The Vow

by Jessica Martinez

  “No, but I will.”

  * * *

  We watch two episodes before I turn it off and force Mo to go put on his suit and tie. “Stop whining and do it,” I say, lifting my foot threateningly. “I’d hate to have to kick you out of bed again.”

  But there is no element of surprise this time, and he pushes my foot away and pins me before I can blink.

  “You didn’t seriously think that was going to work twice, did you?”

  “Um . . .” I’m trying to wriggle free, but getting nowhere. “Neither attempt was all that calculated, actually.”

  “Say we can take pictures tomorrow and I’ll let you go.”

  “I don’t want to do it either, but we have to do it today so I can get Kristen’s dress back to her. All you have to do is put a suit on. I’m the one who has to hassle with hair and makeup, and you don’t hear me complaining.”

  He lets me go. “Fine. You shower first.” He flops back onto the pillows and picks up the remote.

  * * *

  Neither of us has a clue about wedding picture venues, so we end up in the woods behind the apartments like I suggested, Mo’s camera propped on a tree stump, me standing on a huge rock trying to look . . . I’m not sure. Romantic?

  “Say cheese,” Mo says, pressing the button and taking off sprinting through the ten feet of scrub brush and fallen trees between us.

  The camera light blinks . . . and blinks . . . and blinks . . .

  “Hurry, hurry, hurry!” I shout for no reason but to stress him out as he’s scrambling up the rock. We still have three more blinks by the time he’s behind me, wrapping his arms around my waist, putting his chin on my shoulder.

  The picture takes.

  “We have got to be almost finished,” he says, taking a step away.

  “We probably have at least ten good ones. That has to be enough. Help me down.”

  He jumps off the rock, then turns around to reach up for me. “I swear, you put on that dress and turned into a bridezilla. Mo, do this, Mo, do that. Mo, get me off this rock. Mo, massage my bunions.”

  I crouch. “Returning the dress a day late I can explain—moss and dirt stains, probably not. And I don’t even know what bunions are, so just help me down.”

  “Fine.” He reaches up, but looks at me like I’m a porcupine—all quills, nowhere to grab.

  “Oh, come on,” I say. “Just pretend you’re pulling luggage off a conveyer belt.”

  He grabs me by the waist and plants me on the relatively clear footpath. “We should’ve taken pictures inside,” he mutters.

  “Where? People don’t take wedding pictures in front of their refrigerators. Besides, it’s pretty out here in the morning.”

  He walks over to the camera to examine the pictures. “That last one was actually pretty good. Seriously, when did I get so hot?”

  “Uh, sometime next year? Let’s go change. I’ve got to go to work.”

  “I thought you weren’t supposed to have to work weekends.”

  “I’m not,” I hear myself say. My voice sounds casual, perfectly even. “I’m filling in for someone.”

  “I’m surprised they’re even open on Sunday.”

  “They’re not. We’re doing inventory or something.” It’s scary how easy the answers come to me. I hike the tulle skirt up and start making my way back up the footpath. “Tell me if it looks like I’m dragging this through dirt.”

  “And if it looks like the chicken you’re wearing has been electrocuted—should I tell you that?”

  I snort appreciatively. “I know. I’m dying to ask Kristen what she was thinking.”

  We make our way back up the footpath to where it connects with the paved running path and eventually up the lawn to Wisper Pines.

  “Do you need your phone this afternoon?” I ask once we get to the apartment.

  Mo puts the camera on the coffee table. “Maybe. Why?”

  “If you don’t need it, I want to call home before I drop by for a couple of boxes. Just some shoes and stuff.”

  “I thought your parents were on a cruise.”

  I wander into my room, trying to reach the dress hook-and-eye, but it’s midback and I can’t quite get it. “They’re supposed to be,” I call. “But it’s been a few weeks, so . . . I don’t know. I assume they’re gone, but I want to call and make sure.” I don’t tell him I want to call Sam too. He’ll make a big deal about it—or he’ll worry, and he doesn’t need to worry. I just want to ask her some questions.

