by Brea Viragh
Hold Me
Promise Me Series, Book 1
Brea Viragh
Copyright © Brea Viragh, 2016.
All rights reserved. The moral right of the author has been asserted. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior permission in writing of the publisher. Nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than the work in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. This is a work of fiction. The characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Afterword
Acknowledgements
About the Author
CHAPTER ONE
They sat side by side on a fence rail with a wad of Bazooka bubble gum split between them. Sure, it hardened in a snap, but those first few bites were pure joy: a juicy explosion of sweetness, dying faster than a shooting star. The girl chewed and chewed until her teeth ached and the flavor faded down her throat.
The boy stared at her without blinking. “What are you thinking about?” he asked.
Isabel was thinking about how she hated the way the wind teased the unsightly hair on her legs, and was acutely aware of her imminent approach to thirteen. She felt the pressure of that magical number, of becoming a teenager. Would she finally be allowed to borrow a razor to shave her legs?
No, her mother had answered time and again. Twelve is too young to start shaving. Not until you’re older.
“Older” couldn’t come soon enough as far as Isabel was concerned.
“Nothing,” she responded with ease, raising a hand to shield her eyes from the sun. “Mrs. Widener’s test this morning sucked.”
August laughed. Isabel liked the sound, pitched high but bordering on something deeper. The sort of sound that invited everyone to join in and you found yourself laughing without a reason.
“It totally sucked,” he agreed. “She threw in those extra questions and I thought I would die. I failed, no joke.”
Isabel smiled, remembering the algebra test and hoping she passed. She considered herself an intelligent girl, although a few questions threw her even after she’d studied. On those multiple choices, she’d decided to wing it and hope for the best. Everyone said grades mattered, but she doubted one B or A- on a seventh grade test determined the future.
“It’s over now, until the next one Widener decides to throw our way.” Isabel popped her gum. “But I don’t wanna talk about school anymore.”
Instead she focused on the day.
The afternoon sky was so clear she imagined she could see straight to the center of the universe. Not a single cloud dotted the flawless blue, and she wondered whether God ever made a more perfect day. Behind them the wind turned long stalks of grass into an ocean and the field had its own quiet melody that, if the eyes were closed, rivaled the tides.
“I was thinking,” August began, interrupting her daydreams. “I overheard something earlier today…”
She turned and squinted against the sun, her gum cracking. “Yah?”
“My parents are getting a divorce.” He used the word divorce like a person who knew it was impossible to make the earth flat.
Isabel wondered if marriages and relationships came with an expiration date, and staying past time made you sick. Her own parents fast approached their end if the constant fighting was any sign. They tried to hide it, but she was almost a teenager, so she understood those things.
“They made it official?”
“Mom said it herself. She has the papers ready to sign.”
Isabel considered herself a good friend when she waited for August to continue without interrupting.
“And…” she finally prompted when he showed no signs of further comment.
“I was thinking,” he repeated, swinging his legs back and forth.
“You said that already.”
“Well, if neither one of us meets the person we want to marry, like, by the time we’re thirty-five, then why don’t we marry each other?”
It was matter-of-fact, the offhand surety of youth.
Isabel sat for a second pondering the proposition, although at twelve it sounded less like a proposal and more like a backup plan. Besides, those marriage deadlines meant nothing lasted forever.
“Divorce made you think about marriage?” she wanted to know. “That’s stupid.”
August had nice eyes, the same color blue as his mother’s. People in books called it cornflower. Isabel called it pretty. Few boys had those light eyes, so he stood out in a crowd.
He shrugged. “I guess. I don’t know how it came up. But what do you say? I mean, we’ve been best friends since preschool and we pretty much do everything together.”
“True…” Isabel let the word hang in the air.
“It makes sense, right?”
She thought about it for a moment. “Thirty-five is a long way away.” Thirty-five was old. At that age death came knocking at the door.
She knew the way life would turn out for August’s parents. Like the unhappy couples she watched on TV. It was a safer bet to have an alternative in place for when things went wrong.
Besides, what could it hurt? Like August said, they’d been friends forever and fit into each other’s lives better than most. And there was always the expiration date if things got hairy.
“We get along super good,” August asserted.
“Yeah, that’s true.”
“So what do you say?”
Isabel took a deep breath and a final pop before the wad of Bazooka bit the dust. Holding out her hand, she grinned.
“Sure.”
CHAPTER TWO
My name is Isabel Cook, and I was the little girl on the fence rail. Full of excitement for the future and ready to take on the world. Aren’t most children the same? Make no mistake, a double-digit age means little in terms of maturity. At twelve I was a child with no idea of the trials and tribulations ahead.
