We used to eat lunch here whenever possible. Ten minutes from town, it cuts our lunch hour down to forty minutes, but it’s worth it. It’s like we’re on top of the world. Like this field overlooking town, surrounded by the lush rolling hills, is our private oasis.
Our spot.
I used to love it here.
Used to. Until that hot, humid day last July when, sitting in this same exact spot with this same exact boy, everything changed.
My throat threatens to close and I carefully swallow my bite of pizza. Take a sip of water to wash it down. There’s another slice in my pail, along with a banana, some chips and four chocolate chip cookies. But I’ve lost my appetite.
Sam’s fault.
All Sam’s fault.
“Want half?” he asks, holding out a huge orange.
We used to share our lunches all the time, would spread the items out on a clean dishtowel like a picnic. Sam always brought the produce section of our meal (Dr. Constable-Riester keeps their house stocked with an assortment of eat-a-rainbow fruits and vegetables) and I provided the cookies and brownies and cupcakes. Not exactly health food, although some of them had fruit in them. Banana bread. Apple fritters. Lemon cupcakes. That has to count for something.
“No,” I say, staring over the valley once again. “I don’t want half.”
He starts peeling the orange. I smell it, juicy and sweet.
I think of the chocolate chip cookies in my pail, and for a moment, I seriously consider eating one. Not because I want it but so I can purposely not offer any of them to Sam. That should make it super clear that our sharing days are over.
But even I’m not that spiteful. Or mean.
And I really don’t want to hurt Sam.
Not again.
“Is this how it’s going to be?” he asks quietly.
“How what’s going to be?”
He doesn’t look up, just picks at a small bit of peel still on the orange. Flicks it away. “You and me. Is this how it’s going to be from now on? This” –he looks up and gestures between us— “distance?”
I twist the cap off my water bottle. Twist it back on. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Bullshit. You won’t talk to me. You barely even look at me. Do you…” He inhales deeply. “I can tell Mr. G. we don’t want to work together anymore.”
That is an absolutely fabulous idea. But I can’t get the words out. Can’t even nod or make any sort of noise in affirmation.
“If that’s what you want,” I finally manage.
Not quite the emphatic declaration I intended.
“You know what I want, Hadley.”
His voice is low and gravelly and it rubs against my skin. Rushes through my blood. I tell myself I have no idea what he means. That after so long, after his silence and his easy dismissal of me, there’s no way I can possibly know what’s in his head. In his heart.
But I do.
Sometimes I think I’ve always known.
Unable to sit still, I jump off the tailgate, and he gets to his feet as well. I’m not sure what to do. Where to go, and I end up twisting this way, then that.
Looking for an escape.
Looking to run from him once again.
Leaning over the tailgate, I drag my lunch pail toward me. “We can’t go back to how we were.”
“I don’t want to go back.”
I whirl around to face him. “You don’t?”
He shakes his head, the sunlight glinting on the dark strands. There are flecks of grass clinging to his shirt and the hair on his forearms. A tiny piece sticks to his cheek, just below his temple.
I curl my fingers into my palms so I don’t reach out and brush it away.
“I don’t want to go back,” he repeats, bending so he can see my eyes under the brim of my hat. “I don’t want to be your friend, Hadley.”
“Best friend,” I blurt, then press my lips together. “You were my best friend.”
He drops his gaze to the ground for a beat then returns it to my eyes. “I don’t want to be just your friend. Not even your best friend.”
There’s a rushing sound in my ears and I realize it’s my pulse. That I’m breathing shallowly. I suck in a deep breath and hold it. Count to five.
No. He’s not doing this to me. Not again.
He doesn’t mean it. If he did, he would have texted me at some point during the past eleven months. Would have called me. He wouldn’t have stayed away so long.
He wouldn’t have been with another girl at Christmas.
I cross my arms. “When did you get back?”
“What?”
“When did you get back to town? Yesterday? The day before?”
His mouth flattens. “Sunday.”
Sunday.
Five days ago. He’s been in town for days and didn’t text me. Didn’t come see me. I hadn’t even known he was home.
You know what I want, Hadley.
Obviously I don’t.
“Did you come to the garage yesterday to see me?” I ask.
He hesitates and I wonder if this is it, if this is the moment Samuel Joseph Constable lies to me for the first time.
I almost wish he would. It would make us more equal. Would make it so much easier for me to hold on to my anger. If he lied, I might even be able to let go of him. For good.
“No,” he says. “I didn’t go there to see you.”
I hate how much it stings, finding out he’s been home for days. That I wasn’t the first person he sought out.
That he didn’t seek me out at all.
“Why here?” I uncross my arms and wipe my damp palms down the sides of my shorts. “Why did you bring me to this spot for lunch? Was it to hurt me? To rub my nose in what happened?”
His brows lower and he steps closer. “You know I wouldn’t do that.”
“Actually,” I say, my voice quite calm and cool, if I do say so myself, “the past eleven months, along with this conversation, prove I don’t know you as well as I thought I did.”
I grab my lunch pail and water, then brush past him and climb into the truck. A minute later, he slides behind the wheel and turns on the ignition.
“I didn’t bring you here to hurt you or to try and get back at you,” he says, watching the movement of his thumb as he rubs it along the outer edge of the steering wheel. “I wouldn’t do that.” He shakes his head and puts the truck into Drive. “I really hope you believe that.”
I don’t respond. If I open my mouth, I’ll say something I shouldn’t, an admission I can’t take back. A truth that will give him even more power over me.
He has way too much as it is.
I do believe him. How could I not? He’s too honorable to have hidden motives. Too kind to set out to hurt someone. And he’s way, way too honest.
I’m the only liar in this truck and we both know it.
7
Sam and I were never meant to be friends.
Us, together—Sam and Hadley, Hadley and Sam—went against the natural order of things. Was in direct opposition of how society has run since the beginning of time. A fact of life I understood clearly even at the tender age of ten.
Royalty did not cozy up to the servants.
And the second-born, golden son of wealthy parents did not befriend the granddaughter of the woman his family paid to scrub their toilets.