Promise Me

by Robin Bielman, Samanthe Beck

  “But it never happened.”

  He’s falling with me now, and I’m sorry for it, but there’s no way to shortcut the distance or soften the impact. We’re going to go all the way down, we’re going to hit hard, and afterward, things won’t be the same. “I can still feel the vibrations moving up my arms and through my body as I tried to handle the steering wheel, tried to keep control of his truck so it wouldn’t spin out. I’d taken a curve in the road too fast, distracted by Mason’s hands on my body and his voice in my ear urging me to go faster. I was too drunk to question my actions. The radio was blasting, the big V-6 engine roaring, and yet I heard this strange silence between my mind whispering Oh shit, and Mason yelling ‘Look out!’ Sometimes when I close my eyes I can recapture the sickening weightless sensation just before we plowed into a tree, but the moment of impact remains a blackout.” My breathing seesaws as guilt and pain lance through my chest. “All I remember is a rain of sticky glass particles pelting my face.”

  “Jesus,” Vaughn says so softly I barely hear it. He wraps his arm around my shoulders and brings me closer, turning his body so it forms a barrier between me and the rest of the restaurant. Not just to comfort me, I realize, but to shield me from the curious stares of other diners. He thinks he knows where this fall from grace ends, and he’s gallantly trying to protect me. He doesn’t know, but I’m beyond grateful for his attempt. It puts him in a small, trusted circle. My parents protect me. Brit protects me. But most of the people Mason and I grew up with judged me—some silently, some loudly, almost all without a shred of mercy. I could never go through that again. It’s one of the reasons I don’t go home often or stay more than a few days.

  I guess I’ve been silent for too long because Vaughn whispers, “Mason?”

  “He didn’t have his seatbelt on and went through the windshield.” A tear trickles down my face. Vaughn gently wipes it away with the pad of his thumb.

  “I’m so sorry.”

  He thinks we’ve hit bottom, and I’m bizarrely tempted to let him believe it, but the truth is we’re still falling. “Me, too. I’m sorrier than I can ever express, but…” And down we go. “He didn’t die. He suffered severe brain trauma. He’s still breathing, but otherwise unresponsive.” The tears start to fall more heavily, because I hate this part the most. Seeking escape, I turn away from Vaughn and lean my forehead against the wall. “We were supposed to go to college together, get married, work together, and have babies together. We had it all planned out.”

  The arm around my shoulder gently pulls me into the safe harbor of his chest. “You loved him.”

  “I loved him so much. A part of me always will, and it’s like an anchor around my heart.”

  Vaughn’s regard is tangible, like he’s realigning all this new knowledge to piece together my past. Prom…hotel room…my virginity…my hesitation to get involved with him.

  “I understand,” he says with tenderness I’m not sure I deserve. “When was the last time you saw him?”

  This is one of the toughest things for me to accept. “I saw him in the hospital briefly after the accident.” I close my eyes to block the worst of it. “I wasn’t supposed to. I had broken ribs and a concussion, but I needed to know how he was. People kept saying, ‘He’s alive,’ without meeting my eyes. I couldn’t take it anymore. I had to see for myself, so I snuck down the hall to ICU. Apparently the nurses found me screaming and crying hysterically in his room. They had to sedate me. After that neither my parents nor Mason’s wanted me to see him. Everyone thought it would be…damaging.”

  “I get that,” he says quickly. “But now, after this much time, it might help—”

  “His parents still aren’t open to it. His mom says he wouldn’t want me to see him the way he is now, and he deserves to be remembered as young, vital, full of life. She’s protecting him. And in a way, me, too. I want to remember him looking strong and vibrant in his football uniform, his jeans and T-shirts, his tux that night. I can’t blame her, but—”

  “But you don’t have closure. That weight you feel around your heart, that anchor? It’s not him. It’s you. This is your life. You’re in charge of charting your course, and you have to decide when it’s time to let go.”

