Keep This Promise

by Willow Winters

  “Why does something have to be wrong?” I stare out her window.

  “Because this is where you fall apart. This is where you tell me how unfair it is that Julie is taking Roman to Texas for the first time, and it upsets you that she’s experiencing a ‘first’ with him because you didn’t sign up to be a single parent and miss out on half of his childhood.”

  I shrug. “See. You already know my feelings on it, so no need to repeat it.”

  “So this mood is about Emily. I know you had high hopes for that new chemo, but—”

  “It’s not about Emily,” I reply with a little more aggravation than she deserves. “And I didn’t have high hopes. I simply had concrete reasoning to believe that it would work. It worked on five other patients. So my hopes aren’t dashed. I’m simply pissed off and ready to get to work on figuring why it didn’t work for Emily.”

  “Well, okay. It’s not about Emily. I’m here if and when you’re ready to discuss what really has you worked up today.” She takes a bite of her salad.

  I blow out a long, slow breath, keeping my gaze away from her knowing inspection of me. “I’ve been kinda seeing Dorothy recently.”

  “Transporter Dorothy? Superhero cape Dorothy?”

  I nod.

  “Wonderful! Is that going well?”

  “Yes and no. She gets along really well with Roman. She calls him little Romeo, and for whatever reason, that makes me like her that much more. But I’ve failed at asking her out on a real date. I mean … I’ve tried, but she always assumes it’s a playdate with Roman—like I’m vetting her for a babysitter. And I’ve had serious issues getting the nerve to say otherwise because this part of me wonders if she thinks I’m too old for her, or maybe I’m just not her type. And yes, I’m afraid of rejection.”

  Mom chuckles. She doesn’t extend me the same level of professionalism as she does to her patients. Another downside to the family discount.

  “So did you hire her to babysit Roman?”

  “No!” My frustration even surprises myself. I rub my temples. “I kissed her. And by kissed her, I mean I think I scared her to death or completely offended her. Hell, she’ll probably file a sexual harassment complaint against me.” I shake my head. “I’m out of practice, for reasons you know. So I won’t rehash all of it, but this single life doesn’t fit me. Or maybe it does. Maybe the point is I’m supposed to stay single. Clearly something about me drives women away.”

  “Okay. Time out. I draw the line when you start picking on my baby. My handsome, talented, caring beyond words, baby boy. There is nothing wrong with you. There is nothing wrong with Julie or Dorothy. We’ve been over this. Relationships are fluid and ever-changing. People are fluid and ever-changing. Honor who you are, not who you aren’t. Let people come and go from your life without feeling the need to catch them and keep them. Stop looking at the wrong reflections. Your happiness is a reflection of you and only you. I’m sure you’ve broken many hearts without even knowing it. I know nurses at the hospital think you’re a god. If you don’t give them a second glance, does that mean something is wrong with them?”

  I rub my chin, letting her words sink in, but it’s hard because all I can think about is Dorothy Mayhem. “I can’t stop thinking about her. And I have no idea why.”

  “Julie?”

  “Dorothy.” I give Mom a sheepish glance.

  A record breaking grin steals her whole face. “Tell me more.”

  I feel my own grin do its thing, and I don’t even try to hold back because my Dorothy grin has a mind of its own—an uncontrollable force. “It’s ridiculous. Just so ridiculous. We’ve had a handful of interactions, but if I’m completely honest, my addiction …” I roll my eyes at myself. “Yes … an addiction that started the second she walked onto the elevator weeks ago wearing these outrageous red shoes and a look on her face that did something so profound to me in that moment … I can’t find the words to explain it. I just knew something in my life shifted and would never be the same. And yes, I know how completely ridiculous that sounds. How girly, chick-flick movie that sounds. But again, if I’m honest, that’s what happened. And now I can’t stop thinking about her. When I’m physically near her, I feel like I did before I met Julie.”

  “You were a teenager when you met Julie.”

  “Exactly! Dorothy makes me feel like a stupid, word-fumbling teenager. But she also makes me feel like I have a new chance at life. One where I see things through her eyes.”

