Tomorrow's Lies (Promises #1)

by S. R. Grey

  The girl twin then starts to tug on the older girl’s jade green sweater. Little Girl looks so much like her twin. She is tiny and slender, and has the same raven-colored hair as her brother.

  I have a good feeling about these three, but I’m still apprehensive. Where is the fourth foster kid, the guy my age? He must be around here somewhere.

  Just then, like serendipity is at work, a plume of wispy-white smoke trails from around the far side of the barn. Maybe the foster kid I’ve yet to see is remaining hidden on purpose, since he’s clearly catching a smoke.

  I scoot up in my seat and lean my head out the window to have a better view. But the car is angled in a way that I can’t see shit on the side of the structure I’m curious about.

  “Damn,” I mutter as I flop back in the seat.

  I’m going to have to get out of the car if I really want to see the mystery kid. I’m hesitant, but curiosity wins out in the end. Cautiously, I push open the car door.

  When I stand, my ankle boots squish down in the mud immediately. I take a tentative step to drier land, which happens to be in the direction of the barn. The air feels thick and wet up here, but oddly inviting. My earlier fears are quelled. Maybe this new home and this new family of broken kids is the place for me, after all. I don’t know, but I have an overwhelming sense I might find the girl I once was while I’m here.

  Encouraged by a once-familiar, but currently rarely felt, confidence, I walk toward the barn with purpose. I may as well introduce myself to everyone, right? If I’m going to fit in, I should start off on the right foot.

  Unfortunately, the older girl and the twins are no longer working in the front of the barn. I may be putting on a courageous front, but it’s not enough for me to waltz in and search these people out.

  Quickly, I change direction and head for the side of the barn instead. The elusive fourth foster kid might be easier to meet, just a simple one-on-one hello. Plus, I can get a vibe on whether he’s a pervert or not, and then plan accordingly.

  When the kid comes into view, I skid to a stop. “Oh,” I breathe out. “Wow.” The guy is gorgeous.

  Despite my limitations in the getting-physical-with-a-guy department, I can still fully appreciate a fine male specimen. And this guy is that, and more. Tall, and with a body hard and lean, he’s quite the hottie.

  The guy is wearing faded blue jeans and a T-shirt the color of steel. His hair is sandy-brown and disheveled as all get out, like some lucky girl might have been running her fingers through it.

  “Too bad that will never be you, freak,” I chastise myself.

  This guy is so far out of my league, even if I were normal, that it’s not even funny. With a face as fine as his body, he is nothing short of perfection. Damn, he is far too good-looking to be an orphan. But here he is, in this place like me, so he must be just as unwanted.

  Gorgeous takes a drag from his smoke, and then leans back and rests his head against the side of the barn. It’s like he has not a care in the world. Yeah, right. I know it’s just a façade. You don’t end up in the foster system if you’ve led an easy life. But you sure posture like you have.

  He lifts the cigarette to his full lips and takes another drag, blowing another wispy trail of smoke up in the thick air, where it lingers for a beat. Gorgeous watches the smoke dissipate around the barn, and then he flicks the spent butt to the wet grass.

  Oh, smooth.

  This guy oozes confidence. Hell, you’d think he owned the place. And then it hits me—he does own this place, in a foster-world kind of way. He’s in charge around here, at least among the kids.

  Suddenly, like he’s just realized someone has been watching him the whole time, he glances my way. Even from afar, his curious gaze is piercing. Or maybe it’s just me, seeing him that way. In any case, his stare is too intense and I can’t maintain eye contact.

  With my focus moving to the ground I’m standing on, I decide to wait him out. Surely, this good-looking guy will get bored with the strange girl staring at her shoes and go on about his business.

  He does no such thing. Oh, hell. I hear his shoes squishing in the wet grass as he heads toward me. And in less than a minute there’s a shadow darkening my view.

  He clears his throat, but I don’t look up. “You lose something down there?” he asks as he points a sneakered toe to the spot where I’m staring.

  “Maybe,” I reply.

  When he takes a step closer, his maleness becomes overwhelmingly palpable, thick and loamy, like the air.

  Do I run? Do I stay?

