The Vow

by Jessica Martinez

  “You look so serious when you eat,” he says.

  I smile and feel the start of a blush. “I told you I was hungry. And I’m trying to concentrate.”

  “There won’t be an ingredients quiz afterward.”

  “That’s good, because I wouldn’t do very well. I’m just concentrating on enjoying it.”

  He takes a sip of his water. “Yeah, I’ve seen that look from you before. In the parking lot last night. And the freezer on Thursday afternoon. And I think it was the storage room on Wed—”

  “Okay, enough,” I say, fully blushing now and trying to think of somewhere to steer the conversation. “So, you graduate after this next year?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What then?” I ask.

  “I know what I don’t want to do.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “For starters, be on some reality-TV cooking show.”

  “That doesn’t surprise me. You don’t seem like the claw-your-way-into-the-spotlight type.”

  “My mom suggests it every time I talk to her, like that’s the only reason she can come up with for getting a degree in culinary arts.”

  “She doesn’t see the benefits of having someone to make her food that tastes like heaven?”

  Reed glances at my half-empty plate. “She’s not quite as easy to please as you.”

  “So no reality TV, no being your mom’s personal chef. What does that leave?”

  “Most of my classmates dream of being the head chef at some trendy, big-city restaurant. But I’ve lived in a big city before, and I kind of like the feel of a small town better. Somewhere like Elizabethtown.”

  “Not so many trendy restaurants here,” I say. “Unless you count the Olive Garden.”

  “Yeah, no offense to fine dining here, but I don’t want to end up at the Olive Garden, making the chicken parmigiana for the rest of my life.”

  “A fate worse than death?”

  “Not if you like making chicken parm. But if you think food is more than paint-by-numbers, then yeah.” Behind hair and lens, a glint of intensity burns in his eyes.

  “My dad wants me to come back to California and work for him,” he continues.

  “He’s a chef ?”

  “No. He’s . . . I don’t really know what he is. A businessman? That might be a stretch. He invests in businesses that seem legitimate at first, but then they either tank or turn out to be scams. I can’t exactly say it to him, but I’d rather do something real.”

  “Like food,” I say, and take the last bite on my plate.

  “I can’t tell if you’re being sarcastic or not.”

  I shake my head, mouth too full to speak. When I can, I say, “Definitely not being sarcastic.”

  He nods. “It’s a little tricky, not having their support exactly. I’m paying for my tuition, my rent, my bills, and nobody’s going to hand me my dream job when I’m done.”

  “You still haven’t told me what that is.”

  He pauses. “I want to have my own restaurant.” He won’t look me in the eye, but I can hear the drive in his voice, the hum of energy and talent and fearlessness.

  I drag my fork through the sauce on my plate, pulling white streaks behind the tines, then turn my fork and make a crosshatch pattern. Reed takes his own fork, leans over and adds a few swirls around my design.

  “You don’t gush compliments like other girls,” he says.

  I open my mouth to protest, but he stops me. “No, I don’t want you to. I like that you say what you mean.”

  “You sure? If you really want, I could moan after each bite and go on about how it’s the best meal I’ve ever tasted.”

  “No,” he says, then stops himself. “Although now that you mention it, I would be okay with a little moaning. But I meant that you’re sincere. It was a compliment.”

  “Thank you. And these other girls you cook for—is gushing compliments really the usual?”

  He shrugs, and doesn’t take the bait. “There is no usual.”

  That could mean he doesn’t usually cook for girls or they all react differently.

  “The only girl I’ve cooked for regularly would be my last girlfriend. She turned out to be less than sincere about a lot of things.”

  “Less than sincere,” I repeat. “That sounds like code for something.”

  He just looks at me, the smallest hint of pain in his face. It makes me feel a little sick, the thought that someone hurt him.

  “Dessert?” he asks.

  I nod.

  Reed pulls vanilla bean ice cream from the freezer while I clear plates. “What, no fancy homemade dessert?” I ask.

  “No. Unless you feel the need to request a chocolate soufflé or something.”

