I could have kissed him. On the mouth. And he’s old enough to be my grandfather. And has a seriously gnarly beard.
Without even thinking it through, I went to the Davis Bakery and begged the owner to give me a job.
Like, literally begged. It was a bit pathetic.
But it worked.
Marjorie, the owner and my boss, appreciates my passion for baked goods and has been teaching me a lot about both baking and owning a small food-based business.
The hours suck, though. I go in at four thirty a.m. three times a week before school and on Saturdays and Sundays.
But it’s totally worth it.
“Hey,” I say to Sam softly, as a tail-wagging Eggie greets him with some good old-fashioned Christmas joy. The air is cold and smells like burning wood from Mr. Keane’s woodstove. “I thought you were in lockdown all day.”
During Thanksgiving dinner, Sam’s mom told his family the only way one of her sons was leaving their house on Christmas was in the back of an ambulance.
Or a hearse.
At least, that’s what Sam said she said.
I highly doubt she used those exact words, but I bet that was pretty much her true meaning.
Petting Eggie, he grins up at me. “I got paroled. And I wanted to see you.”
And just like that, my entire body seems to light up from within.
Forget Christmas cheer. Hearing those words from this particular boy, seeing him, being near enough to touch him, is all I need.
“I’m glad you did,” I tell him, because that’s something I’m working really hard on lately. Telling my truths. Sharing my feelings.
It’s not easy—opening up, letting myself be vulnerable. But with all the practice I’ve been getting these past few months with Sam and my friends, I’m slowly getting better at it.
I shiver and wrap my long, thick cardigan around me tighter.
It might not be snowing, but it’s just as cold as it was last year. So cold, Sam’s cheeks and the tip of his nose are pink.
Almost as if he’s been standing there for longer than the thirty seconds it took me to walk from my bedroom to the door when I heard him knock.
He’s also fidgeting, like he’s nervous and when I lean out the door, he quickly steps forward, blocking my way.
And my view.
This whole scene is becoming quite suspicious.
I step aside and open the door wider. “Come on in,” I whisper.
Even though it’s barely nine, Zoe and Taylor—home for the holidays—are already in bed. And can I just say it’s a Christmas miracle they lasted as long as they did. Taylor had us up three times during the night and we finally gave in and let her unwrap her presents at five-thirty. But even with two naps, she was a monster all day.
Whoever said this was the most peaceful time of the year never sat on the couch at five-thirty-five a.m. while an over-stimulated toddler tore the wrapping off a dozen presents, then screamed her head off when there no more left to open.
Sam shifts his weight from side to side. Clears his throat. “Actually, could you…would you mind meeting me out back? I have a surprise for you,” he adds quickly, probably trying to tempt me because I am looking at him like he’s lost his holly jolly mind.
Like I said, it may not be snowing, but it’s really cold out.
And I’m already in my pajamas—thick, fleece pants, a thermal, long sleeve Henley topped with my cardigan and two pairs of socks.
But for the past few months, Sam hasn’t asked anything of me. Not more of my time than I’m able to give. Not more of my thoughts and feelings than I’m ready to share of my own free will.
And I can’t refuse him. Not tonight of all nights. As always, I have a very hard time saying no to Sam Constable.
Even when it means I’m going to freeze my butt off.
“Let me get my boots,” I say with a resigned—and yes, grudging—sigh.
I may not be able to say no to the boy, but that doesn’t mean I’m happy about it.
Sam, on the other hand, is thrilled. He smiles, wide and bright. “I’ll meet you out there.”
“Okay,” I say, drawing the word out.
He’s still grinning when I shut the door on his handsome face.
Yep. Very suspicious.
I button up my cardigan then get dressed like I’m about to embark on an epic journey across the tundra—boots, puffy coat, winter hat tugged down low, mittens and scarf—before heading into the living room where our Christmas tree twinkles brightly.
Not from the lights. But from shiny, silver tinsel.
So. Much. Tinsel.
For some reason, Dev’s always loved it and since Zoe wasn’t here to complain about it, Dev went to town, tossing the flossy strands with all the abandon of a fairy high on drugs and drunk with the power of her pixie dust.
Seriously. The tree is literally dripping with the stuff. You can barely see any green.
Which is fine. It was Gigi’s tree, she just left it here when she took off. It’s older than Devyn and gets scragglier each year, so the abundance of tinsel helps hide the bare spots.
My present for Sam is the only one still under the tree, wrapped in bright, red paper and topped with a festive gold bow. It’s a photo album I filled with pictures of us, spanning the years from when were kids to now. It’s a physical reminder of everything we’ve been through. Of what we’ve always meant to each other.
It’s our story.
Tucking it under my arm, I make my way through the kitchen, stopping long enough to grab the plate of cookies from the table then open the door and step outside.
And into a magical, winter wonderland.
Sort of.
