Promise Me

by Robin Bielman, Samanthe Beck

  She stops in the process of taking the box out of the bag. “What?”

  “Give it here.” I reach over and pluck the box out of her hand then I crouch and put my beer on the brick patio. “Turn around.”

  Her hesitant look challenges my command, but she slowly turns around. I take the pendant out of the box and put the box next to the bottle. Then I stand, step close to her—close enough to smell the clean, herbal scent of her shampoo—and drape the pendant around her neck. The key slips low into the three-button front of her shirt for a moment. The very tip nestles between her breasts, and the poke of her nipples through the cotton tells me I’m not the only one who enjoys the unintentional detour. I lean closer to secure the clasp, and the wispy hairs on the back of her neck flutter in the breeze created by my breath.

  “H-have you got it?”

  Her body heat scorches through my shirt. She shifts her weight from one foot to another, and her backside brushes the front of my jeans. I force myself to keep my hands on the clasp and not drop them to her hips to hold her in place while I grind my painfully eager cock into the cushion of her ass.

  There are a hundred girls in your phone who will fuck you up, down, and sideways if you say the word, and you’re down here rubbing up against one who would probably slap your face for even thinking about making a move.

  “Got it.” I smooth my hands over her shoulders and slowly back away.

  She turns to me and touches the pendant.

  “It suits you. Beautiful and delicate, but strong at the core.”

  I don’t know how I expect her to react, but the uncertain look takes me by surprise.

  “I’m… You really don’t know me well enough to say that.”

  “I know when somebody rescues my sorry ass.” I’d like to know more, I almost add, but don’t because I get the feeling she’d run back inside if I uttered the words out loud. Instead I bend to pick up the box and my beer.

  She takes the box from my open hand, and her fingertips feather across my palm. Her eyes lock onto mine again, hold, and something more intense than the casual contact passes between us. She tears her gaze away and looks at my house.

  “You better get back. Sounds like you’ve got company again.”

  I shake my head. “No company, just my roommates watching the game.”

  Dark blond eyebrows lift. “Hearing impaired roommates?”

  I laugh and wander to one of the wrought-iron benches lining the patio. “No. Hardcore Dodgers fans. Sorry. I don’t think they realize anyone’s here. I’ll tell them to turn it down.” On impulse I nod my head toward the house. “Come meet them.”

  She’s quiet for a long moment, staring down at her toes so I can’t read her expression, but I can sense her reluctance. “Come on.” As if it’s settled, I stand and hold out a hand to her. “Let me introduce you. There are only a few people in this world I can always count on, and these guys are two of the best. You should meet them. Get to know your neighbors.”

  Finally she looks up at me with those big blue eyes, and there’s something so torn in their depths I almost look away.

  “We’re not really neighbors, remember? I’m only here temporarily.”

  “Kendall, in the grand scheme of things, we’re all only here temporarily. Wait…are you one of those people who’s afraid to leave the house? No problem. Sit tight. I’ll bring Matt and Dylan over here.”

  She fights a smile now that I’ve called her on her shit. “Okay. Fine. I’ll come say hi,” she says just as my phone chimes with a notification. I pull it out of my pocket to find Becca has posted a picture of the two of us from a party a couple of weeks ago. In it, she’s rolling a joint on my bare stomach. What the ever-loving fuck does she think she’s doing? Yes, weed is legal in California, but it’s not legal across the whole damn country. The next host of America Rocks is not going to be a pothead.

  “Everything okay?” Kendall asks, reminding me where I am. Then a horn blasts from my driveway. “Fuck. That’s my car.” I glance at my watch. “I’ve got a flight to Miami for a photo shoot happening tomorrow. And I need to take care of—”

  “No worries.” She backs away. “You’re busy, which is totally cool. I’ll meet them another time.”

  I nod, finish off the rest of my beer as I make my way across the yard, and call Becca to get her to delete the photo. She laughs in my ear, tells me to chill, until I point out it’s a bad look for both of us. The producers of this film she’s got a shot at probably don’t want to take on a party girl for a key role. That pushes the right button. She relents. Mission accomplished. Career implosion averted. I can live with losing out on America Rocks if I lose on my own merits. But to lose because of a stupid picture of a stupid joint? Not happening as long as I can head it off.