  Mom chews her salad, head cocked a bit. Then she points her fork at me. “And how do things look through her eyes?”

  It’s hard to articulate. My gaze returns to the window as I look for even a few inadequate words to describe the indescribable. “Life is more vibrant through her eyes. Simple things like matching undershirts and tennis shoes bring about unfathomable joy. In her world, everyone is equal. And words are poor expressions of feelings. I could just stand in a room with her, not saying a single word, and feel deliriously happy. Her eyes … she has the bluest eyes, and the way she rolls them when she talks animatedly just makes me search for absolutely any excuse to make her talk. And the tiny smirk that seems to be her resting face is like being on the receiving end of the best secret ever.”

  Mom’s eyebrows slide up her forehead.

  “I know!” I shake my head, laughing at myself. “It’s insane. Just commit me now. I’ve known her all of two seconds, and most of our time together has been with Roman. I’m delusional, just say it. This is a side effect from my breakup with Julie. Maybe my own midlife crisis. Before long, I’m going to be one of those people claiming to see the Virgin Mary in my cereal bowl, or aliens taking me to their planet at night and implanting chips into my brain. Tomorrow, I’ll probably turn into a werewolf on my morning jog through the forest.”

  “Or …” She wipes her mouth and leans back in her chair, working her tongue over her teeth a few times. “You have an undeniable chemistry with this young woman. It can be that simple, Eli. I didn’t need three years to fall for your dad. It happened in a single moment. He came out of his shop, covered in grease and sweat, to tell me my brakes were shot. I didn’t care that I was a poor college student who didn’t have the money to replace them. All that mattered was the world tipping on its side, doing all kinds of weird things to me when he smiled at me. A smile, Eli. I knew my life would never be the same from a smile.”

  I love that story. So do my sisters. Probably because fifty years later, our dad still smiles at our mom the same way. And she still blushes every time he does it. I thought that would be Julie and me.

  “He could cheat on me tomorrow.”

  I blink several times before squinting my eyes. “What?”

  “Your dad. He could cheat on me tomorrow. You know how people say they could die tomorrow? They do it to give today better perspective, to lessen their worry over an unpredictable future. Break apart lifetime into two words—Life. Time. You spent a time in your life with Julie. Let it be a lifetime. Then move on and give someone else a chance to be part of your time in this life. I’ve spent a lifetime with your father, but that doesn’t mean I won’t spend a lifetime with someone else. If something is meaningful … impactful … then it can be a lifetime. Think about phobias. For someone with a fear of something, facing that fear, even if it’s for mere minutes or even seconds, can feel like a lifetime. It’s an impression that stays with you forever. Someday when you find yourself in a really good place again, you will look back at the years you spent with Julie, and it will feel like a lifetime ago.”

  I love my psychiatrist because she never talks to me like she talks to her patients. She gives me seventy-five percent heart and twenty-five percent mind. As much as she wants to give me her professional side, it’s a conflict of interest. Her mom side always wins over.

  “She didn’t kiss me back.”

  Mom grins.

  “Dr. Warren told me she’s autistic.”

  She shrugs. “Does that matter?”

  I fro
wn. “You know it doesn’t.”

  “But you’re wondering if that’s why she didn’t kiss you back?”

  I nod.

  “Has she had other relationships?”

  “I don’t know. I’m too busy being infatuated with her to really know her. I need to slow down.”

  “Don’t slow down. Then you’ll think … overthink. And trust me, if she has ASD, then she’s overthinking enough for both of you.”

  Chapter Nine

  Never Enough Journals

  Dorothy

  The kiss disaster took up two entire journals—blue and hot pink. Starting with bold, all caps, one word per page of:

  I

  WASN’T

  READY!!!

  He wasn’t making fun of me. He wanted to kiss me.

  Legit.

  No sick jokes.

  Dr. Hottie Hawkins hot for Dorothy.

  One hundred percent wanted to kiss me.

  And …

  I

  WASN’T

  READY!!!

  I just sat there frozen, completely unmoving. I couldn’t have been less responsive had I been dead. And that wasn’t a bad idea.