  I nod, because deep down I know he’s right. It took a suspended license, sixteen months of community service, three years of probation, mandatory alcohol awareness training, and hours of therapy to get me to this truth. “The last four years have been one long, slow exercise in letting go and learning to reach out again. I let go of the dreams I shared with Mason. I let go of my hope for forgiveness from our old friends, who wouldn’t look me in the eye but whispered behind my back. Eventually I let go of self-hate and bitterness, which weren’t getting me anywhere but were hurting the people who love me a great deal. I reached for ways to make my life meaningful. I reached for New York and college. I reached for new friends and new goals.”

  “And you succeeded,” Vaughn says.

  I’m proud that he thinks so. “Mostly. There are things I’ll never fully let go of. Regret will stay with me always, and it should. Some of the goals I’m reaching for don’t feel right for me anymore, but to please my dad maybe I need to give them a chance. And then there’s the whole virginity thing.”

  Our meals arrive, and I’m grateful for the distraction even though I can’t eat a bite. Vaughn’s been beyond understanding, but it’s time to let him off the hook. “Thanks for listening to all of this, but we can go if you want. I’m sure it wasn’t the date you imagined.”

  Vaughn shifts just enough to allow us room to eat. “I imagined getting to know you better. I don’t see how we do that without honest conversation.” He slides linen-wrapped utensils my way. “Thank you for confiding in me.”

  Relief I didn’t anticipate washes through me, leaving my head light. To hold myself together, I unroll the utensils and cut into my steak. “I wanted you to know me—ugly parts included—before things between us got too…friendly.”

  “Are things between us going to get friendlier?”

  “I don’t know,” I admit, but something inside me flutters at the prospect. It could be panic.

  “Can I ask you one more thing?”

  He can ask me anything at this point. I literally have nothing left to hide. “Sure.”

  “Is ‘the whole virginity thing’ something you’re trying to hold onto, or let go of?”

  This question, off another guy’s lips, might compel me to slap his face and say, “I just shared my most painful secrets with you, and you’re trying to figure out whether you have a shot at getting laid?” But the concern in Vaughn’s eyes as he searches my face tells me it’s the exact opposite. He’s trying to figure out what I want. He’s putting me in charge of how…ahem…friendly we get. He’ll play it my way. A new lump forms in my throat, and I take a sip of water to ease it before answering. “I think, for a long time, it was something I held onto out of love, loyalty, or guilt—probably a combination of all three—but it’s difficult to say for sure because nobody really tempted me. Until now.”

  His quick smile assures me that last part went straight to his ego, but then he tips his head and strokes his thumb along my cheekbone. “Maybe you’re tempted now because you’re ready?”

  Or maybe I’m tempted because it’s him? Attraction is one thing, but a man who listens without flinching while I unpack more emotional baggage than he could possibly have bargained for? I could really fall for him.

  I place the fork on the plate at the wayward thought and lean away. “Yes, I think so. But I’m here for the summer.” Getting too attached will just break my heart and, given the delicate state it’s still in, that’s a mistake I can’t afford. Time for a reality check. “And we’re on very different trajectories. You’re destined for fame, be it from America Rocks or something else, you’re going to get there. I would never want that spotlight to somehow spill over onto me. I can’t hold up to it, and I can’t do it to Mason, my parents, or his. I need my p
rivacy.”

  “Kendall, I would never tell anybody the things you told me tonight.”

  I clasp his hand. “I know you wouldn’t, but as your career takes off, your fans will be curious about your life. Especially who you’re friendly with. The media will do their best to feed that curiosity.”

  Vaughn breaks eye contact to motion to the waiter for our check. “Right now, this summer, I can keep things on the down-low. Even friendship. I promise.”

  The coil of tension inside me loosens. I finger-comb his hair back from his forehead and can’t help giving him a smile. “Friends for the summer?”

  “Friends forever,” he corrects, and adds a wink. “Down-low for the summer. You up for a movie or something?”

