The Vow

by Jessica Martinez

  “I’m not talking myself into it. It’s what I want to do, and I’m not going to back out.”

  “I believe that you don’t think you’re going to back out, but—”

  “Mo!”

  “Annie.”

  “Seriously.”

  “Seriously,” I say.

  “Let’s get married.”

  I take a huge breath and hold it. I’m tingling like my blood is carbonated, and even after I release the air, my whole body is still bubbling. “Okay. Let’s get married.”

  She doesn’t squeal, but she’s not the squealing type. Instead she brings her clenched fists to her cheeks, holds them there, and whispers, “You’re staying.”

  “Yeah,” I whisper back. “Why are we whispering? And where’s my ring?”

  She laughs, drops her fists to her lap. “Your ring? Where’s my ring? And why aren’t you down on one knee?”

  “Because I’m driving and because you’re the one who asked me. Everybody knows the asker supplies the jewelry.”

  “Everybody knows? You just made that up—how would everybody know? The guy always buys the ring.”

  “Money’s tight. How about Junior Mints and a Coke instead?”

  “Deal,” she says. She can’t stop smiling. “Not the stuff you just bought me, though. I’m going to need more for the ride back.”

  “Fine.” I stop trying not to smile and just give in to the idiot grin. None of this seems real.

  “Actually make it a Cherry Coke, and switch the Junior Mints for Milk Duds. No, Whoppers. That’s my final: Cherry Coke and Whoppers.”

  “Wait, but what are you bringing to the table?” I ask.

  “What do you mean, like a dowry?”

  “Yeah.”

  She thinks for a moment, then leans forward and pats the dashboard affectionately. “The finest vehicle in Kentucky.”

  I narrow my eyes. “Under normal circumstances there is no way a vehicle without AC would be considered an acceptable dowry, but since you’re also bringing an American passport to the table, I’ll overlook it.”

  “So we have a deal,” she says.

  “We have a deal.” I take my right hand off the steering wheel, spit in my palm, and hold it out. “Shake on it.”

  The smile disappears, and she shrinks back toward the window. “Absolutely not.”

  “Don’t be a wuss. Just spit in your hand and shake.”

  “You’re disgusting.”

  “It’s like signing a contract. We made a deal; now we swap spit.”

  “It’s nothing like signing a contract.”

  “There are other ways to swap spit. Do you want me to pull over so we can make out instead?”

  She spits in her hand, takes mine, and shakes it firmly.

  “Note to self,” I mutter. “Threatening to kiss the fiancée yields immediate submission to my will.”

  “Ha,” she says, and wipes our spit on my shorts. “Gross. Turn off the wipers.”

  Then I hear it: the strangled moan of rubber on dry glass. I didn’t even notice the rain stop, but it has. I turn off the wipers. Annie rolls down her window, so I do the same, and the wind roars in and fills my ears, clears my mind. For just this second, I’m flying. I’m staying.

  I’m staying.

  It’s hard to say who starts screaming first, but it’s one of those roller-coaster screams—high-pitched for her, closer to a yell for me—where exhilaration meets pure terror.

  We scream until we’re hoarse; then I make Annie get out the directions again.

  “We missed the exit,” she says, squinting at the piece of paper.

  “That’s a surprise. Maybe if you hadn’t started screaming.” Normally I’d be annoyed, but I don’t actually care.

  “You started the screaming. Why are you still smiling?” she asks. “This feels weird—not getting yelled at for screwing up the navigating.”

  “Whatever.”

  “Get off at this next exit.”

  It takes us a while to find our way back, and traffic is bad so it takes even longer, but it isn’t until we pull into the parking lot destination that the grins fade.

  It is not a furniture store.

  Annie holds up the map. “I should’ve given this to you. I don’t even know where I screwed up.”

  “You didn’t screw up,” I say.

  “Unless Oxmoor Ford is selling armoires, yes, I did.”

  “Look.” I point across the parking lot to where the Mr. Bernier is standing with his hand on the hood of a ribbon-tied Ford Explorer.

