1
Sam Constable is back in town.
No surprise. I knew he was coming.
Not because he told me or anything. Sam hasn’t initiated a conversation with me since he dropped out of my life almost a year ago. He hasn’t called, texted or sent so much as an email. But that hasn’t stopped me from hearing all about him and his fabulous new life in sunny California, my information coming from social media comments, snatches of overheard conversations and local gossip.
There are no secrets in a small town.
Sooner or later, the truth always comes out.
Still, I’d hoped word of his return was just the idle talk of those who missed him. Who were anxious to see him again.
Only to have my hopes cruelly dashed last week when Sam’s mom went through my sister Zoe’s checkout line at Top-Mart. During what had to be an awkward, stilted and overly polite chat, Dr. Constable-Riester confirmed her middle son’s imminent return.
According to Zoe, the usually reserved doctor was almost giddy about having Sam home for a few weeks over the summer.
Made sense. She’d never wanted him to leave. No one had.
But he’d done it anyway.
Shortly after Zoe’s conversation with Dr. Constable-Riester, Sam’s friends started with the throwback pics of him. Every day for a week, my Instagram feed was filled with Sam, Sam and more Sam, the captions variations on the same theme: So glad you’re coming home! Can’t wait to see you! All is right in the world again!
Once he came back, it’d only be a matter of time until we ran into each other. Like I said, it’s a small town.
Nowhere to hide.
That I’d considered it—quitting my job and staying tucked away in our trailer for the rest of the summer—left the unmistakable taste of resentment in my mouth.
Why should I hide? I wasn’t the one who changed everything.
I wasn’t the one who left.
And if I quit my job, my other sister, Devyn, would kill me dead.
So, no hiding. Not for me. Which meant I’d resigned myself to the fact that I would, at some point during Sam’s visit home, see him. I’d be walking down Main Street and he’d be in his black SUV at a red light. Or he’d be leaving Drip ’n Sip, his usual large ice coffee with cream in his hand, when I was walking in. Or Zoe would send me to Top-Mart to get more diapers and baby wipes because even though Zoe works there six days a week, we’re still forever running out of diapers and baby wipes, and Sam and his friends would be there buying plastic cups, pop, Hawaiian Punch and Red Bull, because in the summer there’s always a party and there’s always need for mix-ins for the vodka, tequila and rum.
There’s no way I’d be able to avoid him completely. Before he went on his merry way again, I knew we would have at least one totally uncomfortable, completely unwanted encounter.
But it’s supposed to happen days, maybe even a week or two from now. After I’ve had time to prepare. To mentally go over everything I’ll say. Practice how I’ll act. It’s supposed to happen when I’m dressed to kill, my hair smooth and straight and shiny. My makeup perfect.
Not when I’m hot and exhausted from an eight-hour shift spreading mulch over the raised garden beds in Mrs. Benton’s huge, perfectly landscaped lawn. Not when my clothes (khaki shorts that reach the knees, work boots and a green tee sporting the Glenwood Landscaping insignia) are covered in potting soil and grass clippings and I’m wearing a backpack approximately the size of a small car. Not when my hair—pulled through the back of my battered Pittsburgh Pirates baseball hat—is huge and frizzy from the humidity. Not when the only makeup I have on is lip balm and I smell like the worst combination of dirt and sweat and the 50 SPF sunscreen I slather on at least six times a day.
It’s not supposed to happen today. Not like this.
But it is. Sam Constable is walking toward me.
Nothing ever goes the way I want it to.
It’s so annoying.
Especially since I can’t seem to move. I just stand in the middle of the parking lot like a statue while Sam closes the distance between us. It’s so familiar, me waiting for him, watching him approach, that for a moment I forget everything that’s happened between us. What we said. What we did.
For a moment, it’s like it’s always been.
But it’s not real, this sense of connection. It’s just memories of how we used to be.
He looks the same, which is another reason to be mighty ticked off. His dark, thick hair waves wildly around his handsome face and he’s wearing the Warriors T-shirt he got after they won the championship. But the closer he gets, the more I notice the slight differences. His hair is longer than before, the curling ends brushing the collar of his T-shirt. His shoulders are broader, his stride more confident.
He stops a few feet away from me. “Hadley.”
That’s it. Just my name. But the sound of it in his soft, deep, familiar voice has my stomach tugging with longing.
Has me wanting to forget the past eleven months ever happened.
He knows it, too. He’s always seen through me. Knew me better than anyone. Wasn’t that the problem?
I let him get too close. Gave him too much.
And still he wanted more.
He must sense my vulnerability because he steps forward. Reaches for me. I remember what it’s like to have his arm slung around my shoulders as he squeezes me to his side. How he’d give me a quick, friendly hug whenever we said goodbye.
Except the last time he pulled me toward him, it wasn’t so quick. Was way more than just friendly.
And when he said that final goodbye, he didn’t touch me at all.
I cross my arms and Sam stops, clearly reading my Hands off! body language. Accepts it as his due. Part of his penance.
But not fully, because there’s a flash of disappointment on his face, a brief glimpse of hurt in his eyes.
I refuse to feel guilty for either.
He shoves his hands into the pockets of his gray basketball shorts and gives me one of his stupid lopsided grins that he knows damn well is adorable. “Hey.”
I don’t smile back. “Hey.”
“Uh…how’s your summer going?”
Seriously? He thinks I’m going to play the nothing-happened-and-nothing’s-changed-between-us game?
So much for that whole he knows me better than anyone thing.
“Fine.”
“Good.” He clears his throat. “That’s…good.”
I nod. Yep, everything with me is just hunky-dory. Living the dream and all that.
If living the dream means being basically friendless, spending forty hours a week working a job I hate and constantly scrimping and saving and still never having enough, then yeah, I’m there, standing on top of a brightly colored rainbow tossing handfuls of golden confetti to a bunch of dancing unicorns.
From the garage behind me, someone—sounds like Cody—calls Sam’s name, diverting his attention.
“See ya,” I say.
Keeping my pace slow and steady, I walk away. I won’t let him think seeing him has me running scared. That being close enough to him to smell his cologne, to pick out the strands of hair highlighted by the California sun affects me in any way.
You know, like in a palm-sweating, heart-racing, stomach-twisting sort of way.
“Where are you going?” he asks, catching up to me.