  Something in me snaps, not unlike those little firecrackers that make a surprisingly loud bang. I feel ripped down the center, torn in two, conflicted. Part of me wants to flee from the gorgeous guy and the confusing way he’s making me feel. But a bigger part of me wants to stay.

  So, I stay.

  Frustrated by my warring emotions, and the confusion they’re causing, I promptly lash out. “Smoking is a fucking disgusting habit, you know.”

  The guy laughs and volleys back, “Nice language.”

  “Fuck you, smart ass.”

  “Ooh, feisty. I like you already.”

  He’s playing along, even if he is somewhat confrontational. What the hell, I started it. Maybe he’s not so bad. I’m definitely not getting a pervert-vibe or anything.

  A smile threatens to bloom, and I say, “You’re a bastard, you know that?”

  “Nah,” he replies, matter-of-factly. “I have a dad. A real piece of shit, but a father, nonetheless.”

  That gets me to look up at him. Bad move. This guy is even better-looking up close.

  Eyes back on the ground, I ask, “So, where is he, then? Your dad, that is.”

  I hear him sigh. “Prison.”

  “Oh.”

  I ask nothing more. You don’t go digging around in another person’s wounds.

  “I don’t disagree, by the way,” he says, after a long beat of silence.

  I kick at a bug crawling over a blade of grass, and it skitters away. “What are you talking about?”

  “The smoking, what you were saying about it. You’re right. It is disgusting.”

  Oh, what the hell. I take a chance and glance up at him again. I’m going to have to live with him, and I can’t always be looking away.

  He’s peering at me curiously, with eyes that are the coolest shade of gray. Like something soft and woolen, a place you could curl up in and find comfort. This is a bit much for me, though, so I stare past him, to the side of the barn.

  “So, why do it?” I murmur. “Why smoke?”

  “Eh.” He shrugs. “Why not?”

  “Great answer.” I glance at him briefly and make a face.

  “Hey, it’s the best answer I got, so take it or leave it.”

  I grow serious. “You really should quit, though.”

  “Maybe I’m trying,” he says. “Ever consider that possibility before spouting off, Miss the-truth-dot-com?”

  I ignore his smartass retort. “Good.” I nod. “Otherwise, it’ll probably kill you.”

  I expect him to say something along the lines of you really are an anti-smoking commercial come to life, but instead he utters a soft, “Dying young might not be so bad.”

  “What?”

  His eyes—clear and sincere—meet mine. “It’s nothing, never mind.” He looks away. “I was just making a bad joke.”

  “Okay, whatever you say.”

  He squares up his shoulders defiantly. I know then his past is stormy and turbulent, like mine. As he stares at some faraway point up in the fields, I have a chance to check him out without being blatantly obvious about it.

  He’s younger looking up-close, more so than when he was leaning up against the barn. I guess that’s because of the faint smattering of freckles across the bridge of his nose. But, still, far away or up close, there’s no denying this guy is beautiful.

  Still, he is not without flaws. There’s a tiny scar marring his cheek, located just below his right eye
. A little crescent of fish-belly white, shaped like a comma. I wonder how he got a scar like that. In any case, he’s not perfect, after all, and I’m glad. It makes him more appealing, more real.

  He catches me staring and clears his throat.

  I say the first thing that comes to my mind to save face. “It’s not just the dying thing, you know. Smoking will ruin your good looks, too.”

  Shit. That just made things worse. Now he knows I think he’s hot.

  Smiling kindly, he says, “Hey, can I let you in on a secret?”

  I shrug. “Yeah, sure, go for it.”

  “I’m not really a smoker. I can take it or leave it. And what I said before was true. I am trying to quit, like, permanently. I wasn’t lying to you about that.”

  “Yeah, I noticed.” I nod to the side of the barn where he was smoking. “Seems like that commitment to quit is really working out well for you.”

  My attempt at smart-assery does not go over well, and I feel like a fool. Great way to make friends, Jaynie.

  In a tired voice beyond his years, he says, “Whatever. Go ahead and make a joke. Sad to say, but sometimes catching a smoke is the only way to get a break around this goddamn place.” Cryptically, he adds, “You’ll see.”