  It’s a mirage. Or it’s not, it’s real, but it’s got the sparkle of an illusion, like it might twinkle and disappear at any second. The body of the car is obsidian black, and the grille glistens like bared teeth, muzzled with a fat red bow. Mr. Bernier looks, as always, like a professional wrestler. He’s as shiny as the truck with his Hollywood grin and glossy bald head. And in front of the Explorer, he’s never looked scarier, which is saying something.

  Annie says nothing.

  I drive the truck across the lot, bouncing over potholes, unprepared for the pangs of nostalgia that ring through me with each lurch. Poor truck. It’s about to be abandoned and doesn’t even know it. I should’ve whined way less about the AC.

  Beside me, Annie looks like a compressed spring ready to release, practically vibrating with happiness and hysteria as she leans forward, both hands on the windshield. “Can you believe this?” she finally yells in my face.

  “No. Maybe you should get off the dashboard, though.”

  She’s out of the old truck before we’ve even rolled to a stop. Running, jumping, hugging her dad, jumping again. Squealing.

  So I guess she does squeal.

  Mr. Bernier chuckles and hands her keys. “Don’t go anywhere yet,” he says.

  I watch as she opens the door and hops in.

  “Mo,” Mr. Bernier says, and motions for me to get out.

  I turn off the truck and climb out the window, probably for the last time.

  “I didn’t realize you’d be coming along,” he says, holding out his hand for me to shake. The gesture is polite; the smile is huge. He hates me.

  I shake his hand. He doesn’t know it has the dried remnants of his daughter’s spit mixed with mine on it. “Nice to see you, sir,” I say.

  “Likewise.”

  The after-rain sun is blazing orange behind him, so I use my hand as a shield and squint, and together we watch Annie freak out over the size of the cup holders and the dual-side seat warmers. We’re both thinking it. I’m horning in on his big family moment, the All-American I love you so much; here’s a brand new truck surprise. He’s the hero. I’m the intruder.

  “So, nice day,” he says.

  “Yeah. It was raining before, though.” When all else fails, go with the weather and state the obvious.

  He nods.

  I take a small step away from him, which he mistakes for a step toward his daughter and the Explorer.

  “Let’s give her a minute,” he says. “How’s basketball going? Are you doing the summer session at U of L again?”

  “Not sure.”

  “Oh, that’s right. I forgot. Annie told me your family is moving back to Jordan.” His voice is soaked with just the right amount of sympathy. It’s both nearly believable and insulting.

  I nod, my mind whirling through lies that will still make sense in ten days, when my family is gone and I’m still here. Here. Here. I’m staying, but I don’t even know where here is—where I’ll live. Why didn’t I think about that? Maybe Bryce’s? I can’t imagine eating my Frosted Flakes with Mr. Bernier every morning, so definitely not Annie’s.

  “Are y’all looking forward to that?” he asks.

  “I may be staying, actually. My dad’s attorney is working on getting me some kind of student visa or something.”

  He folds his arms over his tanklike body. The Hollywood smile widens. “Well, that’s good news, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, sir.” The glare f
rom the sun is too much, so I turn away.

  “Mo, did you know about this?” Annie calls from the driver’s seat, where she’s adjusting mirrors.

  “No,” Mr. Bernier says before I can answer, and looks at me. For a brief moment he lets his guard down and gives me a hard look—the I know you want to screw my daughter look—then it’s back to the chummy grin. It doesn’t even matter that I don’t actually want to screw his daughter. I still shrivel. No wonder Annie would rather have anesthetic-free root canals than introduce guys to her dad.

  He walks over to her and I look at my feet. If he knew what Annie and I are planning, he’d kill me.

  “Do you want to hop in?” Mr. Bernier asks me, motioning to the backseat. He’s walking around the front to ride shotgun.

  “Sure.”

  I climb in and sink into the seat. It’s like my dad’s car on the inside—sexy console, smooth leather seats, and the sweet artificial smell is so heavy I might choke on it.

  “This is awesome,” Annie whispers.