  “I was kidding. Ice cream is perfect.” I take the bowl he hands me and follow him to the couch. It’s an unholy shade of brownish green, but I ignore the color and settle into the corner, folding my legs beneath me and curling my toes into the worn velour.

  I let the first spoonful melt in my mouth, contemplating the idea of ordering whatever dessert I want and actually having someone do my bidding. “Wait, would you seriously be making me, say, a cheesecake right now if I asked for one?”

  “I’d have to run to Kroger for cream cheese and graham cracker crumbs. And you’d have to wait an hour for it to bake, and then another hour for it to set up.”

  “But I’d be eating my own cheesecake,” I say.

  “At midnight. Yeah.”

  I take another bite of ice cream. “With you.”

  He laughs. “I would hope so. Are we still talking hypothetically here, or should I be on my way to the store?”

  “Hypothetically. I’ve got to be home by eleven.” I glance over my shoulder at the microwave clock. “Sorry.”

  “Why do you always apologize for that?”

  The question catches me off guard. “Because I know it’s annoying. And not normal. And I used to go out with a guy who hated it.”

  Reed shrugs. “It’s not like you can do anything about your parents.”

  Now would be the time to tell him. I’ve always known that Lena would have to make her way into us, Reed and me. It would be natural to do it now, and he’d understand my parents and their craziness, and maybe why I really work at Mr. Twister.

  Or maybe I’d be instantly transformed into the tragic younger sister.

  I take a huge bite of ice cream.

  “So, how’s the mural?”

  I pound my forehead with my fist and gasp. “Brain freeze.”

  “You okay?”

  “Give me a minute.”

  I take a few deep breaths and wait for the pain to release me. But first I feel his hand on the back of my head, squeezing the base of my neck. It lifts.

  “Better?”

  “Yeah.” I fight the urge to shudder. He’s rubbing slow circles on both sides of my neck, and I could melt if I let myself. “The mural is good. I’m knee-deep in coral, but it’s coming.”

  “Done before I leave?”

  “Before you leave?” The words are out of my mouth, full of confusion, before I remember that I’m not supposed to be surprised by this thing that I already know. I’ve been letting myself fall, pretending there isn’t an endpoint. Fall. School.

  “Before I go back to Nashville in August,” he says. He’s still kneading my neck, and the muscle feels like it’s sighing beneath his fingers.

  “Hopefully,” I say. But I don’t feel the least bit hopeful now. “Maybe not, though.”

  “I may have to come back up and see it over Labor Day weekend.”

  I give him a skeptical glance. He’s not really going to drive three hours to visit a high school girl with an iron curfew.

  “You don’t believe me? Nashville’s not that far. Not too far to drive to see my girlfriend.”

  “Your girlfriend.”

  He stops rubbing, but keeps his hand on the back of my neck.

  “Is that what I am?” I ask.

  “I do
n’t know. Is that what you want to be?”

  “I don’t know. Is that what you want me to be?”

  He smiles. “You’re not making this easy.”

  “Just answer the question.”

  “Of course that’s what I want you to be.”

  “Good.” I feel warm. My skin, from feet to hands to cheeks, is turning pink, but I’m not embarrassed.

  “Besides,” he adds, “we’ve made out in your room, the freezer, the parking lot, the break room. If you’re not my girlfriend, that means—”

  “You’re a man slut,” I break in.

  “Exactly what I was going to say. And I’d hate to get a name like that in place as small as Elizabethtown.”

  He leans back and looks at me. Something about the set of his mouth and the way his eyes narrow when he does that, I feel like he’s seeing right through me. “Can I ask you a question?”

  “Sure.”

  “Your friend Mo—is he gay?”

  “No.”

  “Oh.” He scratches the back of his neck, where the hair looks so soft and shiny I want to reach out and rub it between my fingers. “So did you guys used to go out?”

  “No. He’s like my brother.”

  “Yeah, you said that before. I just thought maybe he was like your gay brother.”

  “Mo is definitely not gay. Or if he is, he has both of us pretty well fooled, because he’s been genuinely lusting after the same girl for years.”