August and I made it through his parents’ divorce together. I saw as much or more of August’s bedroom as my own, held his hand when angry screams and caterwauls shook the walls down to the foundation. Helped him vent when bitterness and insults salted the air. And when he failed math, I tutored him; friends stand for each other, and I became his rock as surely as he was mine.
One word, one syllable on a lazy afternoon, and a lifetime of other options before me. The fabulous places to go and people to meet meant the sort of contingency we put in place would never come to fruition. The world was big and, having only experienced a miniscule part of it, there were so many paths to take leading away f
rom him.
I assumed as much at the time, and for many years since. Of course, I didn’t think about the proposal after we sealed the deal, a pen knife and a spot of blood making sure we kept our oath. It made sense to agree when I was twelve. I agreed up to the point of meeting my first boyfriend. Then I forgot about August McKenney’s strange scheme to marry us off.
After all, the captain of the debate team fancied me, and at fifteen nothing felt more romantic than a guy who could recite the Declaration of Independence on command. The first few lyrical strains beyond We hold these truths to be self-evident and I turned to putty.
After Adam Finch it was bye-bye August and hello puberty.
By that point the cheerleaders had happily accepted me into their tribe, and August was busy with the band geeks. It was only natural to forget when differing interests and schedules kept us apart. His backwards strategy slipped into the moldy corners of my mind faster than an anchor in the surf.
Not even a plan. A what-if. A parachute you bought and forgot you have because you never, ever fly.
I thought the same—until four months ago. That was a different day, a different woman, and a decidedly different man.
**
“And now the award for Most Likely to Move Back Home goes to…Isabel Cook!”
I plummeted back to high school days the moment my name came over the loudspeaker. My gut flipped awkwardly before nose-diving into my shoes.
In fact, the gym looked the same as it had back then. The school had shelled out big bucks to redo the floor with another coat of varnish but the same banners proclaiming our town’s 2005 win against the Raging Eagles football team waved proudly from the rafters. Other handmade signs urged students to vote for their next student council president and remember Wednesday was meatloaf day.
The place even smelled the same. Resin and the scent of too many bodies crowded in a single space.
“Come on up to the stage and accept your crown, girl!” The microphone squealed in retort. “Isabel Cook, I’m talking to you, it’s your time to shine.”
I shot a pained smile at my date. “Are you sure you’ll be okay on your own, sweetie?” I had to speak loudly to reign supreme over the horde of voices exalting my victory, such as it was.
Duncan, my boyfriend since last year, my newly minted fiancé, and soon-to-be-husband, gave me a light pat on the back. The force of it had me stepping forward on unsteady feet.
“I’m fine,” he said in an attempt to reassure me. “You go up there and accept your prize. Not everyone gets this kind of honor from their old peers.”
“And it’s not every day one has a fifteen-year reunion, either.” With the retort hanging in the air and a small peck on the cheek, I fought my way to the stage with a sinking heart. One spare glance over my shoulder at Duncan’s massive shoulders, standing well above the crowd, and I knew backing out was not an option. At least, not graciously backing out. There was always the good ol’ dry heave excuse.
My smile clung for dear life as I made my careful way up the steps, remembering a moment too late about the loose screw at the top. Yes, some things never change, I thought as I stumbled across the stage and righted myself in the nick of time.
Damn it, why had I worn a dress when I felt awkward even in regular clothes? A simple ivory sheath with ruffles around the neck and a sheer back, it brought out my eyes. Or I wanted to convince myself it did, anyway.
I tried not to think about my Clydesdale feet as I stomped along. They always managed to find every tripping hazard within a ten-mile radius.
“Careful there.” Leslie Gordon feigned sympathy as I crossed to her. She was the Homecoming Queen of my teen years, and don’t you forget it. “You almost went down. That wouldn’t be good, now, would it?”
Leslie clutched the artificial crown to her torso as though the mere act of letting it go meant her doom. I’m not sure why she wanted it. She’d won more than her share during our youth.
“Please, everyone, make some noise for Izzy!” she called again. “We are so happy to have her back.”
I ground my teeth together, bending at the knees so she could complete my plastic coronation. “Yeah, I bet you are.”
“What did you say?” Leslie answered.
“Absolutely nothing. I’m thrilled to be back. I missed everyone like crazy.”
It was embarrassing enough moving back to Heartwood, Virginia, a tiny town no more than a blip located off the Blue Ridge Parkway. I’d grown up there and worked hard to eliminate any shred of it once I moved away at the ripe age of twenty-nine. Let’s just say the hours of practicing a neutral accent in front of a mirror did not go to waste.