  “Start it,” Mr. Bernier instructs.

  The Explorer’s engine roars to life, and Annie lets out another squeal.

  “It’s beautiful! Thank you!” More hugs for Mr. Bernier. More squeals.

  “We should’ve bought it sooner,” he says. “It took a while to get your mom on board, but we both knew you needed something safer than that old thing.” He doesn’t even look back at the truck (that is not unsafe or even that old) that Annie and I have practically lived in for the past two years. I wonder if he’s leaving it here to be sold, but I don’t want to ask. I don’t want to know.

  I need to chill out. I feel like throwing up or possibly even punching something, but leaving the truck shouldn’t be such a big deal. Why won’t Annie even look at it, though? It’s like she’s completely forgotten how she got here or that it exists.

  I need her to look at me so my eyes can ask her all the questions tearing around inside of me. Are we still getting married? If he finds out, will he take this away? What then? Would you rather have this car than me?

  But she doesn’t look at me.

  Chapter 13

  Annie

  He’s looking at me. I can feel his eyes from across the yard, where he’s losing a game of croquet to his niece, Piper. He’s only pretending to try, I think, but it’s hard to tell because I’m definitely not looking at him.

  “You meant to do that!” Piper insists. Her voice is unusually husky for a five-year-old’s. “Hit it again.”

  I glance over to see Reed reach down, pick up the red ball, and pull it back a few feet.

  “This time try,” she orders.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Reed says.

  I take a sip of my virgin piña colada—pushed on me by Flora, who is now mixing more exciting drinks for the college girls—and eye the scene casually. I feel light, like I could drift away, but the icy glass under my fingertips somehow anchors me to the party and to these people I don’t know.

  It’s odd to be at a party of older strangers. Of course, I know the people from work, but Vicky and Soup haven’t lived here all that long, so the rest of the guests are friends from their old neighborhood in Louisville.

  “So are you going to hit it or what?” Piper demands.

  I have to look over. Reed obeys and hits the ball through the wicket. Piper growls and hurls her mallet into a nearby bush, then growls even louder when she realizes what she’s done and goes in after it. Reed stifles a laugh while she wrestles it out; then he turns to the grill, where Soup is stationed. “Any advice here?”

  Soup takes a sip of beer without looking up from his spread of meat. “Nope. But you think she’s mad now, just wait till you win.”

  “Oh, I don’t think I’m going to win,” Reed says loudly as Piper disentangles herself from the bush and brushes the dirt off her mallet. “Piper’s got mad croquet skills.”

  “I know,” Piper says, and whacks her ball into Reed’s red ball, sending it down the sloped side of the yard and into the creek.

  I forget I’m not supposed to be watching Reed, and I don’t look away when he glances up at me with a wry but amused look, his hair falling over his glasses.

  He looks different. The twilight and the lawn torches may be to blame. His features are less angular and the edges of his profile are blurring into the night air—no blanching glare of fluorescent bulbs. I hadn’t noticed how much red there is in his hair, but it’s glowing with all the colors of the sunset right now. No peach apron, either. His navy T-shirt looks like that brushed cotton that’s soft like skin.

  “Annie, are you hungry?” Soup calls.

  I pull my eyes away from Reed’s and make my way over to the grill. “Starving. Aside from this piña colada, I haven’t eaten all day.”

  “Burger or brat?”

  “Burger.”

  Soup scrapes a patty off the grate for me and deposits it onto the open bun. “Extra juicy just for you.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Eat up. Then you should go take over for Piper before she gets really pissed off and starts swinging her mallet at Reed.”

  “Oh,” I say, searching for the right words. Soup is her father, after all. “She’s such a cute little girl.”

  “Yeah. Cutest dictator in the world.”

  “She’ll be a great big sister, though,” I try, but it comes out with minimal feeling.

  Soup shakes his head and glances at his wife. “Good luck, my unborn child.”

