The Promise

by River Laurent

  I don’t hear her stomp down the stairs. I don’t hear anything.

  Maybe she’s in the shower? I ring again, then knock a few times and call. Still nothing. I look around—the street’s empty. No sign of her.

  I call, knock again, and press my ear to the door. I don’t hear a sound. It feels as if there is no one home.

  “What the hell?” I mutter and move towards the window. It’s locked, with the curtains only half-drawn. It’s dark in there. There isn’t even any light in the upstairs hall.

  I pull out my phone to see if she called. She hasn’t, and there aren’t any texts. Dread blooms in my chest. What the hell game is she playing? No, not a game. She doesn’t play games. There has to be a good reason. Thank God I had the presence of mind to exchange numbers with her last night. I call her number and wait, but there’s no answer.

  “Taylor, what’s going on? I got here and you’re gone. Tell me you’re okay, please,” I say into the answering machine. I hang up and pace back and forth a few times in front of her door, replaying everything from this morning. No, nothing happened between us that would make her leave. There’s got to be something else.

  I cup my hands around my eyes and lean in to peer through the window again. I have to wait a minute for my eyes to adjust to the almost nonexistent light. Slowly, the furniture starts to come into focus. I see the couch and the coffee table …

  Wait. I squint to get a better look. There’s a pair of sunglasses sitting on the table. I’ve never seen Taylor wear a pair like that, with the interlocking C’s on the arms, up by the hinges. Chanel.

  I do know somebody else who wears the exact same sunglasses.

  I take a step back, away from the window. No. It’s not possible. Why would she come here? Yeah, they could be somebody else’s sunglasses, but there are very few women in this town who can afford to fly to New York for their sunglasses and it would be too big a coincidence for another Chanel-wearing woman to pay Taylor a visit while I was gone. Was she watching the house? Waiting for the moment when I was away? To do what?

  “Are you looking for Taylor?”

  I spin on my heel at the sound of the loud, almost angry voice. I recognize the old lady standing on the sidewalk, leaning on a walker with a Schnauzer on a leash in front of her. It’s a small town, after all. There are no strangers. Mrs. Davenport, who lives three doors away, at least she did eight years ago.

  “Yes. Do you know where she went, Mrs. Davenport?” I give her a smile. A little charm never hurt. From the way her frown lines only deepen, I guess charm hasn’t worked on her since Roosevelt was President. The first one.

  “She ran out of here and into the back of a long black car. They practically ran me down.” She sniffs like she was hurt when I bet she could kill a bull with that walker of hers.

  “You wouldn’t happen to know where she was going, would you?”

  “Nope,” she says and carries on her way. It’s not like I need her to tell me, anyway. There’s only one other place in town where Taylor would run to. Her hotel is fifteen minutes away, twenty if there’s traffic. I grab the muffins—why they matter, I have no idea—and rush back to the car. It’s about time for this thing to show me what it’s capable of.

  I slam my foot on the gas, my hands are clenched around the steering wheel so hard, my knuckles are white. Hell, I don’t even have Victoria’s number anymore. If I did, I’d call that bitch and ask her what the hell she’s been smoking to make her think she had a right to go to Taylor. What the fuck did she tell her? What the hell could she possibly say? Whatever it was, it was enough to make Taylor run away.

  When I left, she was laughing and happy and relieved when I told her I wasn’t going away for good. A girl didn’t turn on a dime like that without any reason. She wouldn’t do just the thing she was afraid I would do. If there was an emergency, like something back home, she wouldn’t have run away without saying a word. I would’ve gotten a phone call, a note on the door, something. Not radio silence. Not an empty house.

  Victoria always hated Taylor. I can just imagine her going to the house once she knew I wasn’t around and telling Taylor all sorts of shit about me, about us being together years ago. I’ll never forget those days, when my mother tried everything she could think of to shove Victoria and me into a relationship. It didn’t work. I could never get past the fact that she hated Taylor. I couldn’t be with someone who bore such malice to the woman I loved.

