Page 7 of Holding On

“Every time?”

“Every time.” He sees Cory watching him, listening to him. “Right, my man? We have a pact.”

What normally would have ended in a high five doesn’t.

Instead, Travis asks for permission. “Can I touch your head?”

Cory’s “Yes” is formal, and his face is stern. Travis reaches out and slides long fingers in between the blond curls before cupping the little boy’s face. “Hey, dude. I love you, man,” he says and gives Cory a kiss on the cheek.

A small part of me shrinks away. I’m really not a part of this family. That moment sets the tone for the rest of the evening. Uncle George arrives later, his usual unassuming self, and though it’s been years since we’ve seen each other, my wave and smile will have to be enough right now. I have no interest in speaking with him.

George looks like my dad—a younger version. Same smile, same large brown eyes. But even though George is younger, he has more gray in his hair.

I end up avoiding George. By not engaging with him, I can observe the Russos, but observation comes with a price. Those moments of feeling like I belong evaporate. Being close to George means being close to them—but keeping my distance takes a toll. By the end of the evening, I feel very alone.

Long after Laurel leaves to put Cory to bed, everyone decides to get into the hot tub. Lodged in a building off the back porch, the top is lit with matching twinkle lights and a sliding barn door. Finn pushes the door aside, and I’m stunned by the size of the tub. First, it’s sunken. Second, it’s beautiful, with lights from below the jets offering a swirl of gentle colors. There are three faux lanterns attached to the walls, and beach chairs form a crescent on the far rim of the oval tub, accented with several lobster traps turned into end tables. Jets churn the hot water.

I still have my suit on but decline. I watch for a moment, lingering by the door as Travis brushes off his trunks and stands under the outdoor shower, hosing off any remaining sand. The soft glitter from the twinkle lights and water dance across his bare chest and back.

I hold my breath, a gnawing swirling in my abdomen telling me to look away. I startle slightly when Devon puts a hand on my shoulder, but I’m also grateful for the distraction.

“Taking the plunge?” she asks, unaware of the double entendre.

Swallowing hard and tearing my eyes away from the spectacle of water on skin, I smile and shake my head no.

Everyone is very nice and keeps berating me for not climbing in, but hot tubs aren’t really my thing. They always make me light-headed, and I’m already suffering from slight vertigo every time my gaze lands on Travis. Once, in high school, I even fainted climbing out of a friend’s tub. So embarrassing.

Feeling even more separated from this bunch of people, who obviously care so much about one another, I sit for a while and keep up polite chatter. I learn that Chloe and Bryce live in a rehabbed bungalow a short walk from here on Rock Island. Claire has basically moved in with Finn, though she still maintains the apartment upstairs from the clinic. When I suggest maybe renting it myself, there’s silence.

Travis clears his throat. “I’m actually living there this summer.”

My ears burn. Of course he is.

Claire tries to backpedal the silence. She’s got her hand on Finn’s shoulder and starts falling over herself about how it would be fine for the two of us to cohabitate there.

“I mean, Travis just has his old room and will be helping out in the clinic.”

“It’s an internship,” says Travis, sitting on the edge of the tub. “I’ll be working.” This is clearly for his sister, a reminder that there’s a difference between “helping out” and “working.” He lowers himself into the hot tub in stages. I watch his nipples pucker as he eases in. His chest is an expanse of skin and muscle, and I suddenly imagine his chest brushing mine. My own nipples rise.

Stop it.

“Well, he’d be working in the clinic, and you’d be in Rockland. You’re going to be really busy, right?” She glances at Travis and then back at me. “You two could work it out?” She’s nodding her head, agreeing with herself.

I catch Travis’s look, and it’s one I can’t read in the dim light. I just smile and tell a lie. “I’ve got appointments already set up to apartment hunt.” I wave to Devon as she slides in next to Luke. There’s a swirl of activity, and in a few moments, nearly every adult is in the churning water.

The only other person who doesn’t rotate into the immense tub is George. He’s sitting and chatting like me, but from the other side, across from where I sit. Only once do our eyes meet. I’m almost chagrined he understands I’m ignoring him.

Then I push embarrassment aside. I straighten in my chair and jut my jaw. I have to remember that he’s the one who promised to come back and take care of us when mom got sick. He’s the one who chose this family over his flesh and blood.

It isn’t a matter of forgiving him. What was so awful was that he had no idea what he’d done to us. To me. To my sister. To our father, his own brother.

Steam from the hot tub is settling on my skin, leaving me hot and damp. I look over at George, who’s leaning forward, his long legs under the beach chair as he smiles and chats with Mateus and Bryce.

Maybe now is the time to tell him.

But instead, I stand, and against a wave of oh nos, and stays, I make my way out of the building, up the back steps, and into a well-lit Inn. It feels like a relief to be out of the seductive darkness and step into the light. This is reality, I remind myself, trying not to think of Travis, George, and how much I coveted this family. And yet, in a moment, I feel a flip to resentment.

I need a long hot shower.

Finding my way to the third floor based on memories from a decade ago, I manage to find the double room set up for Colton Security. It’s down at the end of the hall, where Bryce says he crashes when he works detail up here.

The two rooms are connected by a door—they used to be Laurel’s and Devon’s. The Russos have been great. Amend that: Colton Security has been great. Finn gave me both rooms. The smaller one with the twin, I can use as an office until I find more permanent housing. He offered to take out the bed and frame, an old painted wrought-iron with a ton of character and plenty of creaking, but I declined.

I did let him install a small desk with a table lamp, a Wi-Fi booster, and a surge suppressor. Even for this week, it’s proved helpful. My laptop sits neatly next to the tiniest printer I could buy. The setup looks at once tidy and economical, and yet . . . it makes me sad and slightly homesick—this time for LA.

The second room is larger, with a double bed covered by a handmade quilt, an orange cotton towel, and a washcloth folded neatly at the foot. Picking them both up, I peer down the hall, flick on a light, and make my way to the large bathroom at the end of the hall.

Clothing drops to the floor, and as I turn the knobs, water flooding over my arms, all I can think is, here’s this guy I used to babysit, looking the way he looks and living just yards away from me.

All summer.

This is going to be brutal.