Okay, good. That’s good. Because I can’t do either. Not now, when I can barely think straight, my emotions going haywire. Possibly not ever.
And that scares me, shames me, because Sam deserves the words. Deserves a promise or two. One more very good reason for me to end this here and now. To not say or do something that will take this any further.
But I can’t. Not when what I want is there, right there, in front of me, handsome and honest and earnest. It’s heady stuff, knowing a boy like Sam feels that way about me. That he wants to be with me so much.
I lick my lips. Take a deep breath. “What are you asking?”
Small as it is, it’s an opening. One that tells him I’m listening. I’m considering what he’s saying.
I’m not saying no.
He realizes it, his eyes widening slightly as he straightens to his full height, encouraged and hopeful. “That you don’t push me away. That you let me back into your life so we can see where, if anywhere, this can go between us.”
I hesitate, unable to find the words to tell him what’s inside of me. Too cowardly and selfish and self-protective to share what’s in my heart.
“Don’t be scared,” he says, quiet and intense, and I’m right back to last summer when he kissed me.
Don’t be scared, Hadley. I won’t hurt you.
He had. Just like I’d known he would. And, like I’d also predicted, I’d hurt him, too.
But maybe…maybe this time we won’t make those same mistakes. I won’t make them. I can be more open. I can give more of myself, my thoughts and feelings. I can be the girl he deserves.
Maybe, for once, I can have what I want most.
No, I don’t have his confidence or his courage. But I can try and have at least some of his faith. Can choose to believe that things will work out.
And if we don’t, if I lose him again, I’ll deal with it then.
In the meantime, I’ll hold on to him for as long as I can.
“Okay.”
He frowns. “Okay you won’t be scared?”
I wince. Okay is an extremely lame response to everything he’s said. And it tells him exactly nothing as to what I want.
Giving him more of my thoughts and feelings is harder than it sounds.
“I…” Much, much harder. “I’m still scared.”
His expression softens. “Me, too.”
His admission is quiet. Gruff. And makes me realize I’m not alone in this. In my fears.
It helps. It helps a lot.
“Maybe we could go out sometime,” I say, but I can barely hear myself over the pounding of my heart. “Uh…get something to eat or…something…”
More lameness. Well, at least I’m good at it.
“Tonight?” he asks.
Tonight? As in twelve hours from now? Like a date?
Yes, yes, I realize that what Sam wants, what I’m agreeing to, isn’t for us to be just friends and that going out together, as more than friends, will likely be a part of that. I just hadn’t realized it would happen so quickly.
The panic I’ve been trying to pretend doesn’t exist rears its head as if reminding me it’s there, burrowed nice and deep inside of me, but is more than happy to pop out any time.
Great. Good to know.
“Uh…maybe not tonight,” I say.
“Why not?”
“Because we need to take our time with this. Not rush things.”
He grins slowly and I’m glad the counter is behind me because I feel a real-live swoon coming on. “Had, we’ve known each other since the fourth grade. Have been friends for seven years. If we went any slower, we’d be going in reverse.”
He has a point.
“I can’t tonight,” I say. “I…uh…already have plans.”
His grin fades, his expression darkens. “With a guy?”
I roll my eyes. Trust that to be his first thought.
Teenage boys. Such fragile creatures.
“No. With Whitney.” Before he can ask what we’re doing or if I can ditch her, before he can break me down with his persistence and charm, I hurry on, “What about tomorrow afternoon? We can go to the Tastee Freeze.”
It’s a bit sooner than I’d prefer, but I did say I was going to try.
This is me trying.
But the gleam in his eyes tells me he knows exactly what I’m doing. Getting ice cream on a Sunday afternoon is a very non-date-ish, non-sexy thing to do. And a good way to ease into this.
“I’ll pick you up at three,” he tells me. He checks the time on the microwave. “I’ve gotta go. Coach scheduled a conditioning session at ten.”
“You’re trying out for the team?”
Though basketball tryouts aren’t until late fall, the team does conditioning all summer and most of the boys play on a travel team. All of the coaches at our school like their players to prove their dedication by forgoing other silly pursuits like jobs, family vacations and sleeping in on Saturday mornings.
Eggie, sensing that his good buddy is about to leave, pads over to us and butts his head against Sam’s leg. “Yeah,” Sam says, giving Eggie a few pats. “Not sure how it’s going to go. I haven’t played for a year. Well, nothing other than a few pickup games in my dad’s driveway.”
It’s so unusual for Sam to be worried about…well…anything, to have anything less than total confidence in himself, I give his arm a quick squeeze. “You’ll do great.”
He flushes. “Thanks,” he says, straightening. “I’ll…uh…see you tomorrow then.”
He makes it sound like a question, like he’s worried I’m going to back out.
“At three,” I say, wanting to reassure him—and myself—that I won’t. “I’ll be ready.”
He smiles, gives me a nod goodbye and walks out of the kitchen and past Taylor who is hypnotized by the antics of Mickey and his gang. I count to twenty, then go into the living room and look out the front window. Watch him pull away from the curb. Count to twenty again.
Then pick up Taylor and hurry out the door.
22
Mrs. McCormack is an older, curvier version of her daughter in a pair of black capri pants and a white T-shirt. Her dark hair is cut into a chin-length bob, her makeup perfect even at the ungodly hour of not-quite-nine a.m.
She’s also, it seems, horrified at the sight greeting her on her porch this fine Saturday morning.
Well, I didn’t bother changing, so my cupcake-themed cotton shorts, faded pink sweatshirt with the coffee stain and ratty flip-flops might give someone so well put together pause. And Taylor is screaming as if I’m trying to murder her, so there’s that. Plus, she has frosting from her donut smeared across her shirt, her cheek and chin, and even in her hair. Though the sprinkles sticking here and there give her a festive look.
“Are you okay?” she asks, leaning out to look behind us. “Did someone hurt you? Is someone chasing you? Come in, come in. We’ll call the police.”
I see where Whitney gets her wild imagination.
“We’re fine,” I say, but I have to yell to be heard over the banshee in my arms and it comes across sort of aggressive, like I’m mad she’s asked about our well-being. My face heats. Parents—the normal kind, the ones who stick around and actually raise their own kids—make me nervous.