The Vow

by Jessica Martinez

  Mo and I just got married. Mo. Me. Matrimony. Of course it means nothing, but still. Legally wed to each other until death do us part, or until the minute we can get a divorce. Married. MARRIED. To think that I just did something so incredibly stupid and brave makes me shiver with pride. Nobody would believe I had it in me.

  He’s staying.

  But now I’m going to work, and the giddiness, this rolling sensation in my stomach that’s making me feel like I’m on a boat—it’s not for Mo.

  In ten minutes I’ll be with Reed again.

  I don’t have time to stare at my face in the mirror, so I assume everything is the same as it was this morning.

  I wonder what Reed thinks when he looks at me. I know I look unusual. I’ve heard it all—ghostly, doll-like, eerie, pixieish, cute—and I have no idea which is right, because sometimes I see myself in the mirror and know that I’m beautiful, and other times my reflection is too creepy to stare into for more than a second. My eyes are lighter blue than anyone else’s I know, which I like, but my elf-shaped ears border on freakish. Has he noticed them? The pointy chin and skin the color of paper, well, they are what they are. They can go either way—weird or interesting.

  Today, though, I’m gorgeous. It doesn’t make sense, rushing around like a psycho, no mirror in sight, but I know it. I think I’ve been beautiful since the moment Reed kissed me.

  I grab lip gloss and a hair clip to mess with in the car and slam the front door shut hard behind me. I never do that. It drives my dad nuts, but he’s tripped out on DayQuil, and today I am all-powerful. I am defiant. I am beautiful. I am myself and someone completely different at the same time. So this is love.

  * * *

  “You’re late,” Flora says. “Not that I’m keeping track, but I might have to leave a half hour early as payback.”

  I finish tying my apron and glance at the clock. 12:06. “Thirty minutes?”

  Flora does this one-eye-half-closed look she uses to call people on crap. “You’re saying you don’t want an extra half hour alone with Reed?”

  I shake my head at her, even though I know he can’t hear us from the front window where he’s adjusting the blinds to let the sunlight in. He glances up, but in the other direction, out the window at the customers approaching. He hasn’t noticed I’m here yet.

  “Where did you two disappear to last night, anyway?”

  I can feel my cheeks turning red as I stammer around an answer. “What . . . I don’t . . . nowhere.”

  “Sure. Nowhere doing nothing, right?”

  “Whatever.”

  “So that’s what the kids are calling it these days. Whatever. I like that.”

  “Did you have fun at the party last night?” I ask, hopeful she’ll latch on to something else.

  “The part that I recall, yeah. It reminded me of why I made such a bad bartender all those years ago. You aren’t supposed to make yourself a drink every time you make one for someone else.”

  “I didn’t know you used to bartend,” I say. “I thought you’ve worked here since—”

  “Since dinosaurs roamed the earth?” she interrupts. “Not quite. Remember that bar that used be on the corner of Main and Perry? Never mind. You’re too young, but there used to be this little bar called Ranchers, right where Payson’s Sporting Goods is. You know, across from the post office.”

  Flora prattles on, but my mind is already at the corner table where Reed is bent over a mound of pink, yellow, blue, and white sweetener packets. He looks adorably awkward, his hands too big to be sorting pastel confetti one piece at a time.

  At the end of yesterday’s shift, Flora discovered that someone (probably Soup) mixed them all in a huge container instead of keeping them in their separate bulk boxes. It didn’t seem like the end of the world to me, but Flora insisted the fake sugars and the real sugars be separated first thing in the morning. Reed and I did not disagree, as this seems to be how Mr. Twister operates best: Soup is the boss, but Flora runs the show.

  Maybe I should go help him.

  Except with his head bent and his hair falling over his glasses, he looks like he did when I first met him, and I’m suddenly sure he’s reverted back to that same shy Reed who could barely look me in the eye.

