The Vow

by Jessica Martinez

  This is wrong.

  “Actually,” he whispers into my ear and kisses me lightly where my jaw meets my neck, “I can’t believe you’re here.” His lips are so soft I’m aching when I have to pull away.

  “Wait,” I say, feeling the car spin around me.

  He lets go and leans back. “Okay.”

  “This feels . . . I don’t know. Sneaky.”

  “Okay,” he repeats. “But you came here, Annie. You came to me.”

  “I know. I’m sorry.”

  He closes his eyes.

  I fight the urge to reach out and hold his face, to feel his pulse beneath my fingers. “Can we talk?”

  He opens his eyes. Blinks. Pushes his glasses up. “Of course. But we have about two minutes before Flora comes out to see if I’ve been attacked by coyotes.”

  “You’re closing soon, though. Right?”

  “Yeah, but I’m going to Soup and Vicky’s for dinner, and they’ll be waiting for me. Can I see you later? I’ll be home by eleven. You could come to my place and we wouldn’t have to hide in a car just to have a conversation.”

  “But I can’t sneak out in the middle of the night.”

  Disappointment flickers in his eyes for just a moment, and then he grins. “Well, then at least let me give you something good to think about tonight.”

  He slips one hand behind my head, and I fall back into it and close my eyes. His mouth finds mine, and I’m melting between hands and lips when the terrible thought comes out of nowhere, clear and sharp as glass: This is how Mo wants me?

  “No,” I whisper, pushing Reed gently back, my palms on his chest and my eyes down. I glance at his face, hating myself for what I see. Shock. Rejection. “I’m sorry,” I say. “Not like this. I need to talk to Mo first.”

  I slide back into my seat. He leans forward, putting his head in his hands, and I know this time he’s not going to touch me again. Not today. “I misunderstood,” he says. “I thought you were here . . .” He trails off, and I let the silence fill with our awkwardness, because I can’t correct him. I thought I was here for this too. “I want to believe that there isn’t anything going on between you and Mo. I do believe it, but if that’s true, why can’t you be with me? Why do you need his permission?”

  Why? I know why, but I can’t say it. I can barely even think it. Because I don’t know what kind of love Mo feels anymore.

  “Unless that’s not what you want, in which case you’re sending one or two hundred mixed signals.” Reed sits up straight and stares at his hands, so I do too. He turns to me, but I’m too distracted by the memory of what his hands feel like to look up.

  “I can’t keep doing this,” he says. “If you don’t want to be with me, you’ve gotta stop showing up and messing with me. If you—”

  “I want you,” I interrupt, embarrassed by the force, the volume, the neediness. All of it. I’m embarrassed by everything I’ve done. “I really do,” I say softer. “I’m just doing things in the wrong order. There were things I didn’t realize until sitting here waiting for you, things about Mo and about myself and some of the mistakes I’ve made. I need to fix everything, including this with you, but I have to do it in the right order so I don’t have to hate myself when it’s all over. I’m sor—”

  “No.” This time he interrupts me. “I don’t want your apology. I want you.” He leans over, tucks my hair behind my ear, and kisses me on the temple. “Come back when you’re ready to come back. But don’t . . .” He trails off.

  I nod. I’m afraid to look at him, so I stare at the maze of oaks in front of me, so thick I can only see a few feet into them. When I’m ready to come back.

  I wish someone would tell me which path means inflicting the least amount of pain, but even as I wish it, I know it’s the wrong wish. It’s what Sam was talking about, me doing what’s right for other people and not myself. She said now or never.

  Reed gets out of the car, and I watch him walk away. After he’s gone, I call home—no, my old home. My parents’ house. No answer.

  * * *

  The mural is not different. I have to tell myself that several times as I turn circles in the center of the room, because it feels different. I’m not sure how that could be. After all, it’s my baby. It grew in my brain, came from my fingers, swirled around me while I slept, but it doesn’t feel the same. It used to be a cocoon to wrap myself in, a spell to disappear under. Now it’s just paint. Pretty, but not magical, not something to hide away in or disappear into.