  “But . . .” Mo pauses, the corners of his mouth turned down like they do when he’s thinking. “Just make sure you answer it if it rings. I’m expecting a call.”

  I come back out of my room. “Okay. Can you unzip me?”

  He sighs dramatically. “Bridezilla.”

  “I’d like to see you try to get out of this on your own.”

  “We should’ve arranged for a fake maid of honor too,” he says, fumbling with the closure at the top. “Who makes these things? This is insane.”

  “So, who are you expecting a call from?”

  I feel the zipper slide open and his fingers brush my spine.

  “Mo?”

  “What?”

  “Who are you expecting a call from?”

  “Oh. Bryce.”

  “What?”

  “Don’t freak out. I’m not going to tell him anything.”

  “That’s not what I’m worried about. I’m worried because up until a few days ago the left side of your face still looked like a banana peel.”

  “He probably won’t even call me back. I’m just saying if he does, answer it. Or wait. Maybe you shouldn’t. Never mind. I don’t know.”

  I don’t turn around or walk away. I stand open-backed and stare at my easel. It looks like a skeleton gripping my canvas. I wish I could say the right thing, but I know before it leaves my lips it won’t be. It never is. “I get that you want him to forgive you, but I don’t think he’s going to, because you can’t really apologize. Or not honestly.” I wait for an answer, but he says nothing. “Mo?”

  “Sorry, I’m having a hard time focusing. I’m being blinded by the whitest back in Kentucky. Have you ever considered getting some sun? It’s supposed to help with this glow-in-the-dark disease you seem to be suffering from.”

  “It’s called being fair, moron. And mocking my skin color isn’t going to make you feel any better about Bryce being mad at you.”

  “Exactly. But apologizing to him will.”

  “You can’t apologize without explaining. Not really. And explaining is too dangerous. You know that.”

  He pauses, and I feel something. Not quite his breath, but his gaze? It tickles my neck right before I feel him step away from me.

  I swallow hard. I’m such a hypocrite. If Mo knew what happened with Reed last night, he’d be furious, and if he knew that Reed had guessed the truth, he’d completely freak out. And after the freak-out, he’d go and tell Bryce everything. I wouldn’t even be able to blame him. Why shouldn’t he get to unbreak one of the hearts he smashed too?

  “I just want to feel a little less guilty about . . . everything,” Mo says.

  I clutch the dress before it slips off my shoulders. “I know.”

  * * *

  Mr. Twister is dead, even for a Sunday afternoon. I pull in, my hands suddenly shaking, and drive around the front parking lot twice before circling around to the back. Flora’s car is in its usual spot, a rusted sedan—Rachel’s, I think—on one side and Reed’s car on the other.

  I pull into a spot facing the oaks trees so I can watch the door from the rearview mirror, but I don’t put it in park. I sit there with my foot on the brake, my way of reserving the right to peel out at any moment. I’ve got no ideas. I can’t just walk in the front door and order custard, but if I sit here and wait for long enough, he might come out. Or Flora might come out, and then I’d have to have a reason for sitting here staring at the back door like some crazy ex-employee.

  It’s not smart, b
eing here like this. But I am here.

  On the seat beside me, Mo’s cell is begging to be used. I should call Reed to tell him I’m here, but I can’t. It’s not even that I’m afraid of getting caught, since I can think of a thousand reasonable explanations for a single call to Reed. I just don’t want to have to make them to Mo. The lies I’m already telling are heavy enough.

  But I do need to talk to Sam, and that call will be easier to make up an excuse for. I find her number in Mo’s phone and dial, noticing first that Mo changed his background photo from that picture of Bryce giving him the finger to one of Sarina.

  It rings once. “Hello?” Sam says, twangy country music playing in the background.

  “Hi. This is Annie. Annie Bernier.”

  “Of course. How are you?” The music is suddenly softer, still twangy.

  “Fine thanks. I hope I’m not bugging you.”