  Like Chris Dorsey. I can’t not remember, and my cheeks are suddenly on fire. He’d wanted nothing to do with me after. Reed and I only kissed, but if he’s embarrassed around me now, or if he acts like nothing happened at all, I may have to lie down and die. Or at least quit my job.

  He looks like he’s focusing on the sweetener, but he could very well be wondering what the hell he was thinking last night and trying to figure out how he’s going to brush me off now.

  Without warning, he lifts his head. His hair falls back, and our eyes connect. I’m dying to look away or smile or turn around and go home, but I don’t do any of those things. I hold his gaze, even though I feel like my heart is being emptied.

  Until he smiles. Then it’s like a tidal wave of color in my brain.

  “Great,” Flora mutters, and I remember she’s talking, but not what she’s talking about. “You kids are going to be annoying, aren’t you?”

  “Uh, we’re almost out of butter pecan,” I say, finally pulling my eyes away, as if I’m not so flustered my knees may give out. “I’m going to get another bucket.”

  I pretend not to see her smirk as I spin around and escape to the safety of the walk-in freezer. The door swings shut behind me with a soft thud and a sweet chill runs through me. I can breathe. I’m not sure how long I’ve been holding the shiver in, but long enough to make me shaky.

  I make my way down the length of the freezer slowly, soothed by the hum of the machinery. It’s a long, skinny room, lined with metal shelving from floor to ceiling. And thanks to Flora, it’s perfectly organized. Frozen fruit, blocks of juice concentrate, buckets of custard, all neat and labeled. I wasn’t lying—we actually are out of butter pecan in the case up front—so I scan the towers of pails for their brown-and-white labels as I walk.

  It’s easy to find, but nearly impossible to retrieve. I have to move the peach, triple fudge, and mint chip buckets to get to it, then shove them all back in again. It’s heavy, so instead of carrying it by the skinny metal wire that digs into my palm, I hug the bucket and hook my fingers under the bottom edge.

  When I turn around, chin resting on the lid, body thoroughly chilled, Reed is standing back by the door.

  “Sorry,” he says. “I didn’t want to scare you.”

  “Not scared. Maybe a little startled.” My heart is banging against the massive bucket between us. I wonder how long he’s been here watching me play custard Jenga. “Don’t tell me you’re here for the mint chip, because it’s no longer reachable.” I gesture with my chin to the rearranged shelf. Mint chip isn’t even visible.

  “No, I just wanted to say hi.”

  “Oh. Hi.” I wait. The thudding. Hard to believe he can’t hear it too, because it feels like my heart is about to pound its way out of my rib cage. “How are you?”

  “Good,” he says. “Tired, actually. I spent the morning moving furniture from room to room. How about you?”

  “Good.” I don’t volunteer any information about my morning. I got married can’t be good for things at this point in our relationship, or at any point in our relationship. I’m not even sure if relationship is the right word.

  “I had fun last night,” he says.

  I can see his breath, the sheerest glimmer of icy air escaping from between his lips. But I can’t look at his lips without remembering the moment they touched my neck. “Me too.”

  “Good. I was thinking about it, and I hope you didn’t feel like I pushed you into showing me your mural. Hearing you talk about it just made me curious.”

  Curious. Was that supposed to mean the itch had been scratched? I’m suddenly freezing and boiling at the same time. I reposition my grip on the bucket. I would put it down, but it feels like protection now—cold and solid enough t
o shield a blow.

  “But afterward,” he continues, “I realized maybe it was really personal.”

  “Yeah.” He’s staring at me, and I’m not sure what we’re talking about anymore. The mural or the kissing. I’m about to make it easy for him by saying it was no big deal, but then I remember what he looked like as he stood in the center of my room, spinning a slow circle.

  “Anyway, thanks,” he says. “And I’m sorry if you felt—”

  “I wouldn’t have showed it to you if I didn’t want to.”

  A year ago I couldn’t have said that. The Annie that Chris Dorsey knew certainly couldn’t have said that. Not honestly.