  I turn off the lights and leave the box of shoes and knickknacks I packed on the bed. This time I’m ready.

  Chapter 28

  Mo

  This time I’m ready.

  I hear the knock on the door, and a lens slides between my brain and the world, clicking into place and everything is sharp. Adrenaline. A phantom ache in my jaw starts to throb even though it hasn’t hurt in days, and there’s a sudden ringing in my inner ear. On my way to the door I think, This must be what war vets feel like when their wounds start aching before it rains, so by the time I check the peephole and see that it’s Bryce, I’m not even surprised. I’m about to get punched again.

  I’m not ready in the sense that I’ve done anything to prepare. No Karate Kid marathons, no helmet and face guard stashed by the door. But I’m mentally ready. I’ve been bracing for round two since round one finished ringing in my ears, because I knew Bryce only needed a little more time to mull over the depths of my treachery and he’d realize that one punch to the face, albeit a really good one, was not enough.

  He knocks again.

  I could not open it, pretend I’m not here, and hide under Annie’s bed like the scared little girl that I am. But why postpone it? This is a much better venue and time to get my face rebusted than, say, outside my locker on the first day of school.

  I take a deep breath and open it. Avoiding direct eye contact, I nod hello, close my eyes, tense every muscle in my body, and wait. And wait. Clenching.

  “I’m not going to hit you.”

  I open my eyes, but I don’t stop wincing. Just in case. He’s standing with his hands in his pockets, so I’ll definitely have enough time to reclench my jaw if he pulls one out.

  “Wow. Your face is still bruised. Good for me.”

  “Yeah. Well done.”

  He grunts. “I’m not going to apologize.”

  “I wasn’t counting on it.”

  “I’m not sorry, and we are not cool.”

  I shake my head. “Not at all.”

  There are primate rules about not staring an alpha male in the eye. Every person, monkey, and ape knows this by instinct, but still, I force myself to look at Bryce. He looks at me. We stand in the doorway for an indeterminable length of time, and it’s a little scary and awkward, but neither of us knows what to do.

  “Is she here?” he asks.

  “Nope.”

  “Good. Here.” He holds out his hand, and in it is a pair of ballet slippers, pink and scuffed, those bizarre hard toes, browning around the edges. Sarina’s.

  “Natalie says thanks for letting her borrow them. She made my mom wedge her feet into them every day for the last month.”

  I shake my head. “Sarina’s gone.” I can’t stop staring at the faded satin, the fraying edges. She really is gone.

  “I know, but you could send them to her.”

  “No. Tell Natalie she can keep them.”

  Bryce doesn’t fight it. I know he gets a kick out of making his sister smile, and this will probably send her over the edge.

  “Do you want to go shoot hoops?” he asks.

  I try not to let the shock show, but he has to see it. “Yeah. Do you want to come in and wait while I change?”

  He looks into the front room, and I can see him considering it. But then his eyes fix on something behind me and he shakes his head. “I’ll wait in my car.”

  I turn around and there it is: the wedding dress in all its space-age puffball glory, draped over the armchair. She f
orgot it. I can’t believe after all that freaking out about getting it back to Kristen, Annie actually forgot it.

  * * *

  On the court, we don’t say a lot. There is almost no trash talk, which is unusual and unnerving enough to make me feel like I’m about to get punched again. And that screws up my already rusty game.

  “So, how was Argentina?” I ask when we stop for water.

  “Good.” He takes a swig from his water bottle. “I’m not going to ask how your summer’s going.”

  “Okay.”

  “Because I really don’t want to know.”

  “Okay.”

  “I don’t even want to think about it, actually.”

  “Okay.”

  Without warning, he chest passes the ball hard enough to knock me back one step. “Let’s play.”

  We play, and I lose. It’s not like I’m letting him win, but I think he’s thinking about what I’m doing with Annie, and he plays better when he’s furious. And unfortunately that makes me think about what I’m not doing with Annie, and I play worse when I’m distracted.

