phone’s light and sticks it in his pocket as the house comes into view. It’s huge, three stories with an A-line shape, wide, wraparound upper and lower decks and floor-to-ceiling windows, all ablaze with light.
There must be at least one hundred people here, gathered on those decks and around the roaring bonfire as well as inside the brightly lit house.
Pretty sure this isn’t what Tori’s parents and Jack’s dad thought she meant when she asked if they could host a small, intimate gathering of a few close friends here before school starts next week.
Then again, Tori’s parents and Jackson’s dad are both out of town at some distant aunt’s funeral. What they don’t know won’t hurt them.
Or get Tori and Jackson grounded for life.
Our steps slow. I know why I’m dragging my feet—I’m in no hurry to join the festivities. Straightforward and simple, that’s me.
But it’s unusual for Sam to hesitate. To hang back.
I chew on my lower lip. Rub my thumb along the back of his hand. Okay, something is obviously up with him. Just as he obviously doesn’t want to talk about it.
I should let it go. Trust him to come to me when he’s ready, to tell me what’s bothering him on his own and in his own time. That’s what I’d want from him. Time and space to deal with my problems on my own.
Except this isn’t about me. And one thing I learned from what happened between us last year is that if you’re not careful, if you insist on too much space, too much independence, you wind up alone, surrounded by emptiness.
And I never, never want that sense of isolation, of loneliness for Sam.
“I know something’s bugging you,” I say, tugging his hand to get him to stop—which he does with a drawn-out sigh.
I tug again so he’ll look at me and I search his eyes. “Talk to me,” I continue softly. “Tell me what’s going on.”
Let me help you.
He frees his hand from mine and shoves it through his hair. “It’s nothing. Just some family stuff.” Someone shouts and laughter breaks out and Sam glances over his shoulder at the party. “I don’t want to get into it tonight. Let’s just have some fun, okay?”
He holds his hand out and for the first time in a long time—days or weeks or possibly even months now—I hesitate. Like I used to.
But then I take it, linking my fingers with his because even though it’s only been a few months, even though I swore I wouldn’t let myself fall back into the same old pattern of counting on Sam to always be in my life, even though I promised myself I’ll be just fine when Sam leaves for college next year, I can’t help but accept every tiny bit, piece and morsel of his time, attention and affection while I still have them.
Can’t help but hold on to them. For as long as I can.
44
A few hours later, I watch the people gathered around the fire from my spot on the upper deck. The party has not calmed down in the least, but from this spot, it’s much quieter, the music a dull thrum that vibrates the deck floor, the laughter not nearly as sharp, the voices muted.
I lean both elbows on the railing, holding my Coke can over the edge. So far my night has consisted of me following Sam from the living room to the kitchen to the lower deck to the fire as he made what I’ve come to think of his “rounds.” Seriously, that boy works a crowd like a politician. Smiles are doled out, laughter ensues. There were even three—yes, I counted them—slaps on the back.
Gone was the silent, moody Sam I had the pleasure of spending an hour with in the car. The moment we stepped through the doorway, he transformed into Golden Sam, all good cheer, jokes and charm.
Which wouldn’t bother me so muc
h if he hadn’t brushed off my attempts at getting him to talk to me.
If his sudden and drastic transformation didn’t remind me so much of Max.
I tagged along as Sam chatted and joked. And he was so busy schmoozing and acting like there was nothing but happiness and joy in his heart, it didn’t seem to matter that I stood by his side like a lump of coal.
A silent lump of coal.
Ignoring how only a few people greeted or acknowledged my existence. That most of their gazes skipped over me like I was a huge pimple marring Sam’s beauty—something you know is there but pretend not to see.
Something you figure will be gone soon enough.
I couldn’t even hide out in some corner with Whitney as her time has been fully occupied by Colby doing some hard-core flirting.
Since she didn’t seem to mind in the least, I just said hello then left her to it.
No sense going from being a lump of coal to third wheel.
Especially since Whitney seems pretty into him. Not that I blame her. Colby is a total babe, but way too slick for my taste.
The door opens behind me and I turn, expecting it to be Sam looking for me (I may have slipped away to use the bathroom, oh, twenty or so minutes ago) but it’s Tori who looks just as surprised—and disappointed—as I feel.
Guess my boyfriend hasn’t missed me yet.
Or noticed I’m gone.
Not that that’s the reason I’m up here or anything.
“What are you doing out here?” Tori asks, stepping onto the deck. “Bedrooms are off limits.”
There’s a loud thump from the room next door followed by a girl’s giggle and a guy’s deep murmur. I cross my arms, shoulders hunching. “Off-limits for everyone? Or just me?”
She stalks over to the door of the bedroom. Pounds on the glass with the side of her fist. “Jackson! Knock it off!”
Well, that makes sense. Jackson is one of the few people brave enough to go against Tori’s wishes.
Plus, it’s just as much his family’s house as it is hers.
And that is, technically, his bedroom when they’re here.
There’s another thump followed by a muffled curse and more feminine laughter. Then Jack opens the door and sticks his head out, his brown hair mussed, his shirt on inside out. “I was just making sure no one broke our nonnegotiable rule about not going upstairs.” His gaze slides to me and he frowns in mock outrage, setting his hands on his hips. “How dare you break our sacred rule? Have you no morals? No honor?” He shakes his fist. “Goddamn millennials and their sense of entitlement.”
Tori and I exchange a look. Jackson is the drama queen in her family.
“We’re not millennials,” his girlfriend Fiona says as she steps up behind him, putting her glasses on. It’s tough to tell if her hair is mussed—it’s huge and curly and always looks pretty wild. But her shirt is on the right way. Though the buttons are done up wrong. “We’re Generation Z.”