  His face relaxes. He’d been talking with his hands, but he lets them drop to his sides. It looks like surrender.

  “Good,” he says, and I can feel his eyes trying to read me. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but you’re different.”

  “Okay.” I try to smile. “How should I take it?”

  “As a compliment.”

  “I’ll take it as a compliment then. So, how long do you think we have until Flora—”

  Right on cue, the door sweeps open, and Flora’s maroon curls pop into view. “Hate to break up the whatever, kids, but we’ve got customers out here.”

  “Coming,” I say, but before I can leave, Reed takes a step forward and reaches across to take the bucket from me. Our faces come dangerously close over its rim. For a second we’re near enough that I feel a shade of the thrill from last night’s kiss.

  He lifts the bucket, and my arms drop away. I try to straighten my fingers, but they feel permanently bent.

  “You have plans for this Friday?” he asks, following me out the door.

  “Just work.”

  “I mean after. Can I make you dinner?”

  I shrug, trying to offset the grin I can’t help. “Depends. What are you making?”

  “Exactly what you want.”

  “What if I don’t know what I want?”

  “I told you last night, remember? That’s my specialty.”

  Chapter 16

  Mo

  It’s his specialty?” I ask, staring at the hand-written name and number on the scrap of yellow paper. Sam M. Cane. 502-241-3350.

  Dad shrugs, licks his finger and turns the page of his magazine. The Economist.

  Brutal. I’d rather slam my fingers in the door repeatedly than be here right now with him. I should’ve been the one to tell him. I wanted to, but Mom insisted on doing it, so instead I got to lie on my bed and listen to the first Jerry Springer–style shouting match this house has ever hosted. And now he’s treating me like I’m a traitor. No, like a disobedient child, like I’m not even man enough to own up to my own actions.

  He won’t look at me.

  I take a bite of my doughnut and lean back against the counter so I don’t have to sit at the table with him. “And I’m supposed to just call him?”

  “You aren’t supposed to do anything.” He’s still flipping pages.

  “Then why did you give me his number?”

  “Because you have immigration forms to file, and you should consult someone. But clearly you’re your own man now. Do whatever you want.”

  I’m dying for an emotion from him. A smirk, a grunt, a cocked eyebrow—anything would make his words easier to swallow, but apparently I’m taking them plain. Dry, burnt toast plain.

  “It’ll be expensive though, right?” I ask.

  “No. He’s not an attorney.”

  “Then why am I seeing him?”

  “He’s a law student. A cousin or something of one of the engineers at ReichartTek.”

  “I shouldn’t see an attorney?”

  He finally looks at me. “Can you afford an attorney?”

  Definitely not the answer I was looking for.

  “I’ll be putting money in your account for living expenses,” he says. “Rent, utilities, food, clothes. If you think you need an expensive attorney to fill out a few simple forms that you could do yourself, go right ahead. Good luck coming up with the money.”

  I fold the paper and put it into my pocket. I’m not sure why I didn’t think about money before Annie and I got married. Glaring oversight.

  I stuff the last few bites of glazed doughnut in my mouth and toss my napkin in the trash. The plates, along with the utensils and miscellaneous kitchen crap, have already been packed up to be taken over to my new apartment at Wisper Pines. And everything worth shipping has been packaged and is awaiting pickup in the living room in a mountain of FRAGILE-tattooed crates. The house looks naked and gutted, like a fish with its insides scraped out.

  “You leave on Friday, right?” I ask.

  No answer. I assume this means I’m right.

  “So will this guy be able to squeeze us in before then?”

  “I don’t know.” He drains the last of the juice from his plastic cup and wipes the corners of his mouth.

  “So I’m going by myself ?”

  I regret saying it immediately, even before exasperation and disgust take over his face. “You’re about to be alone in this country. If you can’t manage going to see some law student for immigration advice by yourself, we have a pretty big problem.”

  I stare into my own juice cup and feel myself shrink.