I mean, it’s still my backyard with our broken grill in the corner and Taylor’s plastic wading pool leaning against the side of the trailer. But now, it’s all lit up. What seems like hundreds of tiny, white lights have been strung from the corner of the roof to the top of the neighbor’s wooden fence, crisscrossing in the air, creating a twinkling canopy of faux stars. A crackling fire burns in one of those portable, metal firepit things in the center of the yard, surrounded by two camping chairs and a portable, rectangular table covered in a blue and gold tablecloth and topped with a thermos, two Christmas mugs and what looks like a small buffet. Music is playing. Not Christmas carols but “Hard Place.”
The song we danced to at Homecoming.
But the best part by far is standing off to the side, his hands tucked into his coat pockets, a goofy, expectant smile on his face. “Merry Christmas, Hadley.”
I slowly make my way down the few steps. “How did you even do all this?”
He shrugs, all nonchalant and cool, but he’s studying me in a completely anxious way. “Jack helped. And I asked Zoe to keep you occupied and out of sight of the backyard while we got everything set up.”
I laugh, my breath coming out in a soft puff. “I wondered why she kept wanting to watch baking videos with me.”
We’d curled up on my bed, a sleeping Taylor between us and Zoe’s new laptop on my knees. Stayed that way for almost an hour before Zoe’s phone had buzzed with a message. She checked it, muttered thank God and promptly shuffled off to her old room to sleep.
A minute later, Sam knocked on the front door.
“I brought hot chocolate,” Sam says, gesturing at the table. “And some snacks. And there are blankets and plenty of wood for the fire.”
I’m stunned. Speechless.
And so full of love for him I can barely breathe.
But he takes my silence for something else entirely and his expression falls. “But if you’re cold, or you don’t want to sit out here, we can just go inside.”
“I’m not cold. And I don’t want to go inside.”
“You don’t?”
“No,” I say, closing the distance between us. I set his present on one of the chairs, the cookies on the table. “This is the best present ever. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. But it’s
not your present.”
“It’s not?”
He shakes his head. Tugs on his left earlobe. “I just…I wanted to do something to replace the memory of last year with something better. Something new.”
“It’s perfect,” I murmur huskily, tears stinging my eyes.
Rising onto my toes, I brush my lips against his cheek and his breath hitches. His skin is cool and I linger there, warming it with my kiss for one heartbeat. Two.
Over the summer I kissed Sam at least a hundred times.
But I haven’t kissed him, haven’t so much as held his hand since that party at the lake.
Ever since Homecoming, Sam and I have been making our way back to each other. Steadily. Slowly.
Like, glacially slow.
That’s how it had to be in order for us to truly get past our fears. For us to learn to forgive each other—and ourselves—for the mistakes we made. The hurt we both caused.
To finally, fully move past it.
But I think we both always knew we were headed to this spot.
That it was only a matter of time before we ended up here.
So instead of lowering to my heels, I slide my mouth over and press it against his because I can.
Because I so badly want to.
Settling his hands lightly on my waist, Sam kisses me back. It’s soft and sweet and hesitant.
It’s the perfect first kiss.
Because that’s what it is. The old Sam and Hadley, Hadley and Sam are gone. What we are now has changed. Just like we’ve changed.
We’re something better. Something new.
That doesn’t mean things are going to be easy going forward. Sam and Max still aren’t speaking to each other and I don’t know when, or if, that’ll ever change. The Constable brothers are both extremely stubborn and who knows what goes through the minds of boys?
They are a strange and fascinating breed of humans, that’s for sure.
There were so many things we had to work through—our insecurities and jealousies and trust issues. So many
He also doesn’t talk to Abby. Not like he used to. There are no more texts or phone calls. No more secret meetings. He even tried to tell me why Abby was so upset at that party, why she called him and went to his house that night, but I stopped him.
It’s not his story to share.
I know better than anyone how it feels to have someone else tell your secret. And I wouldn’t wish that on anyone. Not even Abby.
We also have no idea where Sam will be this time next year. He’s applied to Pitt and OSU as well as UPenn and Cornell because his dad pressured him to try a couple of Ivy League schools.
But none of that matters. What matters is here. Now.
What matters is being in the arms of this boy. Loving him. Being loved by him in return.
Sam and I were never meant to be friends.
We were always, always meant to be so much more.
Thank you so much for reading The Art of Holding On! If you loved Hadley and Sam’s story, you’ll also love Counting Flowers, book one of my Flowers on the Wall Duet.
When Natalie’s perfect life starts to spin out of control, she finds herself turning more and more to her little “quirks” - like repeatedly counting the flowers painted on her wall - to help her focus and stay calm. But nothing is the way it used to be, and as her carefully arranged life unravels, she’s forced to face what’s real. And learn to accept it might not be what she thinks it should be.
Read Counting Flowers Now!
Counting Flowers Sneak Peek
I wake up five minutes before my alarm, like I do every day.
Rolling onto my side, I turn on the bedside lamp then grab my phone, unplug it and shut off the alarm before putting in my earbuds and selecting a Beyoncé song.
Like I do every day.