  Seriously … kill me right NOW!

  What’s next? I have no idea. A different zip code, on the opposite coast, seems like the best idea. He either thought I didn’t want to be kissed or that I didn’t know how to kiss. Both are untrue. Both scenarios are embarrassing. And both possibilities leave me with no options.

  The finicky vegetarian who didn’t like chunks, spices, or kisses.

  Nooo!!!

  I spend the next forty-eight hours coasting through classes while contemplating my options.

  One: New zip code.

  Two: The afterlife.

  Three: New profession.

  Four: Ask for a redo.

  Five: I have no five. I just like options I can count on one hand. I like the number five.

  Friday morning I arrive fifteen minutes earlier than usual to avoid any possible encounters with Dr. Hawkins. And because I have the luck of a one-legged mouse in a room full of cats, my first transport after lunch is Dr. Hawkins’s patient. His nurse calls me to his floor.

  I wait outside the room while he finishes talking to the patient’s parents. My head remains bowed, hair covering most of my face. Maybe I can literally be a wallflower when he comes out.

  “Good afternoon, Dorothy.”

  No such luck.

  “Hi,” I murmur as he walks past me, talking to Dr. Warren.

  “Page me when you take a break, Dorothy,” Warren says, glancing over his shoulder, wearing a cocky grin that Dr. Hawkins seems to ignore.

  I stick my tongue out at Warren before pushing the wheelchair into the room to get Jasmine for an MRI. If only my tongue would have worked properly when Dr. Hawkins tried to kiss me.

  Tried … that eats at me. The poor guy had to try to kiss me.

  I failed.

  So he failed.

  It was textbook definition of a complete disaster.

  How did that happen? I’m not a bad kisser. Just the opposite. I’ve studied kissing through girly magazines, romance novels, movies, and even several documentaries on the chemistry behind kissing. I’ve practiced on inanimate objects before testing my technique out on actual humans. And when I did find a living recipient to test out my special kissing method, it was well received. So well, it led to early ejaculation.

  On his part, of course. Not mine.

  The rest of my day involves dodging Dr. Hawkins and his sidekick Warren. By eight I’m ready to jet home, take an extra-long walk, and journal while eating an abnormally large quantity of food.

  “Dorothy?”

  I cringe at the sound of Dr. Hawkins’s voice as I unlock my car. “Hmm?” I open my door.

  “I don’t want things to be awkward between us. I misread the situation. I overstepped a boundary. And you—”

  “I wasn’t ready!” I turn toward him, balling my fists with so much pent up energy and anxiety. After a twelve-hour day, that’s pretty much my norm. But the anxiety doubled as soon as he said my name.

  He has on blue pants and a white button-down with gray canvas shoes and a look of total confusion as he stands at the back of my car. “What do you mean?”

  “I wasn’t ready for the pasta to taste good. Or to discover you live off Skyline Drive, where I’ve wanted to live my whole life—but my dad’s knees are not great, so I chose a flatter location. And I wasn’t ready to flirt. And I definitely wasn’t ready for you to kiss me. I just …” My fingernails dig into my palms. “I wasn’t ready.”

  I remain quiet, just long enough to make my rambling as awkward as my corpse kiss.

  “Wasn’t ready or didn’t want it?”

  I force myself to make eye contact with him. “Wasn’t ready.”

  “Do you plan everything?”

  “No. I just like to be prepared.”

  “Is there a difference?”

  “Uh …” I jerk my head back. “Yes. I don’t plan on there being leftovers in the fridge when I get home, but I’m always prepared to eat them. I don’t plan on getting a flat tire, but I’m prepared with my roadside assistance membership in case it does happen.”

  He rubs his lips together, nodding slowly. “You’re just not prepared for men to kiss you.”

  “If I’m on a date, then I would be prepared. Lip balm, mint gum, sizing up the height difference, calculating the probability of it going past a kiss. I wouldn’t plan on it, but I would definitely be prepared for it.”