  “Too much hand-holding,” he mutters, more to himself than to me. “You probably don’t even know how to write a check.”

  “I can write a check.”

  “Just be sure to pay the rent on time.”

  “I’ll pay the rent on time.”

  “And the electric bill. And water. You forget and they tack on late fees, and then they turn off your power completely. And if you’re late paying the rent, it’s only a six-month lease, so they can kick you out if they want to. Where’ll you go then?”

  To Annie’s, obviously. But that hypothetical nightmare is not worth discussing since I’m not going to forget to pay rent at Wisper Pines. The apartments are upscale, furnished, and best of all, on the northern edge of Elizabethtown—so, not in Jordan. Their inability to spell whisper correctly seems like an unnecessary adulteration of a perfectly good word, but that’s my only real complaint. “I’m not going to screw this up.”

  No response. Apparently he’s alternating between the silent treatment and You can’t handle this pep talks

  “Annie won’t let me,” I add.

  He sniffs, and something inside me twists. After everything she’s done for me, he still can’t stand the thought of her.

  “Anything else I should know about the law student thing?” I ask.

  “What are you asking?”

  “Well, we aren’t going to tell him that it’s not real, right? He doesn’t actually need to know.”

  He frowns. “Know what? There’s nothing to know. You married your friend, Mo. People do it all the time.”

  “Right, but he doesn’t need to know that we aren’t, you know, like . . . having, you know . . .”

  He turns the next page of his magazine even though he’s obviously not reading it. Now it’s open to a picture of a cartoon brain, a fork and a steak knife sawing into it like the brain is Sunday dinner.

  “Don’t be crass,” he says. “It’s nobody’s business what happens within a marriage except the two participants. And in some cases, their parents.”

  In some cases, some of their parents. I picture Mr. Bernier’s shiny bald head and rippling biceps. That man would rip my limbs out one at a time and eat them if he found out Annie and I got married. For immigration status, for love, for duty, for a joke, for sex—it wouldn’t matter. I’d be a chew toy.

  “You didn’t pay Annie to marry you,” Dad continues. “You didn’t meet her last week on Craigslist or through some seedy human trafficker. She’s your friend, correct? You married your friend.”

  “Yeah.” My stomach hurts. Too much fast food, too many breakfasts of stale doughnuts and rubbery egg McWhatevers. I miss Mom’s cooking already, and the kitchen’s only been packed up for thr
ee days.

  Three days.

  Crap. Crap, crap, crap. I don’t know how to cook. Why have I never learned how to cook? Why hasn’t anyone bothered to teach me how to cook? Stupid question. I know why. I never needed to know how to cook, never anticipated needing to know, and never had the slightest interest in learning. Sarina can make almost anything, which I’ve always used as evidence that it can’t be that hard.

  But what if it is?

  This tied-up rot in my gut from three days of straight junk—what if it’s permanent? I like Taco Bell as much as the next guy, but I’m not fooling myself. I’m pretty sure my body can’t handle three fast-food meals a day.

  But Mom learned. After that first year of being here in the States without a cook, she forced herself, one burnt, tear-salted meal at a time. I close my eyes and think about her naan, its perfect chewiness, the smell of the dough as it fries and puffs up. Or her tagine, the earthy richness of the lamb stew I ate just the other night. I’m glad I hadn’t realized each meal was the last of its kind. For a while, anyway. It would have made it harder.

  “Another doughnut?” Dad asks.

  “No. Thank you.”

  He’s still turning pages of The Economist, and I’m distracted by the blur of images, the armies of words that he’s not even trying to read. He subscribes, so it’s not like he saw this issue on the stand and had to have it, but he usually scours and absorbs every inch from cover to cover. But what he’s doing right now, turning every page without taking in any of it, is just another task to be checked off his list.

  “We need to go over some things,” he says.

  “What things?” I ask.

  “Let’s start with school. I’ve filed the necessary emancipation forms and sent them to your principal and superintendent, giving you permission to act as your own guardian.”