Taylor lays her head on my shoulder. Sniffs loudly. “Moana.”
From the moment Taylor first saw Whitney on the day they moved in, she’s insisted our new neighbor is Moana—the character from the Disney movie of the same name—in the flesh. It’s the long, dark hair, I guess.
Or maybe it’s the bare feet. Moana never wears shoes, either.
Plus, you know, they’re both gorgeous, so there’s that.
Whitney smiles and holds up her phone. “If you stop crying and let Hadley wash your face, you can watch your television show on here.”
Guess Mrs. McCormack filled her in on all the pertinent details of our quick conversation.
Taylor, never one to turn away a good bribe, tips her head back for me to wash her face. When I’m done, she faces Whitney again. “I not cwying. I watch Mickey now.”
“Good girl,” Whitney says and Taylor shoots me an I told you I was a good girl look. “What show?”
I tell her and in less than two minutes we’re all sitting on the front step, Taylor on my lap watching Mickey and his pals, Eggie’s head on Whitney’s thigh. Peace reigns over the land again.
The only problem with peace? It comes with silence. Lots and lots of heavy-duty, expectation-filled silence broken only by the occasional yuk yuk of Goofy and Taylor counting along with Mickey—at least until he gets to three.
But I’m okay with that. I don’t need conversation filling in the gaps. Don’t want Whitney asking me a bunch of personal, nosey questions.
Silence is good. It’s great. It’s just what I need to get a hold of myself, to gather my thoughts and dissect them, bit by bit. To figure out the crazy, messed-up feelings inside of me. I could sit here all day, just like this, and be perfectly content.
All day or, you know, two minutes, which is approximately how long I last before asking, “Aren’t you going to ask me why I’m freaking out?”
Whitney scratches behind Eggie’s ear. “No.”
“The real Moana would’ve asked,” I grumble.
Whitney smiles, but when she speaks, her tone is gentle. Understanding. “I’m not going to ask because I don’t need to. You’re freaking out because there’s something between you and Sam. Something complicated.”
“It is,” I agree, because that’s the perfect definition of me and Sam. “It’s very complicated.”
“Do you want to talk about it?”
I’ve never been big on the whole let me tell you every thought in my head, every feeling inside of me thing so many girls my age live for. Not even with Tori and Kenzie. Sharing secrets with someone else is dangerous. Better to keep them hidden where no one can use them against you.
Better, safer, to handle everything on your own.
But I did tell myself not thirty minutes ago that I would try and be more open. That I would give more of myself. And while I meant I’d do all of that with Sam, for him, maybe it wouldn’t hurt to…I don’t know…practice a little.
“I don’t know where to start,” I say, which is slightly less embarrassing than admitting I have no idea how to do this. That I’m afraid I’m going to be bad at it—because if I was good at it, wouldn’t Tori and Kenzie still be my friends?
Or maybe I’m just afraid, period.
“Why don’t you start at the beginning.”
That’s a good idea. And makes perfect sense.
I take a long, deep inhale and start the story of me and Sam.
“We were never meant to be friends…”
23
I told Whitney everything.
At first, the story came out in bits and pieces, starts and stops, but the more I talked, the more fluent I became. Don’t get me wrong, it was still terrifying, opening myself up that way. Letting someone other than my sisters in. Someone I barely even know.
It was also a relief.
And way more freeing than I thought it would be.
I think the fact that Whitney is practically a stranger helped. Or maybe it’s because she’s new in town. She hasn’t known me her entire life like everyone else. Doesn’t have preconceived ideas about me based on what I was like in kindergarten. Hasn’t had a chance to observe me and Sam together other than a few hours last night. Never gave me a knowing, smirky oh, please look when I insisted Sam and I were just friends.
That neutrality made it easier to tell her what really happened between us. How, when someone asked me why Sam left, I told them he wasn’t getting along with Patrick, his stepfather, and decided to live with his dad.
When they asked what happened between us, I told them we drifted apart.
When they asked how I was, I told them I was fine.
That I didn’t miss him.
But sitting on Whitney’s porch, the sun warming my skin, Eggie snoring softly, Taylor singing along to Mickey, I told the truth.
How our friendship started.
How we used to do everything together.
How much I counted on him. How much I trusted him.
I told her I was the real reason he left his family, his friends and his home.
That he kissed me and changed everything between us.
That losing him was the hardest thing that’s ever happened to me.
I told her everything.
Well, almost everything.
Some secrets are too private, to shameful to share. Ever.
Like what happened at Christmas.
Some secrets aren’t mine to tell.
Like Sam telling me he was still in love with me.
And some secrets are too precious, too intimate to put into words.
Like how I felt when he said those words to me this morning. How my skin prickled with heat, my heart raced with excitement, my stomach tumbling with fear.
Just like the first time he told me.
The night after Sam and I kissed, I stood on the sidewalk in front of my house and watched the taillights of Colby’s car disappear down the dark road. My entire evening had been a freaking disaster.
And it was all Sam’s fault.
Do you ever wonder what it would be like to be with me?
Ever since he’d said those words to me at lunch, I hadn’t been able to think of anything else—not even when I’d been with another boy. All night, instead of paying attention to Colby, I was distracted and out of sorts, thinking nonstop about Sam and the way he’d looked at me. The way he’d kissed me.
He’d kissed me. And I’d kissed him back.
I wished I could do it again.
But there could be no more kissing. No more remembering the things Sam said. No more wishing for things to be different.
Not if I wanted to keep Sam in my life.
Hugging my arms around myself, I headed up the sidewalk, my steps dragging, my legs heavy. The air was still, the night dark with thick clouds hiding the stars. Mosquitoes and moths danced and buzzed around the porch light as I walked up the stairs and pulled my key from my pocket.
“Hadley.”
I whirled around with so much force the key flew out of my hand. I pressed back against the wall, my heart racing, fear coating my mouth.
“Don’t be scared.”
The scream I’d been holding back died in my throat. Hadn’t I heard those exact same words spoken in that exact same soft tone just a few hours ago?