I also know that when Mom told him she was pregnant (over a blooming onion at Benedict’s Steakhouse downtown), he excused himself to use the restroom and was never heard from again, sneaking out the back and sticking Mom with a fifty-dollar dinner bill and another kid to raise on her own.
By that time, at the age of twenty-one, she was three-for-three in that department.
Not that she was totally alone. She had Gigi, her own mother, who’d babysit us when Mom worked nights or went out—which she did in equal amounts. And when Mom got antsy or bored or overwhelmed with her lot in life (a frequent occurrence), she’d drop us on Gigi’s doorstep, then take off to parts unknown, staying away for days. Weeks. And on a few occasions, months.
Until that last time when I was ten, when she never came back.
Skipping out on me, Zoe and Devyn the same way all three of our fathers had. Forcing Gigi to pick up the pieces, a resigned and resentful caretaker.
Life wasn’t perfect—there still wasn’t enough money and Gigi had never exactly been the warm, fuzzy, sweet grandmotherly type—but it was better than it’d been with Mom. I mean, yeah, we had to move into Gigi’s tiny trailer and she constantly snapped at us and reminded us of how grateful we should be for her taking us in, but we were together—me, Zoe and Devyn. And together, we could handle anything.
Even being left again.
Which was what Gigi did the day after Devyn graduated from high school. She came into the bedroom Zoe and I shared, woke us up and told us that since Dev was officially an adult, we were her problems from now on. Her responsibility.
Then she picked up the suitcases she’d already had packed and waiting by the door and walked out. She moved in with her sister down in Florida but let us stay in the trailer.
The only time we hear from her is if we’re late with a rent check.
Which is more often than we hear from our mom.
Having the people who are supposed to love you the most, who are supposed to take care of you, choose to go? It sucks.
And something I have a lot of experience with.
So, no, Sam wasn’t the first person to disappear from my life.
But he was the first person I cried over.
He wasn’t the first person to walk out on me.
But when he did, I swore to myself he’d be the last.
By the time I reach Hilltop Estates—which is indeed on top of a hill but decidedly less fancy than the name implies (Hilltop Trailer Park doesn’t have the same ring)—my chest is tight and my quads aching. Biking five miles in heavy boots will do that, especially when that last mile is all uphill.
I live in northwestern Pennsylvania. Everywhere you turn it’s hills, hills and more hills.
I could have stopped and switched into my sneakers. Could have gotten off my bike and pushed it up that last long incline. But I’d wanted to put as much distance between me and Sam as quickly as possible, so I’d pedaled as hard, as fast as I could.
It didn’t even work. The whole distance thing, I mean. I can still feel his hand on my arm, his breath on my neck. Can still smell his cologne.
I turn onto Winter Street and stand and pedal when our trailer comes into view.
I just want to be home.
I pull into the gravel driveway behind Zoe’s ancient blue Toyota, and brake hard. Too hard. My rear tire wobbles and skids, the bike lurching to the side. Swinging my right leg over the seat, I try to jump free but the bottom of my backpack catches on the seat and I tumble to the ground, landing with an Oof!, my bike falling on top of me, the pedal scraping my shin.
Catching my breath, trying to get my bearings, I stare up at the cloudless sky.
And see Sam’s expression when I told him we had nothing to talk about. That it was too late.
Like he was devastated.
Like I’d broken his heart.
Again.
Frustration boils up inside of me, a toxic brew of fury and fear, and my hands curl, my nails digging into my palms. I hate that after all this time, after everything he did, everything he said, he still affects me this way. Like I’m some simpering idiot willing to toss aside all pride and self-respect just because he smiles at me.
Terrified I’ll do that tossing all the same.
That’s what the boy does to me: He makes me weak.
Worse than that, he makes me want things I’ll never have.
I try and thump the back of my head against the pavement a few times but it doesn’t reach. There’ll be no knocking some sense into myself today.
And where does Sam get off being upset? To act all hurt and disappointed. He was the one who ended us. He was the one who left.
As always, he’d gotten what he wanted. Me, out of his life.
He doesn’t get to change his mind now.
Tears sting my eyes. Clog my throat.
And as much as I’d like to blame them on the pain shooting up from my wrist, the sharp gravel digging into my lower back and the scratch just below my knee, I can’t. So I take several long, careful breaths. Blink the tears back.
I will not cry over Sam Constable.
Not ever again.
Why did he even come back?
I roll my eyes. Okay, yeah, that’s a stupid question.
He came back because this has been his home since he was ten years old. He has friends and his family here—his mom and stepdad and younger brother, Charlie. His older brother, Max.
Another Constable boy I’d be happy to never see again.
It’s not fair. After Sam left, my days were all the same: Wake up, think of Sam. Go to school, imagine seeing Sam in hallway. Eat lunch alone, tucked into an empty corner of the cafeteria, remember sitting across from him every day. Get home, wait for him to return one of my many, many calls or texts. Go to bed, wonder what he’s doing. If he thinks of me at all.
Wake up and repeat, repeat, repeat.
It all changed on Christmas, the last time we saw each other. I stopped waiting. And eventually, he was no longer the first thing I thought about every morning. No longer the last thing going through my mind before I fell asleep.
I got over it. Got over Sam.
And I refuse to backslide just because he’s in town for a few weeks. We probably won’t even see each other again. But if we do, I’ll keep my distance.
It’s what I should have done in the first place.
“Are you okay?”
I turn my head and my hat shifts forward, blocking my view. Lifting my chin so I can peer under the brim, I see Whitney McCormack at the end of my driveway.
Great. Just what I need. Stunning Whitney of the beautiful face, glossy black hair and perfect, petite body witnessing me on my back like a turtle flipped onto her shell.
Some days just suck.
I have more than my fair share of them.
Sitting up, I push the bike off my legs. “I’m fine,” I say, getting to my feet. “Thanks.”
We both reach for the bike, but I get there first.
“I’ve got it,” I say, noticing that under the hem of her long, flowy skirt, her feet are bare.
Must be a Southern thing, going barefoot all the time. She and her mother moved into the double-wide mobile home across the street two weeks ago and I’ve yet to see her wear shoes. Whitney, that is. I’m assuming her mother wears them, though to be honest, I’ve never checked.
I walk my bike toward the trailer, stepping carefully on my sore ankle.
Whitney follows. “You’re limping.”