  Besides she wasn’t Taylor. As a matter of fact, she wasn’t even anybody I liked very much. Even if I couldn’t have Taylor, I didn’t want some pale copy of her without half the heart or kindness of the original.

  I must look like a crazy person when I reach the front desk at the hotel, the car still idling in front of the entrance. The clerk looks at me with mournful eyes. “I’m sorry, Mr. Finley, but she’s checked out.”

  My stomach drops like I’m taking the first drop on a roller coaster. “Excuse me?”

  “Yes. You just missed her. She left more than half an hour ago.” A shrug, then back to business as usual. He has no idea I’m standing here with my heart somewhere around my ankles.

  She has to be at the airport. If she thinks I’m letting her go without a fight, she’s out of her mind. I rush back to the car and floor it, tires squealing as I peel out onto the street.

  I wasn’t kidding when I said I’m not letting her go again.

  Taylor

  Who is that girl, sitting there in an uncomfortable metal chair in the middle of the airport? I see her in the mirrored wall but I don’t know her, and it’s not just because she’s traveling incognito. Even without the hat and sunglasses, I wouldn’t know her. She sits with her shoulders slumped, her spine curved. Her skin is a strange shade of pasty. If I didn’t know better, I would think she slathered her face in gray concealer. Why anybody would do that, I don’t know, but that’s how she looks.

  Her mouth too. Both corners hanging down. It pulls the muscles of her cheeks down, too, so she looks a lot older than she is. Are those frown lines? Let’s not even discuss the lank hair. Not blow drying will do that.

  I shift my body in a feeble attempt to get comfortable. Talk about a waste of time. I’m fairly sure these chairs were designed by torture enthusiasts. I miss the first class lounge, but there weren’t any first class seats available on my flight. Maybe I shouldn’t have been in such a hurry to take whatever was available first. That would’ve meant being able to think with a clear head, and I was way beyond that point when I fled my hotel. Now that nearly an hour or so has passed, I’m starting to regret running without getting an explanation.

  Like I needed one more thing to regret.

  I should have calmly waited at the hotel for him to show up. Then I would have dealt with him in a cold and decisive way. No matter what he said or what explanation his smooth tongue came up with I would know not to forgive him. If he tried to use his hypnotic eyes on me I would just look away. There’s not a thing he can do or say to change my mind.

  Beside I want to hear the story from his mouth. I want to know why he thought it was all right to use me the way he did. I want to watch him scramble and stutter and try to convince me again that he’s a good guy. I want to watch his jaw drop when I tell him I know Victoria is pregnant. It’s not fair that he should get off without having to deal with the way he hurt me.

  I shake my head and look down at my phone, trying to distract myself. No, being face-to-face with him wouldn’t help anything. Having to see him again and remember the way things were last night—the entire time we were together—wouldn’t help at all.

  I scroll through my Instagram feed and see how many of my so-called friends are living it up right now. One of them is in Bali, another in Hawaii. One of them is currently looking around for a villa on Lake Como. Even the ones who aren’t traveling, who take pictures of themselves by the pool or hanging out in their rec room, look like they might as well be staying at a spa. They’re all tanned and pampered and fake. And th
is is all I have. I close the app before my mood spirals any further out of control.

  That’s when I hear them. Whispering. They’re off to my left, two rows back. Young girls. I can’t tell how many there are—they all sound the same. Especially when they’re trying to be sneaky. I’ve been through this more times than I can count, and I learned a long time ago to ignore them until they approach. Ignore them, but be aware of them. It’s like having fangirl radar installed in my brain.

  Part of me rebels furiously. Is it too much to ask that I be able to suffer in peace? No, I’m not allowed to live my life. It’s the public first, me second. I’m falling apart inside, but if those girls were to approach me right now, I would have to put on a smile and pretend that seeing them is the biggest treat in my day. If I didn’t, if I frowned or acted tired or distant, I would instantly be classed as arrogant, nasty, bitchy, and too big for my boots. Taylor doesn’t appreciate her fans. Doesn’t she realize they made her. Without them she is nothing.

