Promise Her

by Johnston, Andrea

  “Good to see you haven’t lost your snark over the last week. I will admit, I was worried about you.”

  “Puh-lease. I’m sad, angry, and hurt, but we both know my snark and sass run deep, Taylor Cain. I will never lose that, you can guaran-damn-tee it.”

  His laughter fills the room, and I smile as I begin pulling the produce from the fridge for the most epic social media worthy salad.

  “So, what you’re saying is in all of these movies there must be either a single mom, a baking competition, or a stray dog?”

  Taylor has been teasing me relentlessly over the last two hours about my choice of sappy romantic films. Sure, this is the fourth one he’s suffered through in two days, but I also posed with a salad for social media, so I’ll call us even.

  “It’s not a requirement but those three things are a common theme among these movies. Oh and there’s often a CEO who has to visit a small town to either shut down a business or buy it. Something awful that may ruin the entire town.”

  “I still say we should have watched Deep Water Horizon. That movie is a classic.”

  “With all due respect to your classification of what is a classic,” I begin with air quotes around the word classic, “I don’t think that movie would keep my blood pressure down.”

  “Shit. I didn’t think—” he says, running his hands through his hair. We’ve been sitting next one another on the couch, a bowl of popcorn nestled between us, as we watch movies. Right now, what I want to do is steal the bowl between us and smack him on the back of the head for teasing me about my choices of cinema. “I’m sorry, Scarlett. I didn’t think of the premise. I’m such a dick. You’re right. Sappy dog owner CEO stealing businesses is a better choice.”

  His tone is laced with regret and sadness. That’s the one thing I’m truly getting sick of. The sadness. It’s as if everyone I speak to is either looking at me with sadness in their eyes or their overall tone is dripping with it. The reality is, my life is sad. I’m the town’s pregnant widow, left alone to fend for herself with no family to speak of. The only people around to support me are my husband’s friends and the townspeople who have rallied to ensure I’m not alone. Geez, even thinking it myself, I kind of pity me.

  “Do not apologize for treating me like a normal person, Tay. There’s just so much . . .” I pause, choosing my words carefully, “all this pity and the never-ending apologies are killing me. I wish . . . I just wish . . . never mind.”

  “Don’t do that. You need to talk through this. What are you talking about? So much what?”

  “Nothing. How about we just finish this movie? I’m sure one day they’ll release one that is the ultimate trifecta—CEO with a dog who enters a baking competition.”

  He doesn’t say anything for a few seconds, long drawn out seconds, and when he turns toward the television, I release a long breath in relief. He’s not going to push—never mind. Picking up the remote, he doesn’t play the movie. Nope, he turns it off completely and shifts in his seat to face me.

  “Talk, Red.”

  Groaning, I throw my head back on the couch and sigh. Dramatically. “Henry and I were separated. I planned to file for divorce after the baby is born.”

  Coughing or presumably choking on his popcorn, Taylor grumbles, “What the actual fuck?”

  “It’s not that big of a deal.” I’m sure to him, and most people, it is a big deal, confusing and out of the blue. That just shows me how good we were at pretending. Burying our heads in the sand, ignoring the obvious. I’ve had months to come to terms with it all, and as I look at Taylor, I see it’s news to him. “I mean, clearly it is, or was, a big deal to us. Neither of us came to this decision lightly. Truthfully, we’ve struggled for years, but this last year has been awful. I tried. Henry tried, even requesting a transfer to the Guard, taking himself out of active duty so he’d be home with me.” I take a peek at Taylor. His mouth is agape, eyes wide, and brows quirked. Shocked.

  “That’s why we moved here. Why we changed our plans, to save our marriage.”

  “But I was here a year ago, when you moved in. I didn’t think anything was wrong.”

  Laughing, I sit up, or rather, try. I’m mimicking more of a turtle on his shell than anything, this couch is sucking me into it like a suction cup. Taylor reaches over and helps me to more of a sitting position. “We were both good at pretending. Not only with each other but those around us. Shortly after you left, we had a huge blowout. I was ready to leave then, but he made all the promises I needed to hear.”