  I love that he doesn’t want our date to end, but after getting so little sleep last night, I’m tired. I also know myself. I need some time alone to process everything. Sharing Mason with him has left me feeling a new kind of vulnerability.

  “I’m actually pretty wiped. Another time?”

  “Absolutely.”

  We talk about less charged topics on the drive home—things I like about Los Angeles, things I miss about New York, and whether one is required to root for “da Bears” when one attends school in Illinois. We’re laughing at each other’s Chicaaaago accents by the time he parks in my aunt’s driveway. He’s out of the car and around to my door before I release my seatbelt. His bigger, stronger hand takes mine to help me out. Our fingers remain comfortably entwined on the short walk to the front door.

  “Thank you for dinner,” I say. “I’m really glad we talked.” The words aren’t exactly the right ones given everything I’ve revealed. But specific, more meaningful words would be too much. They’d put too much pressure on both of us.

  He releases my hand and, rather than step forward to give me a kiss good night like I think he will, he takes a step back. “Me, too.”

  I refuse to read anything negative into the distance he’s putting between us. Tonight was intimate enough without adding anything physical, and I know he doesn’t want to pressure me on “the whole virginity thing.” Still, I can’t stop myself from leaning forward and going up on tiptoes to kiss his cheek. “Good night.”

  He lets out a long breath, the only indication I have that separating is equally hard for him. That he wants more, but he’s taking my another time to heart.

  “Good night, angel.” He backs up another step. Then another and another, his eyes never leaving mine.

  When he pauses, I think maybe he’s changed his mind about a more serious kiss, but he doesn’t retrace his steps. “You busy Saturday night?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Come to dinner at my house.”

  “I thought you didn’t cook.”

  “I have a few skills. Trust me to get it right.” One corner of his mouth curves up into a very wicked smile. “What have you got to lose?”

  The question puts a tremble in my stomach. We both know exactly what I have to lose. “Okay.”

  “Seven?” he asks, as if any woman could say no when he uses that grin.

  “Seven.” I watch his retreat, waiting until I hear his car start before I slip my key in the lock and turn the handle. Once inside, I press my back against the thick wood and let out a long, uneven breath.

  Hello, virginity? It’s me, Kendall. I know we’ve been through a lot together, but I think it’s time to give you up.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Vaughn

  There are worse ways to spend a Tuesday afternoon than on the terrace of a suite at The Peninsula. I’ve been to the posh Beverly Hills hotel before, for parties and events, but this is the first time I’ve been here for work. Sitting on a cushioned chair under a shady awning surrounded by two beautiful women might not look like work, but I’m five hours into day two of a music video shoot for the first single from last year’s America Rocks winner’s debut album, and I can personally attest to the fact it is work.

  I’d like to think being cast for Laney Albright’s video means I’m a lock for show host, but it doesn’t work that way. The America Rocks producers don’t oversee the recording side. They partner with a major record label, and it’s the label who finances the album, videos, and associated music promotion stuff. To separate things by another degree, the video production company is a completely independent entity, so it’s not like an America Rocks casting director put me in this chair. At least not directly.

  All that acknowledged, we’re not going to waste the chance to build more speculation. The shoot has wrapped, but I’m sitting next to Laney and across from entertainment reporter Kit Hoover from Access Live because my deal includes participation in a “behind the scenes of Laney Albright’s upcoming video” interview. It’s all part of a carefully crafted plan devised by the label’s PR team, my publicist, my agent, and my dad. I’ve got a head full of talking points, including Laney’s album—which is awesome—what it’s like to work with her—also awesome—and some generic responses regarding how I feel about my chances of becoming the new host of the show. I’ve been coached on how to deflect any questions that stray too far off topic, plus my dad’s hovering unobtrusively out of camera range “in case things go sideways.”

  As if I’d let that happen. I’ve been interviewed before. Not by such a high-profile outlet as Access Live, but I know how to offer up a charming version of no comment. My job is to smile, project energy, and make the interview exciting.