  He tries to hide his grin, but I see it. And it makes me nervous because it feels mischievous. I don’t do well with mischief. It’s immune to all planning and preparation.

  “Well, maybe you should prepare to be kissed.”

  “When? Where? By whom?”

  He turns, pulling his key fob from his pocket as he struts toward his sleek, blue Tesla. “Soon. Could be anywhere. And I sure as hell hope it’s me. Goodnight, Dorothy.”

  Oh the anxiety …

  “Mac and cheese in the fridge.” Mom smiles when I come in the door after my ninety-minute walk with Gemma, Orville, and Wilbur.

  “Happy hour special?” I slip off my shoes.

  “Yep.” She scoops up ice cream for her and Dad. “How was work?”

  “Dr. Hawkins kissed … or tried to kiss me the other night. Like … out of nowhere. Not creepy rapist out of nowhere. He just planned a date and failed to mention it was a date date and not a playdate, and then BOOM! I get in my car, he ducks his head in, and kisses me! Can you believe that?”

  Mom halts mid scoop, unblinking.

  “But I wasn’t ready. And I was so mad that he did it when I wasn’t ready. It made me look like the world’s worst kisser because I just froze, completely unmoving. The one doctor who is not only very hot but wears normal shoes tried to kiss me. So I told him. Tonight after work, I told him I wasn’t ready. And you know what he said?”

  Mom blinks once. No nod. Just a single blink.

  “He told me to prepare to be kissed. How am I supposed to do that if he doesn’t tell me when and where? Am I just supposed to walk around the hospital all day doing my job and have myself ready to be kissed by him? Why? Why would he do that to me?”

  “Are you done?” Mom gives me a tiny smirk.

  “Yes …” I sigh.

  “I know you don’t like to hear this, but you’re overreacting. You didn’t screw up. Clearly, if he told you to prepare to be kissed, then he wants to give it another shot. And a lot of people, women in particular, like spontaneity. I do, but your dad doesn’t know what that means. He asks me at three-thirty in the afternoon if I want to have sex that night. Maybe that’s great for you. Maybe you need that, but most women don’t. So a guy just kissing you is a really great thing … as long as it’s not the creepy rapist thing you mentioned.”

  I don’t need a 3:30 p.m. warning that a kiss will happen later that night, nor do I need to know more about my parents’ sex life.


  Gag!

  “You’re no help.” I return my signature scowl and brush past her to the fridge. Her smirk and taunting eyes follow me. I can just feel them on me as I put the leftovers on a plate and grab a glass of water before taking it to my TV room on the opposite side of the house. They are basically banned from going into my space.

  My big screen.

  My recliner.

  My gaming systems and virtual reality equipment.

  After I finish the leftovers and play Xbox for an hour, I grab a shower and hop into bed with a book in my hand and Dr. Hawkins dominating my thoughts.

  Just as I double-check the alarm set on my phone, it rings. It’s him.

  I contemplate letting it go to my voicemail, but since he’s all I can think about, it seems silly to ignore him. Maybe he wants to give me a better heads-up on the kiss.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi, Dorothy. Are you in bed yet?”

  “Why? Are you calling for phone sex?”

  He coughs on his “no.”

  “Good. I’ll need a heads-up on that too. Well …” I giggle. “I suppose you’d be calling for a heads-up, so …”

  “Wow, maybe I should call back when you’re a little more groggy. I didn’t anticipate this level of … feistiness.”

  “Sorry. Why are you calling me?”

  “I was feeling pretty good about myself. I had a great day at work, especially in the lab. I got in a long jog this morning and an evening hike. The rings on my watch have circled so many times it would make you dizzy. Anyway … I felt the need to be knocked down a few pegs, so I thought, who better than Dorothy Mayhem to do the job. And sure enough, within five seconds of answering your phone, I’m feeling completely cut off at the knees. Thank you.”

  I like his brand of sarcasm, which says a lot since, in general, I don’t like sarcasm. It’s like the smallest letters on the eye chart. I have to focus pretty hard to read them, and even then, there is a little guessing involved. They use those really tiny letters just to make sure no human feels perfect.