  “But you guys haven’t hooked up, not even once?”

  I make a face. “Not even once? No. And I don’t hook up just once with people.”

  “That’s not what I meant. Remember, I’m the man slut.”

  “Right.” I put my empty bowl on the faux-wood coffee table and search for words to clear the muddiness. “He’s . . . he’s Mo.”

  “I believe you when you say you’re just not attracted to him. There are plenty of girls I’m not ever going to be into that way. But . . .”

  “But what?” I push. I’m not nearly as stupid as I must sound to Reed, but I’ve heard this explanation before. It’s lame. Mo being male can’t be the reason we can’t be just friends.

  “But he’s a guy.”

  “Yeah. Like you. And you just said you weren’t attracted to every female in the world.”

  “But he’s a guy and you’re you,” he continues. “I mean, I’m trying not to sound creepy here, but I can pretty much guarantee that any straight guy who spends any amount of time with you is not going to be thinking about you like you’re his sister.”

  I sigh. “That is creepy.”

  “But true. Sorry.”

  I’m not sure how to respond, so I don’t. Grass wallpaper the shade of creamed honey covers all four of Reed’s walls, and the effect transports me. I’m in a wheat field. Not so different from the whirlpool of my mural at all. But from my wheat field I can still hear Reed, and what he’s saying is wrong. It’s sort of a compliment, but it’s wrong. Mo doesn’t think of me that way. Reed just doesn’t know him, doesn’t know us.

  “I’m not trying to make you mad,” he says.

  “I’m not mad.”

  “I’m just being honest. At first I thought you were talking about him all the time so I’d know you weren’t interested.”

  “What? Really?”

  “Yeah, but then I started to think you were interested,” Reed says, “and you were still talking about him, so I just assumed he was gay. No, assumed is the wrong word. Hoped?”

  “Is it that big of a deal?” I ask, feeling that same frustrated, desperate feeling I have every time this conversation happens.

  “Having a straight guy as a best friend? I guess not.” He reaches out and traces the pomegranate stains on my arm. “Don’t be upset. I just don’t understand your dynamic or whatever, but I . . .” He trails off and pulls his hand away. “I should probably be totally honest with you.”

  I turn to face him, bracing for pain. Nothing good has ever followed that phrase.

  “I came here this summer to sort of get away from things. To work. To help my grandma. Definitely not to get into something with someone.”

  “Oh.” I’m watching his face, but he’s staring a hole in the wall behind me. I can’t think of anything else to say.

  “My last girlfriend cheated on me, and it was sort of recent.” He pauses, but not long enough for me to speak. “It’s why I tried not to notice you at first.”

  The way he wouldn’t look at me, that slight annoyance at having to show me things, those details seem so far away now, I’d forgotten I’d even had to forget them. “But . . .”

  “But then Rachel and Clara and the other girls were just too much. Too flirty and annoying.”

  I picture the college girls with their cigarettes and cleavage, telling stories about getting wasted with some professor—I’d seen so little of them after the first week or two. They worked the days I had off. Come to think of it, the baby shower was the first time in a while that I’d seen any of them.

  “So I had Soup change the schedule so I could work with you and Flora instead. And then I was seeing you every day, and you’re so different from anyone else, I couldn’t not . . . notice you. And want to be with you.”

  He looks embarrassed, and I want to reach out and stroke his prickly cheek because I’ve never felt so flattered.

  “So I’m trying not to be weird or possessive, and I know I probably came across that way just then. I didn’t used to be that kind of guy, the jealous type, I guess, but it’s hard not to assume the worst now. Anyway, I’m sorry. Being friends with Mo makes you happy. I don’t want you and Mo to be anything different than what you are.”

  I’ve eaten too much. I didn’t realize it until this moment, but the spice is pressing up into my throat, burning.

  What we are. Husband and wife.

  The mashed-up chiles and pork and creamy walnut sauce roll around inside of me, pushing me closer to nausea, and I have the sudden horrific thought that I might be vomiting the perfect meal into that Ice-Age single-basin sink.