  And it is exciting, but as I listen to Laney tell Kit how thrilled she is with the album, and how she can’t wait to share it with all the fans who supported her throughout the competition, my mind starts to wander. It drifts to the same place it’s been drifting since I found myself on the receiving end of a driveway tackle—Kendall. I’m still digesting everything she confided during our date the other night. So much about her finally clicks into place. One painful event explains why such an intrinsically outgoing person hesitates to get too close, why such a smart, beautiful girl would hole up in her aunt and uncle’s house all summer if left to her own devices. I know it wasn’t easy for her to talk about what happened. If I could take away all the suffering and give her back the life she expected, I would. But I can’t change the past. All I can do is try to understand what she’s been through…what she’s going through. In some ways I do. I understand what it’s like to stare into a mirror and ask why fate had to fuck with the person I loved? Why not me?

  I also understand there’s no answer to that question. What is, is. She’s here, she’s whole, and she’s doing her best to come up with a purpose for her life, but I can do my damndest to show her she deserves happiness while she’s at it. Starting with—

  “Vaughn, tell us…” Kit’s voice breaks into my thoughts. “Is there any truth to the rumor you and fellow model Rebecca Bismark are”—she pauses a beat to draw out the anticipation —“engaged?”

  I nearly choke on my tongue, and her smile turns coy. Questions about my personal life are technically off-limits. She’s not the first reporter to lean in with her best guileless expression and test the topic, but she is the first to suggest there’s a rumor about Becca and me. Hmm. Wonder who started that? I shoot a quick glance at my dad, but he’s leaning against a pillar, scrolling through his phone.

  “We’re friends,” I say easily, even though the reply feels slippery in my mouth. “I’ve known her for years.” I lean back in my chair and offer the camera a loaded smile. “But I’m not involved with anyone.” Strangely, those words leave a sour aftertaste on my tongue. Or maybe I owe that to two days of people handing me lemon water?

  Kit laughs as if we’re coconspirators and cups a hand behind her ear like she’s listening to something distant. “I think I just heard a huge sigh of relief from our viewers.”

  We wrap the interview after that, I pose for a group shot, and then heave my own mental sigh of relief when the production assistant pops her head through the French doors and confirms I’m good to go.


  Dad saunters over and claps a hand on my shoulder as we move from the terrace to the suite. “Great job with the interview. You handled yourself well, and once it airs, your face and name will be even more firmly connected to America Rocks.”

  “Thanks. Just so you know, I’ve got this.” I strive to keep my irritation locked down, because the middle of a suite crawling with crew is no place to get into a family squabble. “You don’t need to babysit me.”

  “I can see that, but I wanted everything to go perfectly so…” He shrugs. “An abundance of caution beats a lifetime of regret. Trust me on this.”

  My irritation bubbles over into frustration. How do I combat logic like that? I don’t know, but it’s time to try. “Dad, I need to—”

  “Hey, how about we grab a bite in the bar and go over the schedule for the rest of the week?”

  “I’m familiar with the schedule.” Tomorrow I fly to Vegas to host a couple pool parties at the Hard Rock. I’ve done it before. It’s nothing to stress over. I fly home late Friday night. Saturday is all mine, and I’m spending it with Kendall. If things go according to plan the same can be said for Sunday.

  “I added a few additional things, including one for this evening.”

  “Without running them past me?” Jesus, I’m losing control of my life.

  “That’s what I’m proposing to do right now,” he fires back. “Look, Vaughn, everything over the next few days is nuts-and-bolts stuff. It’s important, but it doesn’t keep you in the national spotlight—a spotlight burning brighter than ever thanks to Nigel’s private meeting with us on the patio of The Ivy. Letting it fade is a missed opportunity, and you didn’t get to where you are now by missing opportunities, but it’s going to take more than a couple social media posts from Vegas to sustain the interest. My job is to keep the thunder rolling. Nigel and John expect us to do that. They’re watching to see if we can.”