  “Regardless of the effort, it just wasn’t working. I guess . . .” Pausing, I contemplate my words, how best to explain this without sounding like a horrible person or making Henry sound like he gave up. “I thought moving here, to Fayhill where Grant and Connor were living, would help. There are quite a few soldiers who live in the area, and I hoped they’d help him.”

  I truly did believe that. Henry’s life outside of our marriage had been all about his commitment to his country. I saw the changes in both Grant and Connor after they were discharged; the demons each fought were there, but a calm surrounded both of them. It was easy to see what a change in lifestyle had done for each of them. I wanted that for Henry, for us. I thought maybe it would save us. I was wrong.

  “Then I found out I was pregnant. As much as I wanted it all to be okay, for this baby to be the answer to our problems,” I say, willing the tears that have suddenly appeared to go away. “It was too late. I love Henry, Taylor. I swear I do, but I haven’t been in love with him for a very long time. And this baby, our son, he deserved to have two happy parents who could raise him together without hating each other. That’s what would have happened, we would have hated one another.”

  The tears aren’t stopping, and the sobs come quickly. Removing the bowl of popcorn from its perch, Taylor sets it on the table in front of us and pulls me to his side. I settle in, allowing him to absorb all the pain and guilt I’ve held in all these days. The truth sucks, and I know how unlikeable it makes me, how people will judge us, but knowing someone else knows helps. It helps a lot.

  I won’t tell Taylor that one of the biggest kinks in our armor, in our marriage, was Henry’s never-ending jealousy of his best friend. He hated how easily Taylor got along with everyone. How much he could make me laugh or diffuse a situation before it escalated. Their history and bond was never a question, but I’m not sure even those closest to him growing up saw how much animosity he held in his heart.

  The one person whose arms I easily find comfort in now, is also the only person Henry equally loved and hated. Well, except maybe me. Sometimes I wonder if he’d already begun to hate me for the decision I made. There are times I hate me, so it only seems fitting he would too.

  Chapter 7

  Taylor

  4 weeks later

  I will never again take for granted waking up in my own bed each morning. It is fantastic. I’m a man of few words and don’t often throw words like “fantastic” around but sleeping on that lumpy pullout at Scarlett’s sucked. Sucked. That’s a word I know well. A lot of things in life suck. Burying my best friend only weeks ago fucking sucked. Heavy emphasis on the suck part. Watching his wife, his pregnant wife, try to stay strong for everyone around her, to be the glue of our group, encouraging us to share stories and joke around like Henry would have liked, made my respect for her grow to an entirely new level.

  Rising from my bed, I follow the beacon of freshly brewed coffee wafting through my small house. I’ve only been in this place a few years, but it works perfectly for me as a single man. I have no intention of sharing my space with anyone else except the occasional guys night with my teenage nephew.

  I spend so little time here that this fixer upper I bought with the intention of updating quickly has become more of a work in progress. Actually, it’s more like needs a lot of work with not much in progress. That’s only partially true. I have managed to remodel the downstairs while also completely ignoring the work needed upstairs. Anyone w
ho walks upstairs will enter a time warp to the mid-eighties. The bedrooms are a testament as to why rose-colored carpet and blue wallpaper should never make a comeback. I’m not sure who had the brilliant idea to layer wallpaper over existing wallpaper, but that person did not think about the future. Or how difficult glue is to remove from walls.

  Originally, the house was boxy with nothing but half a dozen unnecessary walls. I can’t remember how many times I ran into the random wall separating the living room from the kitchen after a long night at the bar. The weeks of demo were exhausting but rewarding. Seeing my concept come to life as I tore down wall after wall was gratifying. It was also fucking fantastic to take out my frustrations on those same walls. Now, instead of random walls separating the large space into smaller rooms, the open concept allows me to see the seventy-inch television from not only the couch but the kitchen, and if I angle it just right, the back deck.

  In addition to the updated kitchen and main living space, the downstairs has a half bath and large bedroom with full bathroom. That’s all I’ve needed to live comfortably. While I should probably consider starting on some construction upstairs, I haven’t found a reason to justify the added work to my schedule.