  His bitter tone isn’t lost on me, and I know then and there I was right about this new home—it will be no haven. Not a big surprise there. Eighteen, I remind myself. Eighteen and I am out from under the state’s care.

  “Hey, I didn’t mean to upset you,” he says when he notices my bereft expression.

  “No, no.” I wave my hand around, dismissing his concern. “It’s not you. It’s just…never mind. You know what, I should go.” I gesture to the brick house. “My social worker is inside, and I told her I’d be in.”

  “Ahh,” he drawls. “I figured you were the new girl. Jaynie Cumberland, right?”

  “Yes.” I smile.

  “Hey, it’s good to meet you. If you have any questions about anything, ask away.” He extends his hand. “I’m Flynn, by the way. Flynn O’Neill.”

  I stare down at his waiting hand. Panic I thought I had under control bubbles to the surface. Dammit. I was doing so well. My heart pounds frantically as I go through my limited options.

  Do I try to shake his hand? Or do I ignore him? I really want to come off as normal, and shaking his hand would be the way.

  What the hell, I’m going to go for it.

  I want so badly to get over my issues, so, taking a deep breath, I extend my right hand.

  But just as our fingers are about to touch…I have to back out.

  “I can’t,” I whisper, jerking my hand away.

  I physically can’t touch him or I know I’ll lose it.

  Dropping my arm to my side, I say, “I’m sorry, Flynn. I, uh, I… Just forget it.”

  His reaction is not what I expect. There’s no mocking, no laughing. No walking away from the damaged girl. Instead, in a soft and understanding tone, Flynn says. “Hey, don’t worry about it.” He raises the hand he was holding out to me and rubs the tiniest bit of scruff on his jaw, like that’s what he intended to do all along.

  I try to muster a smile, but fail. “Sorry,” I whisper.

  “You don’t have to keep apologizing.” His eyes fill with sadness and knowledge, telling me that he, too, has seen too much. “I get it, Jaynie, I do.”

  In that moment, something indefinable is born between us, some feeling that rocks me to the core. You know how sometimes you meet a person and you have this overwhelming sense they’re going to play an important role in your life? Well, that’s the feeling I get with Flynn.

  I know, I just know from somewhere in the deep recesses of my damaged soul that this guy will be the one to help me heal. I sense he has the power to break through my walls, help me find me. Hell, he broke through one wall today. I mean, I couldn’t touch him, true, but I’m not running away from him, now am I?

  No, I am not. And the best part is I don’t want to run away, not from Flynn O’Neill.

  Jaynie

  The next several days are a jumble of things to learn, most of which are rules, lots and lots of rules, not many allowances.

  Saundra was told work was voluntary. Ha, not even close to the truth.

  My social worker’s little car was barely halfway down the driveway when Mrs. Lowry spun toward me on the front porch, teetering on her too-high heels. “You’re to be showered and dressed by seven-thirty every day.” She ticked off her points, manicured nails flashing red. “Monday through Saturday, at eight o’clock sharp, home-schooling commences in the pole barn. You’ll find a small classroom set up in the back. Sunday is for chores and finishing up projects not completed during the week. Lunch is always at noon. On work days, you work in the barn until six or seven in the evening. Got it?”

  “Yes,” I replied. My stomach growled like it knew what was coming. “What about breakfast and dinner?”

  Mrs. Lowry harrumphed. “You’ll receive a nutrition bar daily for breakfast. As for dinner, it’s only served if you make your work quotas. The quantities and types of meals vary, but hot dogs are on the menu a couple times a week.”

  She smiled wickedly, like hot dogs constituted a gourmet meal.

  Turns out, they do. And that conversation should have been a clue. Eight days have passed so far, and we’ve had dinner only three of those days. Hot dogs each time, and one per person, no seconds. As a result, I’ve lost weight already. My leggings, skirts, and sweaters hang on my frame. I’ll be far too thin soon enough, like everyone else in this wretched place.

  Alas, there is nothing I can do about it. Except count the days till I’m eighteen—211.

  Sighing, I scan the barn for the boy who makes me smile every day, despite everything. Flynn is quickly becoming my bright star, one that manages to be seen even on the cloudiest of nights.