  Vicky is sitting on a couch on the veranda, surrounded by piles of torn tissue paper and shredded ribbon. Somewhere beneath it all there are stacks of hot-pink onesies and breast pumps and other things that make me vaguely nauseous, but all I can see is wrapping carnage. I didn’t think you got all those things for your second baby. Vicky might be the type of woman who makes her own rules, though. She’s got her grandmother on one side, a frail-looking woman who’s almost asleep or possibly pretending, and someone I don’t know on the other. I’m clear across the yard, but I can hear scraps of the story Vicky’s telling. Something about her mother-in-law and baby-quilt swatches and getting kicked out of a fabric store.

  “Annie.”

  I startle. It’s Reed, standing beside Soup, the croquet mallet still in his hands.

  “Oh, hi.”

  He’s brushed his hair to the side so I can actually see his eyes now. Yes. Different from at work.

  “You want a burger?” Soup asks him.

  “Sure,” Reed says, dropping the mallet in the grass. “I’ll drown my croquet woes in grease.”

  Soup scrapes another burger off the grill.

  “Woes?” I ask. “You looked like you were doing just fine out there.”

  “My ball is somewhere downstream and underwater, and my croquet partner left me to catch and torture frogs. Oh yeah, after calling me Uncle Idiot.”

  Soup chuckles. “Sorry.”

  “I’ve been called worse by Vicky,” Reed says with a shrug.

  “Haven’t we all,” Soup mused. “Annie here was just bragging about how great she is at croquet.”

  I choke on my burger.

  “You okay?” Reed asks.

  “Fine.” I cough. “Just surprised since I’ve never bragged about being good at any sport in my entire life.”

  “What?” Soup feigns astonishment. “A minute ago you were standing here telling me you could wipe the floor with Uncle Idiot. Make him cry for his mama and everything.”

  Reed shakes his head. “I have to draw the line at you calling me Uncle Idiot too.”

  “He lies,” I say, trying not to laugh. “I’m terrible at any sport involving a ball or aim or coordination. Not great at the ones involving speed or strength either. Plus, I already have an Uncle Idiot—my mom’s brother—so I wouldn’t call you that. I promise.”

  “I don’t believe you. I think we need to play croquet.” He puts his plate on a table, burger untouched.

  I follow Reed back to where the croquet mallets are lying on the grou
nd, the skinny heels of my sandals sinking into the grass with every step.

  He eyes my feet. “Those aren’t exactly croquet shoes.”

  Up until this moment I’ve loved these shoes—they go perfectly with my blue sundress—but I’m suddenly wishing I’d chosen something a little less girly. “Then I’ll blame them when I lose.”

  Still, I slip them off and toss them beneath a garden bench. The piña colada goes beside my plate of half-eaten burger on top of the bench, and I join Reed by the croquet balls.

  “Which color?” he asks, holding up a green and a yellow ball. His knuckles are flecked with a different-colored paint now. Eggshell blue.

  “What if I say red?”

  “Then I guess I’ll have to go wade through the creek and find the red ball.”

  “You’d do that?”

  He looks down toward the creek, his hair flashing gold in the sun. “You’d make me?”

  I hesitate. “Yellow.”

  He drops both balls at the starting post, and they make a satisfying clunk against each other. “Why’d you choose yellow?”

  “I’m an artist,” I say. “Yellow is sunlight.”

  “Sunlight? I don’t know. I think of lemons or butter before I think of sunlight.”

  “But you’re a chef.”

  “I am a chef.”

  “Lemons and butter are nice but not exactly essentials. I can’t live without sunlight.”

  He puts his hand over his chest. “And my chef ’s heart is breaking right now.”

  I lean on my mallet, feel the head sinking into the grass under my weight, the sweet heaviness of the summer air pushing down on me.

  “Who starts?” I ask.

  “Ladies first.”

  I line myself up and take my first shot. It doesn’t go very far. My ball only makes it halfway to the first wicket and about a foot too far to the left. “It’s because I’m barefoot. And I’ve been drinking piña coladas.”

  He walks back to the bench, picks up my drink, and takes a sip. “This is virgin.”