The Promises We Keep (Made for Love Book 1)

by Martin, R. C.

  I look at the clock on my nightstand. 5:30. I wonder what Beckham is doing. Thinking about him makes my eyes fill with tears. I’ve never been so confused about the status of our relationship and the rules by which I should abide. I understand that we’re not together right now and that we’re friends—but I don’t know how to separate Beckham as friend from Beckham as boyfriend. Is it okay for me to text him? Or what about a phone call? Would it be inappropriate to just drop by his apartment to check on him and say hi?

  I don’t know the answers to any of these questions; so while I miss him terribly, I do nothing about it. I don’t call, text, or visit…and neither does he. Does that mean he’s just as confused as I am? Or maybe he’s just giving me space to deal. Perhaps he’s the one who needs the space and he doesn’t wish to talk to me right now—he is the one who called for our separation, after all.

  I moan as I sit up. My stomach growls, reminding me of my blatant neglect of supplying sustenance to keep it satisfied. I look over at my nightstand again and reach for a homemade brownie—the only thing I’ve eaten in the past couple of days.

  When I woke up Sunday night, I was all alone. It broke my heart that Beckham left without saying goodbye. At the same time, though, it was probably better for both of us that he didn’t. The situation was already bad enough as it was without actually having to say goodbye to our relationship as we knew it. But whether we spoke the words or not, the absence of him brought forth more tears. I could barely think straight; it all happened so fast and there were too many thoughts for me to process. The weight of the whole situation was so overwhelming that all I could do was cry.

  At some point, Avery knocked on my door to check on me. When she peeked her head in and found me inconsolable, she crawled into bed with me and held me. Her arms weren’t the ones that I longed to have wrapped around me, but her embrace was the only substitute I would allow. I don’t think I’ve ever loved her more than I did then. I’m so grateful that God saw fit to bless us with each other.

  When I woke up Monday morning, she was still holding me. Sarah was with us, too. She was seated at the end of the bed and her and Avery were talking softly. When they noticed that I was awake, they asked me how I was and all I could offer was a shrug. I was exhausted, mentally, physically, and emotionally. I didn’t want to talk about it and I needed a break from crying so that’s all I could afford to give them. That’s when Sarah pointed at the plate of brownies she had made me. My stomach ached, reminding me that I hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast before church on Sunday. I reached for my first piece and nibbled on it while Sarah assured me that she would cover my shift at Cooper’s that day. I had forgotten that I was supposed to start work and was grateful that she would put in the extra time for me.

  I spent all day missing Beckham. It’s not as if we see each other every day. Mostly, we do, because we live so close to each other, but it’s not always that way. It wasn’t really a matter of time that ignited my longing for him—it was the truth that, for the moment, we didn’t belong to each other. Our physical proximity hadn’t changed, but our emotional connection was greater than that and regardless of the fact that I had seen him the day before, I felt so far way from him knowing that we weren’t together anymore. My heart hurt so much that I couldn’t get out of bed. As I laid around all day, my thoughts became more clear; the fog that had clouded my mind on Sunday had lifted. Instead of being bogged down by tears, I was drowning in a never ending stream of questions and fears and confusion. Then the “what ifs” started piling up in my head.

  What if we never get back together?

  What if this separation changes us and we fall out of love?

  What if he falls out of love and he doesn’t want me anymore?

  What if we’re apart for more than a year?

  What if this is the worst thing that ever happened to us?

  Every once and a while, the “what if” that pops into my head isn’t so bad. Like, what if this is the best thing that ever happened to us? Or what if this makes us love and appreciate each other more than we ever have? But such thoughts are few and far between.