  “I gave you my cell number so you could bug me.”

  “Oh.”

  “But I’m just cleaning,” she says, and I picture her wearing one of the kerchiefs my mom sometimes ties her hair with for chores. “I don’t mind an interruption. So, what’s up?”

  “Um. I wanted to ask you about the two years part.”

  “The two years part. You mean between your interview and conditions being removed on Mo’s permanent residency?”

  “Yeah.”

  “It’s like a learner’s permit.”

  “Right, but what if something happens during that two years? Wait, do I have to start speaking hypothetically?”

  “Please don’t. It hurt my head last time.”

  “Okay. So, what if I want to go to art school in North Carolina, and Mo wants to go to Harvard next year?”

  “Well, that would be why getting married in high school isn’t the best idea in the world.”

  I pause, not sure what to say. Mo would thank her for the advice as sarcastically as possible, but Mo doesn’t care what Sam thinks of him. “You don’t know—”

  “Sorry,” Sam interrupts before I can make some stupid excuse. “I shouldn’t have said that. A regular married couple could choose to live apart, but they don’t have to prove their marriage is legitimate. You guys do, so you two have to choose one place or the other.”

  “One of us has to lose.”

  “That’s pretty much what married people do—one person sacrifices for the other. Hopefully it isn’t the same person every time, though.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Your dreams shouldn’t always be less important than his.”

  “But he’s going to get into Harvard.”

  “Annie, you sound a little defensive. I’m on your side.”

  I take a deep breath. “Sorry.”

  “It’s okay.”

  I recline the seat and stare at the roof of Mo’s car. “I still don’t see why we can’t stay married and live in different places.”

  “You can. But you’re taking a lot of risks if you do that. If immigration even suspects you’re scamming them, they’ll dig deep, and I’m guessing you don’t want that to happen.”

  “No.”

  There’s a long pause, long enough to wonder if the call has been dropped. But I can still hear music, still picture Sam in her kerchief polishing a mirror. “I think you need to know how to go about changing your mind,” she says.

  “I don’t—”

  “No, stop. Just listen. I know you think you don’t want to know, but I want you to know anyway. I did some more research, and you aren’t stuck in this. At any time, this can be over. Mo self-deports, you get the marriage annulled, and that’s it. Over.”

  “Self-deports,” I repeat. The words don’t sound right together.

  “Meaning he buys himself a ticket and gets on the plane.”

  “Oh.” I lock and unlock the door. Then lock it again. Then unlock it. “But I could still get in trouble for marrying him in the first place. If he just got on a plane and left it would kind of be admitting that it wasn’t a real marriage.”

  “That’s what I thought at first, but supposedly they don’t care about sticking it to you once Mo’s gone,” Sam says.

  Gone. I hate how quickly she got there. From Harvard to gone in a few seconds. “It’s so unfair,” I mutter.

  “Unfair? Come on, Annie.”

  I stop, startled by her response but even more by myself. Unfair only exists if fair exists, and I’m too old to believe the universe owes me anything. “What?”

  “Well, it’s unfortunate that Mo’s in this situation, but that doesn’t mean it’s the US government’s fault or responsibility to make his life all rosy again. And Mo has a great chance at getting a student visa and coming back to the States for college, but not if he stays here illegally. He has to go home.”

  “I thought you were on our side,” I stammer.

  “I am,” she says. “But there are laws for a reason. If everybody who wanted to live in America was allowed to do it without going through legal channels, it would be mayhem. It wouldn’t be America.”

  I don’t have a smart response. I only have this sickly sweet sadness running through me. Sympathy and regret. “My brain gets it. The rest of me doesn’t.”

  “That means you’re a good person.”

  I close my eyes and see Reed’s face. “Not really.”

  “Don’t be so hard on yourself.” There is a moment of heavy thinking between us before she says, “Do you have any other questions?”

  I do. I would like to know how I can love two boys and have two boys love me but be so all alone. And I’d love to know why I’m imagining that I’m talking to my sister when I don’t even remember what talking to my sister is like. “No. Wait, yes.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “What would you do?”