  I haven’t been an out-of-control mess, but I haven’t been a choir boy, either. Are there more compromising photos on someone else’s camera roll? I don’t know, and it’s everything I don’t know that could put me at risk.

  An inner voice that sounds ominously like my father points out, You don’t know Kendall.

  Chapter Seven

  Kendall

  With the sun warming my back and the sparkling, chlorinated water of the swimming pool just a few feet away, I leaf through the pages of Cosmo, stopping on the article, “The Career Inside You—How to Find the Perfect Job for Your Personality.” Could it be that easy? Read a couple of pages and come to a realistic and more importantly, father-approved, occupation? (So far I’ve gotten zero response from the résumés I sent out.) I scan the bold type, searching for the magic words to help me discover what’s inside my head without breaking my dad’s heart. Not only am I following in his professional footsteps, I’m attending the same prestigious law school he did. More than one professor at the University of Chicago has my dad on speed dial. The dean knows stories about my father no one else does. And I’m already on the short list for Law School Musical, a group that puts on a law school parody every spring and was founded by a small group of students that included my father. It was video of my dad performing way back then that sparked my interest in theater. As a young child, I watched those annual performances over and over again, not exactly understanding the songs, but falling in love with the energy and spirit of the performers.

  So it was no surprise, really, when I announced at six years old that I wanted to be an actress. TV, film, Broadway, I dreamed about doing all of it. When I was accepted to NYU, I knew I was that much closer to making my dreams a reality. Mason got accepted, too, into the film school, and aspired to be a director. We’d planned together, worked hard together, and were ready to take New York and our futures by storm. Together.

  Until I ruined it.

  That night changed my life forever. I gave up my dream of acting and stopped believing I could be anything I wanted to be. My so-called friends treated me like an outcast, talked about me behind my back, and looked at me with contempt. I’d wished so hard I could trade places with my boyfriend.

  The magazine slips out of my hands at the thought. Wished, past tense. It took college, therapy, and an amazing friendship with Brit to help me like myself again. Turns out I’m not the only human being who’s made a horrible mistake, and knowing I wasn’t alone, that others got through the regret and shame and self-hatred, made living easier.

  I reach over to grab the magazine then press up from my stomach so I’m sitting cross-legged on the lounge chair. A bead of sweat trickles down the middle of my chest, sliding underneath my bikini top. This afternoon, I’ll resume my job search.

  Dixie wanders into the backyard in nothing but miniscule black bikini bottoms, dark sunglasses, and a shimmering coat of sunscreen. She carries a large clear plastic tumbler full of some icy beverage and a notebook with a pen tucked into the spiral. A red-and-white striped beach towel I recognize from Aunt Sally’s stash drapes her neck. When she catches me looking, she says, “What’s a matter, princess? Never seen tits before?”

  I ignore her
, as I should have done all along. Silence is our friend.

  She, Amber, and I have reached an unspoken truce built on the understanding that we keep to ourselves. We each have our own bedroom and bath, Dixie taking the downstairs guest room rather than her usual room where a Jack and Jill bathroom links to Amber’s. Meals have been hit or miss with our own preferences for eating times. Three cars at our disposal mean we can come and go as we please. Without my aunt here to keep us connected, we’ve found it fairly easy to avoid one another in the six-thousand square foot space and vast city less than a mile down the road.

  This afternoon, however, the only two lounge chairs in the backyard force Dixie and me into close proximity. I was here first, I remind myself. She can lug the free chair to the other side of the pool or skip the effort and go back inside the house.

  Retreat’s not Dixie’s style, though. She settles herself on her stomach in the other chair. “You’re the only freak I know who keeps her top on while lying out alone in the backyard.”

  “I happen to like tan lines and preserving the appearance of my skin on certain areas of my body. Especially these babies,” I say, cupping my boobs. I’m at least a full cup size up on Dixie and don’t mind rubbing it in.

  “Bet that’s the most action they’ve gotten since you landed in Cali.”

  I drop my arms. “Don’t burn your nipples,” I answer sarcastically.