  I press the heel of my hand against my eyes and try and force the tears to go away. I don’t want to think about the last couple days anymore. They were hard enough to endure all on their own; reliving them will not only change nothing, but it will make the rest of today harder to handle. I take a big bite of brownie and exhale, appreciative of the dense chocolatey goodness that awakens every tastebud in my mouth. I know that I really should eat something more nutritious—a banana or broccoli or something. I should probably also go to the gym. My body is practically screaming at me to pull out my yoga mat and relieve some of the stress that has tightened my muscles over the last couple of days. If I’m not careful, I’ll be fat and lonely and unrecognizable. I feel a sad smirk curling up the side of my mouth at my gross exaggeration as I continue to chew my brownie bite.

  Tomorrow. I’ll make myself do some yoga tomorrow. I take another chunk out of my brownie. No promises on the veggie intake, though.

  “Hey,” Avery murmurs as she taps gently on my open door and steps in. She smiles at me and I notice something different about her right away.

  “Hi,” I say, speaking around the food in my mouth. “What’s up?” I ask, suspiciously.

  “You, apparently!” she practically sings as she comes to sit beside me on my bed. “You smell better,” she teases.

  “Oh. Yeah. I thought a shower might be a good idea.”

  “How are you feeling?” she asks, reaching over to play with my still wet hair.

  My eyes well up without my permission and I instantly realize that I hate that question. I might smell better, but the state of my heart is unchanged and addressing it so directly is still painful. “Can we ban that question for a while?” I ask, blinking away my tears as I shove the answer to her question in the back of my mind.

  “Sure,” she agrees enthusiastically.

  I squint at her, curious about her good mood. Not that she isn’t allowed to be in a good mood given that I’m not—but she’s been so careful around me the last couple of days that I can’t help but wonder what has changed. “You’re different. What’s going on?”

  “I got you something,” she admits with bright eyes. “Well, I can’t take all the credit. It was Sonny’s idea.”

  Ah—she’s been with Grayson. What idea could he possibly have concerning me in my current state? I allow my confusion to change the features of my face and she addresses my expression without delay.

  “Tomorrow, you’re going to rejoin the land of the living,” she declares. “I know that you’re sad and I know that you probably will be for a while but I’ve been thinking about it and I realized—you can’t get lost in here.” She moves her arms around, motioning around my room. “It’s really important that you stay you and you aren’t you without all of us.”

  “I feel like I’m not me without Beckham,” I mutter without thinking. I shove the rest of my brownie in my mouth, hoping it will stifle my urge to start crying again.

  She reaches for my hands and gives my fingers a squeeze. “That’s what I’m saying. Beckham isn’t in here—he’s out there; we all are.” She breathes out a sigh and squares her shoulders as she sits up straighter. “Look, I’m not going to sit here and tell you that I understand why Hammy needs this. I mean, his words make coherent sentences, but I’m not God and I can’t understand his heart. I know this all came as a shock to you—to all of us, really—and that it’s difficult for you to make sense of it as well, but I think he feels the same way—and isn’t that proof that Hammy needs some alone time to sort things out?”

  I shake my head and shrug. Her question frustrates me. It’s complicated and I don’t know what I think. She, apparently, doesn’t really need my answer. “The thing is, while he’s busy working on himself, you have to take care of yourself, too. If you don’t, he might not be able to find his way back to you.”

  I didn’t
really have words to give to her before—but now I’m even more speechless. When did she have time to think about this? How has she managed to wrap her head around this situation so completely? Where did she get this wisdom? And does she really think I’m on the brink of losing myself? It’s been two days—“It’s been two days, Ave. I’m just trying to get my bearings.”

  “Yes! I understand. I’m just worried, you know? I’ve never seen you like this.” She squeezes my fingers again and I see the light in her eyes dim a little with concern. “Anyway, I know you’ll need time—but Sonny and I thought that this might help.” She releases my hands as she reaches into her purse and pulls out a leather-bound journal. It’s a beautiful shade of tan with embossed flowers all over the cover. There’s a leather string that connects over the top fold and wraps around the binding in order to keep the pages closed. “It’s a journal.”

  “I’m depressed, not blind,” I mutter. I don’t mean to bite and I try and make up for it by gently reaching for my gift. She relinquishes it, ignoring my comment.