  My star, however, is nowhere to be seen on this day. And frankly, I’m a little worried. It’s lunchtime, and missing lunch is nuts. It’s the only sure meal of the day, not counting the dried-out nutrition bars we receive for breakfast.

  I can’t think of food, not now. I am far too hungry. So, I return to thinking of Flynn and where he might be. He doesn’t always attend classes. I have no idea how he gets away with that. But because this deviation from routine is permissible for him, Flynn missing this morning’s lesson seemed like no big deal. Work hours are fast approaching, though, and as Mrs. Lowry made clear to me on day one, laboring on crafts is absolutely mandatory.

  As I take a bite of a limp apple slice—we are allotted one per lunch, along with a small half-sandwich, a pint of milk, and sometimes, if we’re lucky, a tiny bag of chips—I stare at the empty chair across from me. That’s where Flynn always sits.

  We don’t interact much during school hours since there’s too much work to cram in, but yesterday I did glance over at him at one point and he winked at me. I’d been surreptitiously tearing the wrapper away from the extra nutrition bar I had nabbed at breakfast. Flynn showed me that little trick one morning last week—how to palm two bars instead of one. Mrs. Lowry always stands guard over the box on the counter, but she never really pays much attention when we walk by and grab our breakfast before heading out to the barn. Palming two bars instead of one isn’t all that difficult.

  When we walked outside that morning, Flynn gave both his breakfast bars to the twins. I wanted to be as magnanimous when I grabbed two bars the next day, but I was far too hungry to share.

  Finishing with my apple slice, I glance over at the girl my age, the one with the matching auburn hair. Her name is Mandy, and she sits next to me during class. I notice she hasn’t touched her food yet today. Though it’s only because she’s been too busy helping one of the twins—the boy, whose name is Cody—with a number of tasks. Cody sits across the table from me, next to where Flynn should be. Cody has thrown several glances to Flynn’s chair—maybe even as many as I have—but at the moment he is preoccupied with struggling to open his bag of chips. />
  Mandy swoops in to help him.

  Cody seems to have trouble every day with something, especially schoolwork. It’s clear he has a learning disability. Yesterday, he couldn’t even complete his printing lesson. Flynn had to take him aside to show him how to make his letters right-side up and also not backwards.

  And now Cody can’t open his bag of chips. His sister, Callie, seated next to Mandy, two seats away from me, rips open her bag with ease.

  As Callie crunch-crunch-crunches away, I realize something. The atmosphere in the barn feels different with no Flynn around. The space is too big, too empty, and far too quiet. Flynn is always making conversation with everyone during lunch and often telling silly jokes that never fail to get everyone laughing, especially the twins.

  He’s such a good guy, and I like him a lot as a person. I’m surprisingly at ease around him, too. It’s like our conversation the day I arrived broke the ice. Still, Flynn doesn’t try to touch me, not after the failed attempt at a handshake on day one. He gives me my space, and as a result, my feelings for him grow and grow. I guess Flynn is quickly becoming my first official crush.

  You know what, though? It feels really good knowing there’s something still normal about me. A crush gives me hope that there may be a regular ‘ole teenage girl buried beneath all the fucked-up stuff.

  “I hope so,” I mutter to myself.

  Mandy glances over at me. “What’s that, Jaynie?” she asks.

  “Oh, it’s nothing. I was just talking to myself.”

  She chuckles. “Sometimes it feels good to hear your own voice, right?”

  “Right.” I agree.

  I know Mandy would like if I talked more in general, interact with everyone more than I do. And I’m trying, I really am. I want to get along, especially since I feel like I kind of fit in around here. I like that I can be myself around Mandy. My weirdness seems to be okay with her. She’s been nice to me since day one, thank God. My first night, I was a mess. Up in the small bedroom we share with Callie on the third floor of the main house, Mandy was the one who calmed me down. She showed me which bed—nothing but a twin mattress on the floor actually, pushed up against a wall—was mine. And since my mattress was bare, she searched around till she found a sheet set and two pillows buried in the closet. She was also kind enough to give me a blanket from her own bed, which is a full-size mattress situated about four feet from mine. Her bed is in the center of the room, with Callie’s twin bed on the opposite wall from mine.