  Still, despite all the silence and awkward exchanges and spurts of aggression, it’s nice to play. It’s nice to be with someone who isn’t Annie. I almost didn’t realize how much I’ve missed him, and since my family left I’ve been living in a vacuum of human contact without even realizing it. I talk to a possessed cat for companionship.

  “So when do you leave for Greece?” I ask after I’ve conceded defeat and he’s told me I suck.

  “Day after tomorrow. I won’t be back until right before school starts.”

  “Lame. Did I tell you I’m not going to basketball camp either now?”

  “No. Why? The wife won’t let you?”

  “My dad won’t let me.”

  He shrugs and stalks off with the ball. I gather my stuff and follow him back to the car.

  When we pull in to Wisper Pines, the sun is sinking over the woods like it’s dipping into fire. The trees are burning.

  Bryce rolls to a stop and I unbuckle my seat belt. “I can’t believe I believed you,” he says softly. “All these years, I believed the whole best friends crap.”

  I stare straight into the sun, the flaming trees.

  “Is she happy?” he asks. “Never mind. She is.”

  I don’t correct him because I want to leave the car with my jaw still attached to the front of my face. But in my mind, I see Annie’s eyes and the dullness that settled into them on the day she left everything for me. I’m trying, every day I try, but I can’t chase that gloom out. It’s like a bruise that won’t fade, not for skateboarding or cartoon marathons or fake rings or wedding photos or strawberry Pop-Tarts. And in my mind I see the mostly blank canvases she stares at, brush in hand. Definitely not happy.

  “Have a good time with your grandpa,” I say, getting out of the car.

  He drives away.

  * * *

  I’m reading my SAT prep book when Annie gets home.

  “Was Kristen pissed about the dress?” I ask.

  She closes the door behind her and looks around the room like she didn’t hear me. Like she doesn’t know where she is.

  “Because at this point,” I continue, “I think we should just put it on eBay to see what we can get for it. As long as we don’t post a photo, we have a chance at making, I don’t know, fifty dollars.”

  “What are you talking about?” She looks slightly more centered now, but her eyes are brighter than usual, like she’s about to cry. Or she’s already cried. Of the two, I really hope it’s that second one. She flops down beside me on the couch.

  I point to the dress, still draped over the armchair where she left it.

  “Oh,” she says. “I don’t know. I didn’t actually go to work. I lied about that.”

  “Are you kidding?”

  “No.”

  “Um. Okay.” I turn the volume down, not because I want to, but it seems like I’m supposed to. On second thought, I should probably turn it off. I do. “So, do you want to talk about it? I don’t care if you want to go be alone for a while or whatever. You don’t have to lie and tell me you’re going to work if you want to disappear for . . .” I glance at the clock. “Six hours? Wow. Where have you been?”

  “Mr. Twister. And then my house.”

  I let this sink in, feeling a little disoriented by her disoriented-ness. “I don’t care if you go to Mr. Twister or your house. Do you need me to go get your stuff out of the car?”

  “No,” she says, turning to me and pulling her leg up under her. “I decided I didn’t need it after all.”

  “Okay.” I have no choice but to turn sideways too, but she’s sitting too close, and her eyes are so watery and intense I feel like I’m staring into the ocean and facing a firing squad at the same time. “What’s up?”

  “I haven’t been honest with you.”

  “So I’m hearing.”

  “Or anybody. Or myself. Mostly myself.”

  I wait, guessing the truth by the weight of her silence. I think I know. It’s over. She has an angelic glow and a guilty quivering lip. I wish she’d just cry already, but she looks like she’s reigning it in to deliver the death blow first.

  “I can’t do this anymore.”

  Satan’s Cat slinks into the room, looks from me to Annie to me again, and slinks back out.

  I want to pretend. That statement is so ambiguous it could apply to anything, to the distribution of chores on the job chart, to sharing a cell phone, to anything else that isn’t the one thing we both know she’s talking about. I’m a jerk, and I want to force her to spell it out.

  But her eyes are like sapphires when she’s about to cry, and I can’t.

  “I know,” I say. The words vibrate in my throat and echo in my ears. That must mean that this is real, that I’m really speaking them. “I can’t make you do this anymore either.”

