“Probably not, but you’d better grab some shoes. You don’t want to be barefoot around these people,” I warn her as I head back down the stairs. “God only knows what you could step in.”
The sad part? I’m being serious.
Sam straightens as I approach. “Everything okay?”
Yet more proof he’s not a normal guy.
He doesn’t get angry that he’s being kept from his friends and, if memory serves me correctly about Beemer’s parties, copious amounts of alcohol and weed. Sam doesn’t get upset about waiting for me—and now another girl, one he’s never even met. He doesn’t lose his cool or his patience.
My life would be so much easier if he did. If he wasn’t so freaking good all the time.
“Fine.” There’s a breeze, a warm one, but it could cool off before long. Maybe I should have told Whitney yes on the sweater. Maybe I should have grabbed one for myself. “Whitney’s coming with us.”
He shifts his gaze to the trailer, then back to me. “Whitney?”
“Whitney McCormack. She moved here last month.” I realize how much Sam and Whitney have in common. It doesn’t sit well. “You’ll like her.”
He raises his eyebrows at my pissy tone. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” My voice is strangled and I’m blushing so hard I touch my cheek just to make sure my face hasn’t caught fire from it. No such luck. Guess I’m stuck finishing this conversation. “She’s…” Gorgeous, with her shiny hair and those big, brown eyes. But more than that, she’s sweet. Polite. Friendly. Everything Sam is. Everything I’m not. “Southern.”
He’s silent a beat. “Southern?”
I nod. Tug on my right earlobe, which has started to itch. “Right. She’s, you know, from one of the Southern states--”
“Hadley,” Sam interrupts, his mouth twitching from fighting a grin, “I know what Southern means.”
“Right.” I force my hand back to my side. Set it on my hip. Take it off. “Right,” I say again. “Well, anyway, like I said, she moved here—like you did. And she’s very polite—like you are. And she has an accent. A Southern one…”
“A Southern one, huh? Imagine that.”
I shut my eyes on a groan and wish a sinkhole would open and swallow me whole.
Of course Whitney’s accent is Southern. Hadn’t I just made it very clear she was from the Southern United States of America? What other kind of accent would she have?
“Are you okay?” Sam asks, a thread of humor in his voice.
I open my eyes. “Fine.”
And that’s what does it. My growly tone and do-not-mess-with me scowl. Sam finally gives me the full-out real smile I’d been missing only minutes ago. And it doesn’t matter that he’s laughing at me or that I sound like an idiot. An irritated, jealous idiot.
None of it matters because I really, really like his smile.
That, in a nutshell, is the problem with me and Sam, has always been the problem.
Liking him too much.
Wanting more than I can have.
And being unable to stop either one of them.
13
As I predicted, Sam has nothing to worry about.
The moment Whitney, Sam and I step into Beemer’s backyard, a cheer rises above the music.
“Hey!” Travis shouts, holding up his plastic cup in a victory toast. “Sammy is back!”
Yes, the conquering hero has returned. Let’s all get trashed and make bad choices in celebration!
Then again, at the time of my biggest mistake, I was stone-cold sober, so maybe they’re all onto something. Blame it on the alcohol.
“Sam…me,” Graham chants, like we’re in the stands at a basketball game and Sam has just won the game for us. “Sam…me! Sam…me!”
As most people don’t seem to be as drunk as him, only a handful of others join in but Graham keeps going, adding a hip gyration on the Sam and a pelvic thrust on the me.
“Eww,” Tori says, her face scrunched up. “God, Graham. No one should see that. Ever.”
“Amen,” I murmur as I walk between Sam and Whitney toward the crowd.
Whitney nods in agreement.
When it counts, us girls stick together.
Without missing a beat—or a Sam…me! Sam…me!—Graham turns his gyrating and thrusting on Tori, arms in the air Dirty Dancing style.
He’s never been one for picking up social cues, even when those cues are stated. Give him a few beers and all bets are off.
Luckily, Tori’s never been one for subtlety.
She gives him a two-handed shove, and he stumbles back. Would have landed in the fire if not for Travis, his perpetual wingman, catching him by the arm.
“Again…eww.” Tori jabs a finger in his direction. “Do not bring that crap around me.”
My lips twitch and Sam nudges me. “Guess not everything has changed after all,” he says softly and I can’t help but smile at him because he’s right.
Because, for a moment, being here with him, with these people we’ve known for so long…it’s like old times.
He smiles back, surprised and pleased, and I know he’s thinking the same thing I am. It’s almost like it was between us. When we did everything together, shared everything.
Except he didn’t share his secrets. Not all of them. He kept one from me, the most important one.
And now I’m keeping one from him. Two, but who’s counting?
I look away. Guess plenty’s changed.
Way too much for things to go back to how they used to be between us. I can’t get sucked in by Sam’s charm or memories of the good old days.
Can’t waste time wishing for those days to return.
We’re passing the huge wooden deck when the sliding glass door leading to the kitchen opens and Abby O’Brien steps out.
“Sam,” she breathes, stunned by her good fortune and the beautiful boy at my side. “Sam!” she repeats, this time on a squeal because she’s a squealer, the type of girl who hugs her friends (of which there are many) each time she sees them, then again when they say goodbye. Who jumps up and down and gives a high-pitched girly yell at the slightest bit of good news.
Abby is a very excitable person.
She runs toward us—runs—racing down the steps, boobs bouncing beneath her silky V-neck tank top, shoulder-length blond hair flowing behind her, and then throws herself into Sam’s arms.
Arms, I note, that go around her and hold her close, his large hands just above the waistband of her tight dark jeans.
Whether the squeal was some sort of call to the herd or if she proved with her hug that Sam really was here and not a figment of everyone’s alcohol-muddled imaginations, a stampede starts.
No, really, it’s a rush of people, a wave of them surging toward us, drawn together in their zest for life and their zeal to welcome home the prodigal son.
Whitney and I both step back. Then back again when Danielle Webster totters by, almost dumping her beer on us.
We walk up the steps to the empty deck. Stand at the railing and watch the scene below. Guys slap Sam on the back while girls line up to hug him, shooting hopeful, please-look-at-me-in-that-special-way glances at him from under heavily mascaraed eyes.