  Owning a bar was not something I thought I’d be doing in my thirties, but I won’t lie that it’s been one of the best decisions of my life. Although the hours suck, and I have next to no social life, I still love my job. I make sure to include myself into the schedule working at least four shifts behind the bar, two of which keep me there until closing. Plus I’m there six days a week handling the business side of things. Staying busy and not allowing a lot of down time helps me keep a handle on the havoc my time in the service put on my body and mind.

  Pulling the carafe from the machine, I pour the rich brew into my favorite travel mug and seal the lid. My sister, Addy, teases me that I still use an old school coffee maker and not one of those pod things. She forgets what hours I keep, and not only do I rely on the ability to set the timer to auto brew, I’m a pot a day kind of guy. I’d be dropping a few hundred bucks in pods a month if I modernized my coffee habit. Taking a tentative sip of the coffee, I walk to the couch and throw myself down to flip on the television.

  I relied heavily on my staff to keep the bar running smoothly while I was in Fayhill, but I’m on the schedule to close tonight. That’s why I made sure to roll out of bed hours earlier than I normally would. I need to get in early, check the inventory, and pay a few bills before the happy hour crowd invades. Scrolling the guide on my television, I choose a second showing of this morning’s sports show and settle in for a few hours of back and forth banter that will not only entertain me but also give me a headache.

  Twenty minutes into a debate over some call in a college basketball game that I don’t care about, my phone dings with a text message.

  Scarlett: When you were staying here, did the wind whistle this loud?

  Laughing at her random question, I immediately start tapping out a response to her message.

  Me: Since I can’t hear via text, I don’t know.

  Scarlett: You shouldn’t be sarcastic. It’s not attractive.

  Me: Eh, I’ll be fine. Yes, the wind whistled a lot, and it was very annoying.

  Scarlett: I hadn’t noticed. It’s very quiet in this house now. I can hear everything.

  Instead of responding with another text like I’m a seventeen-year-old and my life’s goal is using my gigantic fingers on a tiny keypad, I tap the phone icon next to her name and wait for her to answer.

  “I don’t know why you insist on actually using the phone for talking.” Her response is dripping in sarcasm and I laugh. Pot meet kettle.

  “Texting is to only be used in small doses. I could tell this conversation was going to be three messages too long. Now about this quiet house,” I say, fading off to allow her to respond. The response is one of a sigh, then a slight groan, and finally a string of curse words.

  “Are you okay? Do you feel lightheaded?”

  “Yes, Doctor Cain, I’m fine. Geez relax. I freaking whacked my ankle on the table. Everything is just dandy. I’m lying on the couch with a bag of salt and vinegar—I mean, a platter of freshly cut veggies in my lap while watching season four, episode six of Housewives. It’s called living my best life.”

  Smiling, I stand, coffee cup in one hand and my cell in the other. Topping off my coffee, I listen to Scarlett recap whatever ridiculous shenanigans are happening on her show. I “oh” and “huh” a few times even though I have no idea what she’s talking about.

  When she finally comes up for air, I ask, “Do you want me to take more time off? I can come back for a few days, put the crib together or paint the nursery.”

  “What?” she asks, and I look at my phone to make sure I haven’t lost my connection.

  “Which part do I need to repeat?”

  “All of it. My phone beeped with a call, and I looked at the screen. I didn’t hear what you said. I assume you were offering to help me in some way, though.”

  Laughing, I take a sip of my coffee. “I sure was. You don’t have to sound so annoyed by my offer.” She grumbles something I can’t quite decipher, but I do clearly hear the word pathetic. My mama didn’t raise a fool, so I opt to ignore her comment and continue, “I’m happy to know there are others in your life who use the telephone for speaking and not texting.”

  Returning to the couch, I sit back down, my feet propped on the coffee table. A snort fills the line and I imagine Scarlett lying on her couch, rolling her eyes and likely flipping me the middle finger all with a huge smile on her face.

  “Don’t get too excited. It was an unknown number. I should get two or more calls before dinner.”

  “What do you mean? Are you getting a lot of calls?”

  “Me and half the world’s population. At least some of the spammers hang up before I can hit the ignore button.”