I prefer my mornings to proceed in a specific, organized way. And that specific, organized way starts with my listening to Beyoncé.
And no, Destiny’s Child doesn’t count. Neither do movie soundtracks or anything where she’s the featured artist.
It has to be one of her songs from one of her albums. Period.
It’s good luck, starting my day with Queen Bey.
Today’s song is “Drunk in Love” and I turn up the volume before sitting up. Leaning back against the headboard, I stretch my arms overhead, yawn, then focus on the wall opposite me.
And I count the flowers there.
Like I do every morning.
I start at the light blue tulip in the top left corner—like I always do—then scan the wall, left to right, like reading a book. But when I get to the orange coneflower at the bottom right corner, I frown.
Eighty-two.
I’ve missed one.
Now I have to start again.
Crap.
There are eighty-three flowers in the mural on my wall, that is a given. I know this, I’ve counted them hundreds…thousands…of times. But I can’t not count them again. Not because I want to.
I have to.
There’s a knot in my chest, and a fluttering, unsettled feeling in my stomach. And neither will go away until I count the flowers and get eighty-three.
The song switches to “Goner” by Twenty-One Pilots and I kick off the covers and crawl to the bottom of my bed, then settle on my knees on the mattress.
And I count the flowers again, slower, more carefully, this time saying each number under my breath.
Eighty-three.
The knot loosens. The fluttering eases. But I’m not done. I repeat the process, this time in reverse order, starting at the orange coneflower and ending with the light blue tulip, right to left, bottom to top. Up and up, side to side until finally, eighty-three.
Then I start again, this time counting color by color. Blue first (19), then purple (17), red and pink (14 and 14), yellow (11) and orange (8).
Eighty-three.
Once again, I reverse the order. Orange, yellow, pink and red, purple then blue. The blues aren’t just blue, of course, they’re aquamarine and cobalt, navy and sapphire. The purples are violet, plum and mauve. Reds as bright as fresh blood and as dark and deep as a rose. Pinks both soft and neon. Sunflower yellows and golden oranges or a combination of the two, like the burst of colors in a sunrise. Melding like the warm glow of a sunset.
I keep it as simple as possible, though God knows I could make this even more complicated. But I fight the urge to break the colors down even further, consider it a personal victory that I’m able to do so.
Besides, it’s not so much the counting or grouping that’s important. It’s the familiarity. The repetitiveness. The order to it.
Each time I reach eighty-three I’m able to breathe a bit easier.
But honestly, I hate that number. Eighty-three. Not only does counting and recounting that many flowers take up a good chunk of my time, the number itself makes me uneasy. You can’t divide anything into eighty-three evenly. It drives me crazy.
Something I’m trying like to mad to avoid at all costs.
I could always ask Mom to paint another flower, but then I’d have to explain why I want the flower added. And while my mom gets me better than anyone else, and I hate keeping things from her, I can’t tell her. It’s embarrassing how often I perform this particular habit. How I can’t start my day without it. That I can’t fall asleep at night until it’s done.
If Mom knew that, she might get the wrong idea. She might think it’s a problem. Or worse, that there’s something wrong with me.
So, nope. Not going to ask for another flower. Yes, eighty-four is a much stronger number and can be divided by so many other numbers evenly (2, 3, 4, 6 and 7) but if there were eighty-four flowers, I’d probably think of even more ways to drag out my flower counting. It might go from being a quirky, slightly OCD-ish habit into a full-blown obsession.
It’s a shame, though. A new flower wouldn’t take long to add, and it would make the entire mural better. I even have the perfect spot for it; on the lef
t, about halfway up the wall between a pink rose and purple aster. Of course, the new flower would have to be blue because the number of colors increase by three—except between purple and blue.
And the fact that I’m thinking of this, that I’ve contemplated it, oh…once or twice or one hundred times before…makes me think I’m not doing all that well with the whole avoid going crazy at all costs thing.
Luckily, right now, my flower counting is still just a quirky, slightly unusual habit. One I can manage just fine, thanks all the same.
For the most part, at least.
To prove it, I get to my feet, determined not to start the entire process all over again. Afraid if I do, I’ll be here all day, counting and recounting flowers, until my secret is revealed to the world.
Counting and recounting until I lose my ever-loving mind.
I’m not sure which would be worse.
Either one of them would put a damper on my senior year and I have too many plans, have set too many goals to let anything get in my way now.
I head toward my adjoining bathroom, a woman with places to go, things to do, and worlds to conquer. A woman in control of her thoughts. Her mind.
But not, it seems, in control of her body. Because as I walk past the mural, I can’t help but trail my fingertips along the wall, tracing the edge of a butterfly. And imagine that perfect blue, eighty-fourth flower filling that tiny, empty space.
Check out Counting Flowers now!
About the Author
Beth Ann Burgoon lives in northwestern Pennsylvania where she pens young adult novels that are emotional, sharply written and relatable. She loves coffee, the Pittsburgh Penguins hockey team and '80s teen movies.
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The Art of Holding On Page 39