All This Time(45)

We come to a stop in the center, and Marley takes a long sip of her hot chocolate, letting out a sigh. “You’re right. There’s no such thing as too much sugar.”

She pulls the cup away, whipped cream clinging to her upper lip. I reach out to wipe it off, but her voice stops me. “Oh boy.”

“What?” I ask, and she points up, tilting her head back, her rosy cheeks glowing in the waterfall of lights.

I look up to see mistletoe hanging just above us in the exact center of the tunnel.

“You know what that means,” Marley says, her gaze warmer than the hot chocolate in my hand.

I raise my eyebrows, surprised as I look around at all the people. Marley, who almost didn’t want to come out today, wants to kiss in public?

“Yeah?”

She nods, the whipped cream still lingering on her lip. “Yeah.”

I bend to kiss it off, and her hand twists into the front of my jacket, pulling me closer, the kiss intensifying. I lose myself in it, her lips cold but sweet. When we pull away, I’m short of breath, dizzy in the best kind of way.

I tuck her scarf closer to her neck, glancing to the side to see a familiar pair of brown eyes at the end of the tunnel.

Sam.

“Shit,” I say as he shakes his head at me, like he’s disappointed.

“What?” Marley asks, surprised.

“Sam.”

Her head whips around, but Sam’s already walking away, his broad shoulders fading into the distance between the twinkling holiday lights.

The moment is kind of deflated after that, so we head out from under the lights, walking slowly along the path to my house, Marley’s hand lacing into mine.

“I’m sorry,” she says, tugging gently on my fingers. “About Sam.”

“No, it’s fine. I’ve been trying to tell him,” I say, looking up at the snow, a few flakes landing on my forehead. “It’s just…”

“He’s never seen you with anyone else,” Marley fills in.

I nod, lowering my head.

“Will it be okay?” she asks.

I stop and pull her into my arms, reaching up to brush the hair out of her eyes. “It will be okay. Sam just has to get used to it.”

I say the words with total conviction, but I’m not entirely sure it’s the truth.





22


“Happy New Year,” Sam says, ducking inside the back door of my house. The holidays were so hectic I haven’t gotten a chance to see him since the Winter Festival a week ago.

He peers around, clutching a huge lump under his jacket. “Where’s Lydia?” he asks, walking past me to peek into the hallway, his head turning right and left.

“She’s out. I told you,” I say, watching as he hams it up, making a show of checking under the kitchen table. I’m relieved he isn’t being weird.

“All right,” he says, unzipping his jacket to reveal a six-pack of beer. “It’s game time. UCLA going for bowl glory. Kickoff was ten minutes ago.”

A car drives past outside, and he quickly zips his jacket up, craning his neck to peer out the kitchen window.

“She won’t be back until tonight,” I say as he unzips his jacket again. I smirk as he clutches the beer to his chest the entire way to the living room, his eyes darting suspiciously around.

“You scared of my mom, dude?” I ask, elbowing him.

“Who? Mrs. L.?” he says, plopping down on the couch. “Absolutely.”

We laugh, and I flick through the guide, clicking on the game. UCLA is already up by six, going for the extra point.

“How’s Marley?” Sam asks casually, his eyes fixed to the TV screen. I study his face, waiting for the snark. The punch-in-the-gut comment.

But it doesn’t come.

“She’s fine,” I say. This is the first time he’s asking about her freely, but I don’t give him too many details.

Sam nods, popping open his beer and drinking the entire thing down.

Like… the entire thing.

“Dude,” I say as he grabs another beer and pops it open. I lean forward and grab it away from him.

“Look, Sam, if you’re pissed about seeing me and Marley last week, then—”

“I’m not,” he says, cutting me off. “I mean, I wanted to be. I tried to be, but…” His voice trails off as he avoids my gaze, his eyes darting around the room, to the TV, the window, the bookshelf in the corner. Everywhere but me.

“Is that a new lamp?” he finally asks, pointing to a lamp that has been in this room since we thought girls had cooties.

“Come on, Sam,” I say. I thought we weren’t going to be like this anymore. I turn to him, and the light from the TV reflects off the glass bottle in my hand, hitting me square in the eyes and sending my head throbbing.

It’s been weeks now since it’s hurt, but when the pain does come back, it’s as bad as ever. Isn’t this supposed to get better the more time passes? I grit my teeth and fight through the ache for my words. “Whatever it is, just say it.”

He finally looks at me, eyes serious. “I’m leaving.”

“What do you mean?” I ask as he starts to fidget, his leg erratically bouncing up and down. I kick it like I have since we were kids, telling him to knock it off.