The entirety of Heartwood County boasted a single stoplight in the dead center of the town square. That’s it. One. The population was a strange amalgam of Southern farmers and armpit-hair-braiding hippies with a booming artisan trade. Musicians and painters, potters and goat-herders flocked to Heartwood to make their homes amidst the rolling hills.
Instead of shying away from the heavily perfumed embrace, I leaned closer and endured the rounds of clapping from the audience. It shocked me when Leslie locked her hands behind my back and held me prisoner.
“August has been looking for you,” Leslie murmured in my ear. “Keep smiling, dear, keep smiling.”
How did she know I wasn’t smiling? I tried to pull away and found myself stuck. Damn the woman, sniffing for drama and eager to watch the fall-out.
“There, now.” Leslie moved back and studied me up and down. “It’s like old times, right? I said smile, Izzy.”
What other choice did I have? Her words froze me into a living statue, only my eyes darting about with anxious energy. I caught Duncan’s gaze from the middle of the crowd and tried to return the wave he shot in my direction, my movements awkward, choppy. He would hold me down for fear of a seizure if I tried another spasm-like move.
“Let’s have another round of applause for our winner,” Leslie exclaimed, the microphone squeezed in her palm. “Doesn’t she look lovely, folks? And approaching middle age. Wow!”
Yeah, as though Leslie wasn’t expecting another birthday herself. One more jab like that and she may not live to see it. I waved again, trying to act my age while fighting my desire to run.
Run as far and as fast as I could, because August has been looking for me. My head ached at the thought of him, the years flying by where I refused all forms of communication with him because of his interference. Odd how it’s so difficult to forgive and forget.
“Isabel Cook, everyone,” Leslie continued. “Voted Most Likely to Move Back Home. I guess she proved us right, huh? And now the award for Most Likely to get Plastic Surgery, and I’m sure we each have a name in mind…”
I plunged down the steps with less elegance than planned, wanting, no, needing to escape. I hadn’t had the time to compose myself, to ready for an encounter with August.
Duncan moved to meet me at the bottom of the stage. “You looked beautiful up there, babe.” Another chaste kiss on the cheek. “Especially for middle-aged. I’d never believe it, looking at you.”
“Aren’t you a riot today,” I said, grabbing his hand.
Always the kidder, that one. I ignored the well-wishes from those around me as I sought out the exit.
“What are you doing?” Duncan wanted to know. “You seem a little preoccupied. And pale.” The pad of his thumb skidded along my cheek and briefly stopped my flight. “You feeling okay?”
“Just a little claustrophobic from all these people.” I gestured weakly, my crown askew.
“You mean your friends?”
“Who needs friends anymore? I’m ready to get the hell out of here.”
What, were his feet cemented to the ground? I had a hard enough time moving Duncan’s six-foot-four frame on a good day when he wasn’t staring wistfully at the punch bowl.
He took a step at long last, the first rumble of a mountain moving. “I don’t understand your rush. You were gung-ho to come
here in the first place and now you want to bolt to the car. We’ve done a lot of driving these past few weeks, so why not stay and enjoy the party?”
I fought for a plausible excuse and came up with zilch. I couldn’t exactly tell my fiancé the truth. Um, yes, the man I promised to marry when I was twelve is here and wants to speak to me. In order to avoid an awkward confrontation, I suggest you haul ass.
It didn’t sound right in my head, without the actual words forming. Yeah, no way no how was I telling Duncan that.
“I’m feeling a little out of sorts.” I nodded a brief hello in the direction of a former cheerleader hanging from a man’s arm. It took me several seconds to recognize him as her high school sweetie. Was I the only one who’d managed to keep my weight in check?
Duncan shot me a bright smile as his fingers tightened around my hand. “Oh.”
The moment he decided to stop walking again, I was toast. One tiny tug saw me Dirty Dancing my way into his arms in an unbreakable hold.
He leaned in close and I felt his breath on my ear. “You want to fool around, don’t you? Is that why you’re in such a rush to go?”
Eureka!
“God, yes.” I returned the smile, looking up and up until I caught his eyes. Shoulders wide enough to make a killing at professional football made me feel tiny and feminine. “You got me.”
“Not yet, little lady, but I plan on it.”
There it was, the hint of twang accompanied by a wink known to send girls to their knees in his heyday. A native of Alabama, Duncan understood the Southern concept of time. Nothing so concrete as an hour or a minute, but a way of living, a slower-paced, unhurried rambling. The natives called it running on Heartwood time.
It hadn’t taken much convincing to get Duncan on board with moving to southern Virginia. Now I seized the opportunity to flit away. An excuse was an added bonus, like a cherry on top of a slice of chocolate cake.
“Sounds peachy.” I attempted a purr, which burst to life as more of a gargle.