  “You never made me do any of it,” she says, closing her eyes as the tears finally spill over. She falls in to me. I fight not to shudder as she presses her face in to my chest, her palms open against my chest. My skin is wet where she’s crying through.

  “I shouldn’t have let you do it,” I say. I put my arm on her back so I can feel something. I’m numb everywhere except for where we’re touching. “I just wanted it so badly.”

  She’s bawling now, but it’s okay. Better at least to be holding her while she does it instead of watching her. “I’m so sorry,” she mumbles into my ribs between sobs. “I didn’t realize how hard it would be to lose so much of myself. I didn’t even know I had that much to lose. I’m so sorry.”

  “Stop saying sorry.”

  “But I wanted to do it for you.”

  “Stop. It’s okay.” But I don’t want her to stop, only because the more she cries the easier it is not to think about what she said. About what it means. About going home.

  She stops talking, but she weeps and weeps until I can only lean back into the couch cushions and stare at the dark TV screen and wait for it to end. And finally she does exactly what I was hoping she’d do. She falls asleep on me.

  It would be easy to stretch out with her on the couch, fall asleep with her body on top of mine and her smell wrapped around me. But that’s what I want, not what she wants. What I feel is not what she feels. If it was, I wouldn’t be going home.

  Home. Jordan. I say it over and over to make it real. I don’t feel the same hysterical panic as last time, so does that mean I’m in shock? Last time it was a death sentence. This time . . . I don’t know. Maybe I’m not the same person I was then, though.

  As gently as I can, I slide my arm under Annie’s neck and the backs of her knees. She’s light, so it’s not hard to lift her up and take her to her bed. Not hard at all.

  Chapter 29

  Annie

  This isn’t so hard,” Mo says.

  “Right.”

  “It’s easy.” He fiddles with the straps on his backpack and steps toward the Departures screen. “I’
m going to Disney World. I’ll be back next week with a sunburn and a Minnie tattoo on my butt.”

  “I can’t see them doing real tattoos at Disney, but whatever makes you feel better. Does it?”

  “No.” Mo starts toward the ticketing line. I stay by his side. I’d rather look like a dog who’s figured out she’s not going on the family vacation than let him get too far right now.

  We stand in line. I hurt all over. The people around us pull bags, push babies, lean on each other, and bicker at the same time. It’s all of the reasons why airports make me uneasy. The emotions of strangers shouldn’t be so close and inescapable. I wonder if they can all see what I’m feeling by my face. Probably not. Guilt. Relief. Panic. Anger. Love. I don’t even know what that would look like.

  “So, about Reed,” he says.

  “Yeah?”

  “He’s not so bad.”

  “I know,” I say.

  “I wanted to hate him.”

  “I know. He thinks you’re not so bad too. He thinks I should’ve introduced you guys sooner so he could’ve gotten to know you.”

  Mo rolls his eyes. “Let’s not get carried away. I don’t need to be custard boy’s pen pal or anything.”

  I elbow him in the ribs.

  Mo takes the confirmation email out of his backpack, and I see it in his hands. It’s just the smallest quiver. I wish I hadn’t seen it. I wish he were as fearless as he has been acting.

  He examines the paper, folds it, and puts it in his back pocket, and when his hand is free again, I reach over and take it. We don’t need to look at each other. Holding hands is okay. After all, we’re not just friends. Maybe there is no category for what we are, but categorizing types of love seems childish now.

  Mo is not my boyfriend. He’s not my husband either, or won’t be in a few weeks once the annulment is finalized. But we’re holding hands because it makes me feel less sad and him less nervous, and because we still love each other.

  He can pretend he’s going to Florida, but I have to be realistic. This is the last time I get to be with him for a while. When we talk about it we say “a while,” which sounds better than “a long time,” which sounds better than “forever.” But it could be any one of the three. Saving up enough money to travel to Jordan this year is impossible, but I could definitely scrape together the cash for a trip or two to Cambridge or New Haven if he ends up back in the States for college. Sam says his student visa chances are pretty good. Mo’s pretty hopeful.