  I remember to breathe, and it helps. I’m not going to throw up, and I’m not ashamed of what I did. Marrying Mo was the right thing to do. Loyalty. That’s real. Friendship and love. Those are the things people live and die for. They’re more real than borders and passports and lame laws will ever be. I did it for Mo.

  Reed’s staring at me. I need to say something, but I can’t think of the words to reassure him. His eyes are that faultless chocolate brown, and it’s easier just to get lost in them. But he’s waiting.

  “I’m so sorry,” I say softly.

  He shrugs, looking uncomfortable. “I don’t want you to be sorry. You didn’t do anything wrong, and I’m okay. It’s okay now.”

  I nod and look away because it doesn’t seem like he wants me watching him. His embarrassment is sitting between us on the couch now.

  “Mo and I really are just friends.”

  He doesn’t hear the way the words catch in my throat, the muscles constricting over them in a sudden panicky spasm. He takes their meaning at face value, my smile as proof that I won’t hurt him. I’m trustworthy.

  And I feel a little better because he feels better. Maybe I should tell him the truth or break it off or just leave, but I don’t. None of those things is the right thing either. I’m pretty sure there no longer is a right thing, if there ever was.

  There’s only what feels right. I don’t stop him as he lifts me from my corner of the couch and pulls me onto his lap.

  Chapter 18

  Mo

  I pull Satan’s Cat from her corner of the couch onto my lap. Mistake. Painful mistake. Her Highness makes the same feral scream she did the last time I dared to touch her and digs a new set of gashes down my left forearm with both claws.

  I scream swear words in English, Spanish, and Arabic (covering all my bases), and she scampers away.

  I shouldn’t be surprised. I’m not sure why I keep trying. She is, after all, Satan’s Cat,
and has been since the day I took over as her guardian, the day she proved herself totally unworthy of being called Duchess by crapping on my pillow.

  My arm kills. I inspect the fresh red lines branding me as her property. Droplets of blood bubble up along the deepest one, but I don’t wipe them away. I stare at the blood, focusing on the pain, trying to harness it to fuel my revenge. Because I think it’s finally time for revenge.

  I’ve been trying all weekend to make friends with Satan’s Cat—yes, actually trying to forge an emotional bond with the most sinister feline the animal kingdom has ever produced—but she’s still giving me the hiss-and-fang show. As if lying on the couch crying off and on for the last forty-eight hours hasn’t been emasculating enough, I’m now being rejected by a puffball formerly known as Duchess.

  I spent the first few hours in this apartment wandering around baby-talking to Duchess, looking for Duchess’ bunny toy, scooping Duchess’ piss puddles out of the litter box. When I found the diarrhea on my pillow, it was almost a relief, as if she was giving me permission to let the charade go. We were to be mortal enemies. We are mortal enemies. For ever and ever. I should probably eat something—I feel light-headed.

  Hopefully Sarina doesn’t mind that her cherished pet is my new nemesis. Not that she’ll know. I promised to keep the animal alive, not sing her songs and braid her hair. The only redeeming aspect of the cat situation is that she’s distracted me from the torn and ragged feeling in my chest every time I think about my family.

  I look over at Satan’s Cat in the corner, and of course she starts it again. She widens her eyes. I sigh loudly, but not enough to deter her. Another staring contest. This is probably somewhere around our fifteenth in two days. It goes like this. Satan’s Cat stares into my eyes. I stare into Satan’s Cat’s eyes. After a few minutes I get freaked out and jump off the couch, usually screaming the same string of trilingual curse words as before because she has the most terrifying eyes in the world. They’re amber with long black flecks in them that look like slivers, and I swear after about thirty seconds they start spinning like pinwheels and she’s actually grinning at me the whole time—EVEN THOUGH CATS CAN’T GRIN!—probably because she knows she’s stretching her evil out and into my brain. Demonic ocular poisoning. I’d Google it if I weren’t so afraid of what I’d see. Whatever. Maybe this time I’ll win.