  I hear her breath escape, a slow sigh. “I’m not you, Annie.”

  I pinch the skin on the back of my arm and wait. “But if you were . . .”

  “But if I were . . . I think I’d stop and ask myself if I wanted to spend my whole life trying to fill a space meant for someone else.”

  “What?”

  “It just seems like you’re trying to be the right thing for Mo. And I don’t really know about your parents or the rest of your life, but I’m guessing you’re trying to be the right thing for a lot of people. You’re eighteen. It’s kind of now or never. You should do what’s right for you.”

  Right for me. Mo is right for me. He’s always been what’s right for me. Sam is looking at a snapshot, the present, without understanding all the years of us being there for each other. She doesn’t know how right for me Mo has always been.

  But if she isn’t wrong? The possibility makes me sick to my stomach. Just thinking it feels like betrayal.

  Except there’s another kind of betrayal happening now. The kind where I pretend something isn’t happening. Like pretending I don’t notice the way Mo has started looking at me when he thinks I’m not paying attention, that I don’t see him thinking about things before he says them instead of just spouting whatever random crap comes to his brain like before, that I don’t sense him treating me just the slightest bit differently than he used to. Ignoring it is a kind of betrayal too.

  And so is sitting here waiting for Reed.

  “It doesn’t make you a bad person,” Sam says, and I wonder for a second if I said any of what I was thinking out loud. Or maybe she can read my thoughts. “You’re allowed to be yourself. It means being honest. Sorry. That sounds corny.”

  “It’s okay.”

  “I’m just worried about you. I guess you bring out the preachy big sister in me.”

  My breath is gone, sucked out of me.

  There is no god. Still. And I don’t believe in an afterlife or souls or reincarnation or that anyone I can’t see is looking out for me. At all. But for this moment only, it seems like it would be okay to pretend.

  “It’s okay,” I stammer.

  “Really think about it.”


  “I will.”

  “You know you can call me whenever, right?”

  I try to swallow, but my throat feels dangerously dry. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  We hang up and I bring my seat back up. I didn’t notice what time it was when I pulled in, but it seems like I’ve been sitting here for an hour. Maybe more. My stomach growls, a reminder that I haven’t eaten since the Pop-Tart Mo brought me in bed, when I see the back door swing open in the rearview mirror. It’s Reed.

  A thrill rushes through me, and I fight not to get out of the car. He doesn’t see me yet. A trash bag in each hand, he’s walking toward the Dumpster, body solid and tight even from this distance. That I can watch him without him knowing, even for a few seconds, seems dangerously sweet. I love his earnestness, how every piece of him is determined, how serious his expression is. It’s just trash, Reed. Except I know his mind is somewhere else. He could be thinking about the restaurant he’s going to open someday, or worrying about having his grandma’s house ready to sell by the end of the summer. He could be thinking about me.

  He glances up and sees me. The seriousness in his face breaks for a smile, but only for a second, and in that second the thrill rushes through me again. He doesn’t change his speed, but keeps his movements smooth and deliberate as he tosses the bags into the Dumpster and starts toward the car. He glances around, and I do the same. There’s nobody here to see us. Still, I double-check as he opens the passenger door and slides in.

  “Sorry to surprise you,” I say, almost breathless as the smell of the oaks and soil and dampness fills the car. The clouds are thickening, and I can smell the rain coming. “I didn’t want to call from Mo’s phone.”

  “Don’t apologize.” He looks around the car, taking in the curled-over Taco Bell bags and half a dozen empty Gatorade bottles.

  I shake my head. “None of it’s mine.”

  “Sure it isn’t.”

  “No, really.”

  He grins. “I believe you.” He reaches out and slides his fingers around my wrist. “And I don’t care if his car is a mess,” he says, pulling me into the passenger seat, onto his lap, and my heart is thundering with the absolute rightness of being with him, what I’ve been waiting for, when my brain screams something else.