  When I see gossip about other celebrities caught “behaving badly”, I always have to wonder what happened to them that day. Why did they act that way? Nobody ever bothers to find out why the celebrity gave a group of screaming fans the cold shoulder. Maybe her dog got sick. Maybe her kid got sick. Maybe she’s got a toothache, for Christ’s sake.

  It's another twenty-five minutes until boarding and I’m antsy as hell. Why can’t I just get out of this godforsaken place and get on with forgetting I ever came here? It’s like I’m standing in semi-set concrete and I can’t lift my feet out of it. It’s a special kind of torture.

  The whispering gets louder, and there are a few giggles, too. I look straight ahead and wish I hadn’t. There’s a group of girls outside the gate, looking at me from where they’re standing in front of a coffee shop.

  I feel like an animal at the zoo. The back of my neck starts getting all hot and prickly. I see one of the girls from the group in front of me look off toward the group behind me and it’s like they do some mental telepathy thing because all of a sudden, both groups descend on me like a flock of vultures. It reminds me of that Hitchcock movie, The Birds.

  There are around ten, maybe twelve of them in all, and all of them are asking me questions at once. My head is spinning and my neck is getting sore from all the swiveling back and forth to smile and exchange a few nice words with them. Their questions overlap, getting louder and louder the longer they try to talk over each other.

  They press in on me from all sides: behind, in front, right and left.

  Taylor

  One of them leans over my shoulder and tries to snap a selfie when I’m not ready for one, and I jump when she throws an arm over my shoulder. It’s more surprise than anything, but she doesn’t take it well. I hear a snide comment, but just barely since all the other chatter is still filling my ears and making my head ache unbearable.

  “Guys! Guys! Give me a second, please. I’ll take pictures with all of you, just please, let me breathe.” I try to stay calm and as positive as possible as I stand up, but they crush in on me. There are dozens more now. Where did they come from?

  They’re reaching for me, waving at me, trying to touch me. Screaming, crying, shouting, begging for me to get a picture with them. I can’t get through. I just want some air. I just want my space back. They start jostling me, begging for something, anything, asking personal questions, getting angry when I don’t answer right away but how can I answer when they won’t give me a chance to?

  One of them grabs at my hat, and my head jerks to the side. She pulls the hat away and runs off, holding it over her head. I can’t go after her, especially since two girls are fighting for my scarf. Problem is, they’re pulling it in opposite directions and my neck is caught in the middle.

  I can’t breathe. Literally this time.

  I claw at the fabric and gasp, looking around desperately for somebody to help me. Anybody. This is out of control and I am way outnumbered. I’m going to pass out if they don’t stop strangling me.

  My dress tears and tears spring to my eyes. One of them ripped my dress. I can’t make sense of any of it. They’re like a mob. Now I know why Nick always insists on security. I elbow bodies out my way, still choking, though I think one of the girls must have given up because the pressure has eased some. I can draw in a few raspy breaths.

  I hear the pounding of footsteps over the screams of my “adoring” fans, and the sight of a half-dozen burly security guards has never been sweeter. Two of them grab me, one by each arm, and rush me off to a private room while the others hold the masses back. I’m so dazed, they almost have to carry me.

  “Are you all right, Miss?” They sit me down on a sofa a lot more comfortable than the chairs at the gate. Not that I care anymore about how comfortable the chairs are. All that matters is it’s secluded. I unwind my scarf and take deep, shaky breaths while nodding that yes, I’m all right. As all right as I’m gonna be.

  I look down at myself. My dress is ripped up the side, almost to the top of my hip. My hair is a straggly, tangled mess. I even lost the elastic holding my braid together. I comb my fingers through and try not to cry. This is what fame has earned me. I can’t go to the airport without getting mauled.

  “You’re Taylor Rose, aren’t you?” someone says.