  “I won’t, but I appreciate the concern.”

  At the mention of concern, my mind races to Vaughn. I’ve been the responsible one for four years—the friend who made breakfast for her hungover college roommates, cleared her day to help a classmate study, and stayed up all night to talk when boys behaved badly. It’s my comfort zone, being the one to take an interest in others. Not that I didn’t always like to take care of my friends. I did. But when you screw up so spectacularly, it becomes even more important. I want to give back a thousandfold, knowing it still will never make me even for my sin.

  But last weekend, for the first time in forever, I felt deserving of a guy’s interest. I’d melted under Vaughn’s gentle touch and hard body when he draped the necklace around my neck. Craved more. I was relieved when he had to leave to catch his flight—but a small, long-dormant part of me was woken enough to register disappointment.

  “What is with the grandma attire?” Dixie asks, interrupting my thoughts.

  My white bikini is far from grandma gear. “It’s called a swimsuit. You should try one sometime.” Insult returned, I pick up my magazine and flip back to the article on jobs and personalities. I shove Vaughn out of my mind and focus on my goal for the summer: if I can figure out what I want to do and set a plan in motion, maybe I can avoid law school. The thought of three grueling years of academics for a career I don’t want makes my stomach roil. That my dad expects me to work for his firm afterward is gut-wrenching. Will more time away from my hometown make it easier to go back? Will pretending law makes me happy bleed into my cells enough for me to completely get over breaking the law and destroying the boy I loved?

  “Saving the goods for Prince Charming?”

  God, she never stops. I’m not saving anything for anybody, including a nonexistent Prince Charming, but the careless barb hits home anyway, because the goods have gone unused. I’m still a virgin by choice. Still feel promised to Mason, because when our lives irrevocably changed we were madly in love with each other.

  “Since I’m blessed with the joy of your company this afternoon, I take it you’ve had no luck finding a bartending gig,” I say. “Hard to believe nobody’s fallen for your sparkling personality.”

  She cuts me an annoyed—and dare I think impressed—glance. “Haven’t started looking yet. I put a little savings aside, so I can kick back for a minute. But don’t worry. I’m perfectly capable of standing on my own two feet. Something you’d know nothing about.”

  “You have no clue what I’ve had to deal with,” I fire back, pissed that she thinks she knows what it’s like to walk in my shoes. “Stop thinking you’re the only one who knows life’s not fair.” Rather than wait for her to say anything else, I jump to my feet.

  The swimming pool is freezing, but I’d rather deal with cold water than a cold sister. I’ve attempted a swim twice already and stepped down only to the fourth step, but third time’s the charm. This time, I walk over to the deep end. I stare into the tranquil blue water. Just jump, Kendall.

  Just.

  Jump.

  Laughter—deep, masculine laughter—floats to my ears, and I look up. Beyond my aunt’s beautifully kept backyard and up to the patio next door, Vaughn and another guy have walked outside. My breath catches at the sight of him. Even from a distance he makes my skin heat, my heart stop, then start. A week without any contact has done nothing to diminish this unfamiliar tug toward him.

  I watch him put his hand on the railing near their pool and turn his head in my direction. Our gazes collide. I think the guy next to him is looking at me, too, but I can’t say for sure, because I’m stuck on Vaughn. Tingles break out over my skin.

  There’s something else I can feel. Or sense? It’s weird, and my heart beats faster. On three, Vaughn is silently saying without moving a muscle. Encouraging me to go for it. I quickly drop my gaze and shake off the weird sensation.

  I pull in a deep breath and on the count of three, I dive into the water. I swim underneath, fanning my arms out in smooth, even strokes, using my legs in short, leisurely kicks. It’s blissfully calm, the weightless feeling, the quiet. I forget how chilly the water is and float the last few feet to the shallow end.

  Breaking the surface, I take a deep breath. The sun is quick to warm my shoulders. I dip my head back to smooth my hair away from my face then step up the stairs out of the water. Dixie pays me no attention, so in an uncharacteristic move, I flip her the double bird. It feels good. And then it doesn’t. Because Vaughn claps, having caught my rude gesture, I’m guessing. I immediately drop my arms and, without looking in his direction, hurry back to my chair. I didn’t think he and his friend were still there, watching. Luckily, hedges block their view of where Dixie and I are situated. “I’m so embarrassed.” I palm my cheeks to hide the pinkness I’m sure is there.