  “We thought you could write in it and use it to process your way through your separation. You can write out your prayers and your feelings just to get them out of your head.”

  I nod, truly appreciative of this gift and the idea behind it. If she only knew the amount of thoughts I’ve had on my mind that I’ve been desperate to get out…desperate to share with Beckham—

  “Sonny even thought you could use it to write to Hammy.”

  My head snaps up and my eyes find hers. How weird is it that she just addressed my thoughts—that Grayson addressed my thoughts?

  “We know that it’s going to be hard not getting to see him or talk to him as much—but that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t let it all out.”

  The tears I’ve been fighting since before she walked into the room rear their ugly head again; this time, I let them fall as I wrap my arms around my sister. “Thank you,” I manage.

  “I love you. I just want you to know that everything is going to be okay—it’s all going to turn out the way it’s supposed to. I’m praying for you and I’m here for you, whatever you need.”

  “I love you, too, AJ.”

  “Have you told mom and dad?”

  I shake my head as I pull away from her. “Not yet. I’m not ready yet.”

  She hums her understanding and doesn’t press the issue, for which I am grateful. She then points at the diminishing plate of brownies. “In the past two days, have you had anything to eat that’s not chocolate?”

  “No,” I mumble. “And don’t bother offering me dinner. I just ate it.”

  “Tomorrow,” she says as she stands. “Land of the living.” When she reaches for a brownie, I scowl at her. She smiles in return—and there it is again, that glint in her eyes. “This is for your own good. If I eat one, there’s one less to consume; and when they’re gone, you’ll be forced to eat something that resembles an actual meal.” She takes a bite as if to emphasize her point. “I’m going to go play for a bit. Consider it mood music to encourage your first journaling session.” She winks at me, as if to convey how clever she thinks she is, and pulls my door partway closed—whether that’s for privacy or so that there is a buffer between me and the sound of her cello playing, I’m not sure; but when her music starts to waft into my room, I do want to write. So I open my new journal and I do just that.

  When I wake up Wednesday morning, I force myself out of bed and into a pair of yoga pants, a tank top, and a hoodie. It’s impossible for me not to think of Beck—so I do; while I’m pulling my hair up into a ponytail, while I’m checking to make sure I’ve got my keys in my purse, while I’m slipping into a pair of flip-flops, when I tuck my yoga mat under my arm, and especially when I grab one of two of my remaining brownie squares and head out the door.

  It dawns on me as I step outside that I haven’t breathed in a single breath of fresh air since we broke up.

  Broke up—the truth still makes me cringe.

  Part of me hopes that I’ll run into him on my way to my car. I’m dying to see him, to talk to him, to know how he is. Another part of me knows that if I see him, I’ll just dissolve into a puddle of tears. I’ve already decided that I can’t go there right now—right now I need to head to the yoga studio and be amongst the living, as AJ refers to the world that still goes on outside our front door. It’s just a little past eight thirty. The next class starts in about twenty minutes.

  Thankfully, I suppose, I don’t run into him on my way to my car and fifteen minutes later, I’m walking into the yoga studio in Old Town. The class is a popular one, I note—and very female heavy. Not that it’s unusual, but I’ve not ever been to this class before and it’s an observation I can’t really miss. My school schedule usually had me attending classes in the evening when I could squeeze one in between homework or my occasional shift at Cooper’s. While those sessions were predominantly female, there were always a least a handful of guys in attendance. Are there any men in here? Or—crap—is this a mommies only class?

  I shrug off the question and the attached curiosity. I'm here now and I'm not leaving, mommy class or not. I spread my mat out in the back of the room, not really interested in competing for a spot closer to the front. I’m feeling pretty anti-social, but my body needs this; at least, that’s what I keep telling myself. When the instructor for the class walks in, the chatter in the room grows a little louder. I can’t see his face, but I can see his body. Then it clicks and I assume that his toned, lean, build is why there are so many females in this session. When he speaks, I can’t help but smile at the sound of his velvety, low voice—not because it makes me want to swoon, but because I'm positive it has that effect on at least half of the women in this room. Considering my height deficiency, I can’t actually see his face, but I can imagine it’s just as enticing. Luckily, I’m here for the yoga, not the hot instructor.

