Page 3 of Holding On

Chapter Two

Maya Hamilton

I have to admit, when I found out Travis Russo was going to be away in Denver for the entire summer, I was disappointed. I remembered him as this sweet boy who brought me ice cream when I had my period, chased me in the water, and never argued about going to bed. I found out later that he read with a flashlight under the covers, something I actually admired.

Still do.

I kind of thought he had a crush on me, but Travis was just this skinny kid with nappy hair. I spent a lot of time on his hair and skin, explaining how to care for both to the point that I think he pretended to need tutoring more than he actually did.

I remember yelling at my uncle about needing to do a better job with Travis. Now, I’m embarrassed by how arrogant I was. Uncle George had a lot on his plate that year. Losing both his friends, Tony and Maggie Russo, and half his practice as well, must have been mentally and physically exhausting. Still, though, it didn’t excuse him for what he did later.

But I get it. He was suddenly tasked with raising five kids, and then Chloe ran away. It was hard on him. Hair care wasn’t high on the priority meter. I ended up teaching Laurel, who was twelve at the time, how to braid his hair and keep it conditioned.

I arrived last week, and when Claire told me four days ago that Travis would be coming back, I was suddenly giddy I’d accepted the summer post with Judge Pratchett. I would get a chance to see him and catch up. As much as I liked all the girls, I’d spent most of my time with Laurel and Travis, the two youngest, and this meant I’d get to see all the Russos.

Maybe I’d feel like part of a family again.

The water is cold and thrilling. Laguna Beach and Newport Beach out in California are like bathwater this time of year, but this? This cold water is exhilarating. I can’t believe people say it’s “warm” because of the Gulf Stream.

My feet are already numb, but I love it.

I raise my hands over my head and push off with my feet, making a clean slice through the blue water. It’s so cold, I feel scrubbed out. Scoured. When I push my feet under me again and stand, I shake the water from my braids.

That’s when I see him.

I’m already gasping from the cold and shivering with sudden goose pimples. Travis is standing on the beach, dressed in bright green trunks and an old T-shirt and chatting with Chloe, Claire, and Claire’s boyfriend, Finn. Then I gasp again, and this time, it’s not about the cold. Travis is toe-curlingly gorgeous. What happened to that little boy I once knew?

Raising a hand, Travis waves to me and then turns back to the conversation as if he doesn’t even care.

I start wading through the thigh-high water toward shore, wiping more water off my face and keeping my eyes on him the entire time. It’s impossible not to look. His back muscles are tight, and the definition of his pectorals, biceps, and triceps cast shadows across the T-shirt, leaving a warm nub pulsing between my very cold legs.

Glancing up again, he waves one more time, and then, as Finn claps him on the back, he shuffles through the sand.

He’s coming into the water.

Again, my heart skips, and a wave of giddiness wells up, leaving me a bit light-headed. I don’t usually get giddy. I don’t date much, or well, or even long-term. The few boyfriends I’ve had were nice enough but not worth suffering over. In short? I don’t give my heart away, and I have yet to understand the purpose of being vulnerable. Being invulnerable is so much easier.

It also reduces all the drama.

Travis might be drama.

“Hi,” Travis says, and before I can stop him, he gives me a quick hug. My icy wet skin is immediately warmed. Our fast embrace leaves damp spots on his shirt.

“It’ll dry in five minutes,” he says, shrugging. His voice is deep—not gravelly, but smooth and consistent.

“Haven’t you grown up,” I say with some idiotic formal syntax. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

He scratches the top of his head, and I know I’ve embarrassed him. It’s a left-over gesture from that summer a long time ago.

“Yeah, well, what are you gonna do. And you? Law school? Man, aren’t you kick-ass.”

“Well, yes, I guess. I don’t know.”

“A lawyer? Pretty kick-ass.”

With men my age, I’ve discovered they’re nearly always threatened by me or see me as unattainable—as too competent, too self-assured, too something. I guess it’s because I don’t walk around in glittery shoes and pretend I can’t open jars or think straight.

This is why I push back on the “kick-ass” comment.