  Spammers aren’t only about soliciting business anymore; now they steal your identity and even your voice. My protective instincts take over and a million scenarios of people knowing Scarlett is alone and set to inherit a large sum of money from Henry’s life insurance and military benefits.

  “Red, what else is going on?”

  An annoyed growl fills the line. “Nothing, Dad. Goodness, you’re a pain in my ass. I’m fine. The baby is fine. I’m eating my veggies, mimicking a slug on the couch, and binging too much television. Stupid spammers are calling and hanging up. The wind whistled and knocked over my garbage can last night. Just your real-life shit.”

  “Scarlett—”

  “Nope. I’m not arguing with you. I texted you because, well this wind is freaking me out. As much as I tease you about using the phone for talking, I kind of miss having someone to talk to. Grant is great, Connor tries, but you tolerate me more than anyone else. Quit being so overbearing, it’s not attractive. I don’t need a lecture, Taylor.”

  She pauses, a muffled sniffle in the distance. I can only assume she’s pulled the phone from her mouth to ward off the tears. I won’t lie and say I’m surprised. I’ve held her and had more tear-soaked shirts in the last few weeks than in my entire life. That’s saying a lot because I work in a bar. Something happens about thirty minutes before last call with drunk twenty-somethings. I’m not sure what it is, but there are a lot of tears. A. Lot.

  “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be overbearing or insinuate you aren’t capable of caring for yourself. I just worry, okay?”

  “Kay.” More sniffles.

  “Now, what I asked was if you want me to schedule myself off for a few days to come put the crib together. Help you get ready.”

  “Oh”—another pause and a sniffle— “you don’t need to do that, I mean, you’ve already done so much for me. You have your own life to live in Lexington. Besides, there’s no time like the present to adjust to this new version of my normal.”

  The line is silent as I ponder what to say next, but she beats me to it.

  “I’ve never h
ad many friends. Military life is difficult to maintain many friendships, but it’s never really effected me until now. I feel so alone.”

  “Scarlett, honey. You have a lot of friends. Family.”

  She doesn’t respond immediately, but I hear her shifting and then the faucet running. “I know. It’s just different. I have a lot to figure out. There’s so much . . . I’m overwhelmed and just kind of sad.” There’s a pause, our breathing the only sound. Then she laughs. It isn’t a humorous laugh, it’s more a defeatist laugh, and then she says, “I need to find another hobby. The knitting club is great, but it’s only once a week. Maybe painting? Sewing? I could make all the bedding for the baby.”

  The vision of an impatient Scarlett trying to master sewing makes me smile. Could she do it? Absolutely. Will it take her five times as long because she has the patience of a toddler with a four-word vocabulary? No doubt.

  “The offer stands. I’ll pencil myself out soon and come help you with the painting. But you know Cap and Connor will be there for you. Whatever you need.”

  “I know. I hate being so fucking needy, Taylor. It’s pathetic. I’m sick and tired of myself. I’m really not a lot of fun. It’s no wonder my husband didn’t want to hang out with me.”

  Another sniffle fills the line, but this time it isn’t muffled. I swear if Henry were still alive, I’d kill him for how he’s broken this woman down. The young woman we met in a bar ten years ago isn’t the same woman I spent the last few weeks consoling. Scarlett of a decade ago was snarky and self-assured. She gave him, and all of us, a run for our money. She was confident, driven, and one of the most beautiful women I’d ever seen.

  She still is. I hate myself a little for thinking that about my friend’s wife, but it’s true. Her beauty shines in not only her appearance but her heart. The same heart that is broken. Not just because of the loss. After she confessed the status of their marriage, it was as if she couldn’t stop herself. She revealed layer upon layer of the issues Henry was facing, that they both faced. I only slipped once, showing my frustration that I had no idea. Regardless of how strained our friendship was, both Henry and Scarlett knew they could come to me. Henry knew how fucked up I was when I was discharged. Medically or not, it was both a blessing and the worst thing that could happen to me. One day I was a soldier and then, in a blink of an eye, I was adjusting to not only civilian life but working to trudge through the chaos in my mind.