He glances at her with a fond smile. She’s sort of literal—about everything—and way smart. “Doesn’t have the same ring, babe.”
She looks thoughtful. “No. I guess it doesn’t.”
“Anyway,” he says, sliding his arm around her waist and pulling her up to his side, “I was just telling my favorite cousin--”
“Last week when you wanted Adam to buy you beer, you said he was your favorite,” Tori says of her older brother.
“Ah, but he declined to help me out in my hour of need and therefore fell a spot in the rankings. Congrats. You’re now my number one.”
“Hooray,” she deadpans.
“As I was saying,” he continues to Fiona, “I was just telling my very favorite cousin how you and I were only up here, in this room that is clearly off-limits to everyone during party time, on a reconnaissance mission because we thought we spied an interloper making her way up here.” He nods in my direction. “And there she is.” He tsks at me. “For shame.”
Fiona frowns and leans toward him. “I thought we were going to tell her we were up here looking for my phone,” she says in a loud whisper.
He pats her hip, not the least bit perturbed at her outing them. “Change of plans. Let’s just go with it.”
I cover a laugh with a cough. This is the most fun I’ve had since Sam picked me up.
I wonder if, instead of trailing after him the rest of the night, I could tag along after these three?
“If you’re going to lie to me,” Tori says, not nearly as amused at I am, “at least have the decency to get your stories straight. And next time try to come up with something more original.”
Jack grins then gives her a little salute. “Will do, cuz.”
And he ducks back into the room, tugging Fiona with him, shutting the door behind them.
At which point there is yet another thump.
And more giggling.
Then a loud thud.
“You wouldn’t think Fiona would be that…rambunctious,” I say.
Tori stops glaring at the door to face me. “Fi’s not very coordinated,” she says tightly. “But she’s super sweet. And Jack’s really into her.”
Tori may be the first person to tell you off, but she’s also the first person to stand up for someone if she thinks they’re being mistreated, misused or picked on.
Especially if she cares about you.
“I wasn’t saying anything bad about her,” I point out. “Just that things sound pretty--”
There’s another sound from the room, this time a bang followed by a crash. We both wince.
“—intense in there,” I finish.
“If they keep that up,” she mutters, “they’re going to destroy his room and break a body part or two.” She pauses. “Then again, I wouldn’t mind being there when Jack tries to explain how he broke his femur to Uncle Rick.”
We smile at each other and say, “Bright side,” at the same time.
For a moment, it’s like it was between us, when we used to say that exact same thing when one of us was trying to find the happy in a crap situation.
Then her smile fades. Her expression cools.
And the moment passes like it never even was.
Sort of like our friendship.
My throat goes dry and I take a sip of pop. When I lower the can, Tori’s studying me through narrowed eyes.
Expecting her to ask me again what I’m doing up here, I work on coming up with a plausible excuse like I had to go to the bathroom and the one downstairs was occupied or I came up here to snoop through her stuff, maybe rifle through her dresser drawers, or that I thought I left my favorite beach towel here the last time I was here well over a year ago and wanted it back.
Anything but the truth.
That I needed a few minutes of peace. That I wanted to hide, if only for a little while.
That even though I’m surrounded by people, I still feel incredibly lonely.
“Where’s Sam?” she asks instead.
Well, that’s simple enough.
I gesture at the fire and she takes the few steps needed to stand next to me at the railing. We both look down at the small crowd but I don’t see Sam.
“Idiot,” she says under her breath and when I finally spy Sam, I’m not sure if she’s talking about me or him.
Because he’s not with the others. He’s a good fifty feet away under the lights of the dock at the water’s edge. Bending his head to hear whatever it is Abby has to say.
She’s touching him. Her hand on his forearm as she speaks, her body angled toward him so that the slightest movement will have them brushing together.
She’s touching him. Is standing close to him. Closer than a girl who’s not his girlfriend should stand.
And he’s not backing away.
A lump forms in my throat and I straighten and turn away. Take another, longer swallow of pop.
No. My boyfriend hasn’t missed me at all.
“You just going to ignore that?” Tori asks.
I take another drink. Pre
tend I don’t know what she’s talking about. “What?”
She rolls her eyes so far back she probably saw yesterday. “That,” she says, jabbing her finger in Sam’s direction.
I stiffen. “I trust Sam.”
It’s why I haven’t asked him if he ever really did tell Abby not to text him anymore. Why I haven’t asked if she has.
“Well, of course you trust Sam,” she says. “He’d never cheat on you. But that doesn’t mean he won’t do stupid things once in a while. Like talk to his ex-girlfriend alone on a dark dock.”
“It’s not dark. And they’re not alone.” More like…separated from everyone else. “And he can talk to whoever he wants.”
“Even if it bothers you?”
“I didn’t say it bothered me.”
Except it does. It bothers me so much.
I bite my lower lip and glance over my shoulder.
Still there, on that dock. Still talking. Still standing close.
Still with her hand on his arm.
“God, you don’t fight for anything, do you?”
I bristle. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
She shakes her head. “Doesn’t matter. Have you seen Kenzie?”
“What?”
“Kenzie. I’m looking for her.” Her mouth turns down. “Last time I saw her she was sitting on Jacob’s lap.”
I give an inner groan. For the past three years, Jacob Rothschild has been Kenzie’s on-again, off-again, please-please-please-don’t-let-her-get-back-on-again boyfriend.
Yes. Three. Years.
Tori and me? Not members of Team Jacob.
“I haven’t seen her,” I say, leaving out the fact that I’ve been up here going on half an hour. “If I do, I’ll tell her you’re looking for her.”
The Art of Holding On Page 30