  “Why?” Dixie questions as she cranes her neck to see where the applause came from. “Because your bikini turns transparent in water?”

  My bikini is fully lined. I know she’s trying to mess with me, and yet I can’t help but check myself.

  She resumes scribbling in her notebook. “Who’s the hottie with Vaughn?”

  “I don’t know.” I lift up the back of the lounge chair so I can sit against it, my legs straight out in front of me.

  “Of course you don’t,” Dixie huffs in a tone that suggests my uselessness has reached a new benchmark. She doesn’t even bother looking up.

  I contemplate going inside the house to hang out with Snowflake and Google help wanted ads, but I’m not about to let my sister run me off with her toxic attitude. As of this moment, I’m over letting her bother me. The warm SoCal sun is glowing, the air is citrus-fresh, and I’m free to be who and what I want for the rest of the summer.

  Settling more comfortably into my chair, we sit in silence that lasts until I hear a heavy knock, the white picket side gate unlatching, and a guy call out, “Hey, mind if we join you?”

  I don’t recognize the voice, but then I hear his. “It’s Vaughn,” he shouts, his voice deeper than the first, and a little hesitant, like it wasn’t his idea to show up here. “And my friend Dylan.”

  Dixie and I look at each other. My eyes feel like they’re about to cannonball out of their sockets. She’s half naked, for God’s sake. Her eyes, on the other hand, are inscrutable behind dark glasses. I don’t hear the gate close, so I think the guys are waiting for the okay. “Do we mind?” I ask quietly.

  “I don’t mind,” she says, sitting up and slinging the towel around her neck again. She’s covered. Barely.

  “We come with libations,” Dylan sh
outs.

  “Well come on back, then,” Dixie calls in return. I remind myself this is our backyard and I can relax. Vaughn might make me nervous, but I’m in control here.

  “Sweet Jesus,” Dylan says, looking between Dixie and me. His eyes dart to Vaughn and I’m not sure what that’s about, but I don’t have time to ponder it, because then he looks back at Dixie and gives her a full-wattage smile that really is dazzling. She smiles back. It’s not the kind that says she’s impressed. More like she’s clocking his cocky game from a mile away.

  “Hey,” Vaughn says to Dixie with a nod before he turns to look down at me. “Hi.”

  “Hi,” I say softly.

  “This is Dylan.” He gestures over his shoulder with his thumb. “Dylan, meet Kendall and Dixie.”

  “Great to meet you both,” Dylan says. He’s holding a pitcher of what looks like margaritas in one hand and some clear plastic cups in the other. “Hold this for me?” he adds, deliberately handing the pitcher to Dixie.

  She takes it, giving anyone who’s looking flashes of the twins. Vaughn’s not looking, and his lack of interest lifts my heart dangerously close to crush level. Dylan’s a different story. He grabs one of the nearby cushioned chairs, the iron feet scraping the brick while he gets comfortable next to her lounge chair.

  “That spot taken?” Vaughn says. He nods right next to me, and my pulse gallops.

  I’ve thought about him a lot this week. A. Lot. I followed him on Instagram for a glimpse into his model life—and grinned like a fool when he followed me back. Most recently, he posted a couple of pictures from his photo shoot in Miami. I posted one of me eating a hot dog from Pink’s Hot Dogs. (For the record, it wasn’t as good as Mo’s.) Our lives are completely different. His face is on display for millions to fall in love with. He hangs out with celebrities, travels, parties. I’m most comfortable in my pajamas, savor solitude, and sometimes feel like I carry the weight of the world on my shoulders. The very last thing I want is to be on people’s radar. Once upon a time I dreamed of being in the spotlight, but not anymore. Part of the reason I gave up on acting is because I value my privacy. Call me a coward, but I can’t handle having my mistakes splashed around for public consumption. It’s not that I don’t own them—I do—but they affect more people than just me, and I never forget that.