  Five minutes into the workout, my body starts to speak of its appreciation for my efforts. I begin to relax as we flow through each movement. I’m familiar enough with the various poses that I can concentrate on my breathing instead of whether or not my technique is right. I make it a whole forty minutes without feeling sorry for myself, which I find impressive, and then, out of nowhere, the tears come.

  I can’t even be sure what has happened to trigger this outburst. One second I’m fine, the next…I’m in child’s pose, clamping my lips together in an attempt to muffle my cry. The class goes on without me, but I can’t move. It takes every ounce of energy I have to keep my sobs silent—my body tenses with the effort. Well—so much for stretching out my tight muscles.

  “Hey, are you alright?”

  My body stiffens even more at the sound of his voice. When I peek underneath my outstretched arm, I see the instructor—what is his name again?—crouched down beside me, balancing on the balls of his feet. His hushed tone conveys his concern. At least, I’m pretty sure he’s concerned. I can’t see his face to be sure. Either way, I appreciate his efforts to not draw attention to me—but his very presence draws attention to me, so he kind of missed the mark on that one. He’s made his way around the room a few times throughout this session, but he hasn’t stopped in my corner until now. I want to tell him I’m fine, but when I open my mouth, the only thing that comes out is an embarrassing croaking sound. I immediately cover my mouth with one of my hands, keeping my head down.

  “Are you hurt?” he asks, dropping to his knees.

  Yes! I want to scream, but I don't. I know what he means, so I shake my head and try and calm down enough to take a deep breath. I have to get out of here. No way I'm going to get myself together with an audience; and yeah, I'm sure by now I have an audience larger than one.

  I’m standing before I can talk myself out of it and I’m out the door even faster. My feet and arms are bare and, despite it being the second week in May, it's cool in the shade. I don't care though. I can't go back in there until the class is over. I suck it up, rubbing my hands up and down my arm
s as I plop down on the step just outside the studio entrance and concentrate on taking deep breaths. I’m so focused on stoping my tears that I don't hear the door open behind me. I jump when I feel my hoodie being draped around my shoulders. I look over and see a pair of familiar feet and then, suddenly, the instructor is sitting beside me.

  I was right about his face. I can tell he’s older than me, but probably not by much—maybe five or six years. It’s his lack of boyish charm that gives it away. He’s all man. He’s got dark brown eyes outlined with thick eyelashes and a gorgeously chiseled face, complete with a goatee that he wears well. So that's why this class is so popular.

  “Excuse me?”

  I realize, too late, that my last thought was spoken aloud. However, considering the meltdown I just had, I'm beyond the point of mortification, so I offer clarification. “Your face,” I say, circling a finger around my own head to make myself perfectly clear. “You have a very attractive face.”

  He smiles, showing off his straight teeth, and I nod to myself as he continues to prove my point. “Thank you,” he says kindly, handing me my flip flops.

  “Oh. Thanks,” I reply as I take them and slip them onto my feet. I notice that he also brought my purse and my yoga mat. “You didn't have to bring me my stuff. I was going to come back for it eventually. You know, once everyone left. Speaking of which, shouldn't you be in there?”

  “I’ve got it covered,” he assures me, waving a hand over his shoulder to signal that he’s not worried about it. “You seemed pretty upset. I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”

  He looks me right in the eye when he says it and I can tell he’s not flirting; his concern is genuine. Yet, whether his intentions are innocent or not, I’m still taken aback by his kindness and I find that I can no longer look him in the eyes. I pull my gaze away from his and look down at my toes before I speak. “That’s really nice of you. You still didn’t have to leave your class.”