  I nod and touch my hands to my throat, which feels raw. Great. I hope they didn’t damage my voice. Wouldn’t that be ironic? I start shaking.

  “Do you want some water?” one of the men asks gently.

  I wrap my arms around myself. I just want to go home. I need to be alone for a long time, where nobody can hurt me. I’ve been mobbed by fans before, but this is on a whole other level. Almost like they hated me. How can you claim to love somebody, then treat them like that?

  I’m not human to them. That’s how. They look up to me, but I’m not a person. I’m not like them.

  “I need to see her! Please!”

  My head swivels around at the frantic male voice filtering through the closed door.

  “Please, please. I saw what happened. I have to talk to her. Taylor!”

  “You’re kidding,” I croak. I stand and go to the door, still shaky and sore, and press my ear to it.

  “I’m a friend of Taylor,” Cole babbles. “Please, I know she’s in there, I saw you escort her inside after that mob scene. I was just running up. Please, let me see her. I’m worried about her.”

  “Are you a relative?” a man’s voice barks.

  “No, but she’s my girlfriend. I must see her.”

  “Sorry, Sir, but that’s out of the question,” the security guard says.

  “Taylor! Please! It’s Cole!” He really must be desperate if he’s screaming at a closed door.

  “He can come in,” I call out as loud as I can, which isn’t very loud at the moment. Then I step back. For a second—the briefest, shortest second—I want to fall into his arms and cry my eyes out. I want him to hold me and protect me and tell me it’ll all be okay, that I’m safe. It was all a big mistake and nothing will hurt me so long as he’s there. I want all of that. I need it.

  But no.

  He doesn’t deserve to be my hero.

  The door opens, and he almost falls into the room. The security guard shoots me a look, and I nod my head with a weak smile. He’s only trying to do his job. Cole’s eyes are like saucers as he takes in the full sight of me—torn dress, tangled hair, the welt around my throat, my teary eyes.

  “Oh, God. Taylor.” He reaches for me, just like I knew he would.

  I hold up my hands, palms out, and stop him.

  His face falls.

  “No way. You don’t get to touch me. You don’t get to do that ever again.”

  Cole

  It’s like something out of a nightmare. There I was, running through the terminal, hoping to catch Taylor before her flight left. It was the only flight leaving for LA at that time, so I figured it was a good bet. I heard it before I saw it—the throng of screaming, shrieking girls. It was
better than putting a bell on a cat, I thought at the time, and I rushed in the direction of the chaos.

  Before I saw the security guards rushing Taylor into a private room across from the gate. When I realized they were hurting her, every protective instinct in my body went into overdrive and my blood ran cold.

  Now she doesn’t want me to touch her? When she looks like she just got run over by a truck and the only thing that matters is that I get to hold her in my arms and tell her I’ll never let her go? She doesn’t even want me near her?

  “What’s all this about, Taylor?” I ask, letting my arms drop to my sides. I need to know why. I let her go once, but never again. “You ran out on me and didn’t bother explaining why.”

  “You think you deserve an explanation?” she rasps. God, she sounds terrible. My eyes roam her face. Her eyes are wide and tormented and there’s a welt around her neck. I realize they must have strangled her with her scarf. What the hell is wrong with people? What makes them turn into animals? I wish I could strangle all of them myself. My hands curl into fists, and she notices. “What? Are you going to hit me now?”

  I look down and relax my hands. “Listen to yourself. This is me. Have I ever laid a hand on you? I was just angry when I thought about what those girls did to you out there.”

  “Yeah, well, that’s the price I pay, okay? It’s the choice I made to lead the life I live and this is the price I pay for success. I can’t leave the house without the threat of having my clothes ripped off, or dying by strangulation. No big deal.” She wraps her arms around her thin, trembling body and I wonder if she’s about to have a breakdown. She sounds like she is.

  “Why won’t you tell me why you left?”

  “You honestly don’t know? You mean she didn’t tell you?”