I don’t want to go back. That’s what Sam told me today at lunch. I don’t want to be your friend.
He wants more. He wants too much.
For a while, after he left, I thought I could give it to him. Thought I could be what he wanted. Then everything changed between us again. And now it’s too late.
I’m turning the doorknob when Dev takes a hold of my arm, stopping me. I frown at her, and for a moment, I think she’s going to yank me back inside, lock the door and forbid me from leaving.
Which is crazy. And a complete turnaround from how our lives have been so far. She’s never stopped me from doing anything. I’ve never had to ask permission to go out or had a curfew. As long as I’m here to watch Taylor when they need me, both she and Zoe have always let me come and go as I please.
But there’s no yanking. No forbidding.
Just a warning.
“Be careful,” she says. “Boys like Sam…” Mouth turned down, she shakes her head. “They don’t stay. Not in this town. Not with girls like us.”
Don’t I already know that? Haven’t I said, time and time again, that he’s not here to stay, that in a few days or weeks, he’ll be gone again?
I know all that and yet I find myself defending him. “He came back.”
Yes, he left me just like everyone else.
But unlike everyone else, he’s here now.
He’s the only one who came back.
The look Dev gives me is so sympathetic, so condescending it sets my teeth on edge.
“Just because he came back doesn’t mean he won’t leave again.” She draws her hand away, her voice dropping to a soft whisper. “And it doesn’t mean he won’t break your heart again, either.”
She walks away.
I should do the same. The smart thing, the safe thing would be to follow her. To not just listen to her good advice but to take it, maybe have it tattooed on my forearm where I can see it each day.
But I’ve never been smart where Sam is concerned.
And I’ve always been willing to risk more than I can afford to lose.
Inhaling a deep, fortifying breath, I open the door. The sun is lower in the sky than when I was out here earlier. But it’s still shining. The air is still thick and warm.
And Sam is sitting on the top step looking at his phone. He’s still here.
I wasn’t sure he would be. Not after the ten minutes I told him I needed to get ready turned into twenty, plus another couple spent with Devyn.
Twelve extra minutes that weren’t just due to me being unable to settle on an outfit and changing clothes three times. I was testing him. To see how badly he wanted me to go to the party with him. To see if he really did want to make amends.
To see if he’d lose patience and interest and walk away from me again.
He stands when I step onto the porch and I see it all on his face, in his eyes. He was worried I’d lied to him, that I’d stay inside, hiding in my bedroom. He’s surprised I came back.
Happy I’m going to the party with him.
I am, too. Surprised and happy.
Oh, we are both so messed up.
He slides his gaze over me, and it’s different than how he used to look at me, quick and glancing, as if afraid I’d notice. Afraid he’d get caught.
It’s slow. Deliberate. Forthright and challenging.
Changed.
I’m unable to move. With him looking at me like that, it’s tough just to breathe. I wipe my palms against the sides of my shorts. After much deliberation and those three outfit changes—which necessitated changing my bra twice—I’d settled on my favorite jean shorts, an emerald-green halter top and strappy, slip-on sandals. Nothing fancy. Certainly nothing that could be misconstrued in any way, shape or form that I was trying too hard.
Or that I was trying to impress anyone. Least of all Sam.
But the longer Sam stares at me, the more uncomfortable I become. The more exposed I feel. Which is stupid. The jean shorts are no shorter than the cotton ones I’d had on when Sam first arrived. But they are tighter, the bottoms of the front pockets sticking out. And the halter top is looser than the tank I’d worn, but the hem barely reaches the waistband of my shorts.
Indecision grips me and I almost turn to run back inside, to change once again, but I force myself to remain still. No, this outfit is fine. The perfect blend between casual, comfortable and cute. Besides, I didn’t choose it for him—even if dark green is his favorite color and, I realize with a blush, matches his own shirt. I chose it because I like it. Period.
I left my hair alone because it would have taken too long to straighten it, not because it air-dried after my shower all wavy and tousled.
And, yes, okay, I put on mascara. And lip gloss.
I’m not an animal. I may not have been to a party in almost a year but I still know how to dress for one.
Sam exhales, long and low, and I realize I’m not the only one holding their breath. “You are so pretty, Hadley.”
His voice is soft, gravelly, and it rubs against my skin, has goosebumps rising.
Leave it to Sam to say something so direct. So stunning. No half measures for him. No I like that top or You look pretty.
You are pretty.
So pretty.
No wonder I can’t freaking breathe.
“Thank you,” I manage, but it’s barely a whisper and I know he can hear how unsettled I am. How nervous.
But he doesn’t call me on it. There’s no gloating for Sam Constable. No pushing.
The last time he pushed, I ran.
Then he did.
“Ready?” he asks.
I consider telling him no, that I need to duck back inside, let Devyn know I’m leaving, kiss Taylor good night. But I’ve already done both of those things, and if I go in now, I won’t come back out.
And I’m getting tired of being a coward. So I take a deep breath and hope I’m not making mistake number four where Sam is concerned.
“Ready.”
12
Walking down the steps, I feel Sam behind me, big and silent and dangerous to my peace of mind. My resolve. His fingers brush against my lower back, like he’s guiding me. Like we’re on a date.
Panic bubbles in my stomach. No. This isn’t a date. This is…oh, jeez…I don’t know but I do know it’s not a date.
I’m not going to Beemer’s so I can be with Sam as a friend or anything else. I haven’t forgiven him. This isn’t like when we were kids and he wore me down with his charm and persistence. He hasn’t won me over again with his patience and kindness.
Unlike that hot summer day when we were ten, sitting along the edge of his pool, I don’t want anything from him. I’m not using him.
I owe him.
And things can’t be over between us, for good, until I pay him back.
He’s having a hard time readjusting to being back. Feeling left out. And while I’d love nothing more than to be all vindicated and superior knowing he’s suffering even just a little bit, I can’t.
Because it’s Sam.
Because it’s my fault he left.
I’ll go with him tonight. Help him ease into being a part of the group he walked away from.
And we’ll be even.
He’s not parked in our driveway but across the street, in front of Whitney’s trailer, and when I go around the front of his SUV to the passenger-side door, a movement on her porch stops me and I look up. Whitney’s there on a wooden swing, gently swaying back and forth. Smiling, she waves, but in her eyes I see it, the same thing I saw yesterday afternoon when she stood in my driveway.