Promise Me

by Samanthe Beck

  “Dixie is planning to stay in L.A. She’s bartending and pursuing her music career. She played one night at an open mic and won. She was fantastic. She’s still wild and bold and doesn’t give a crap about what anyone thinks of her.

  “Amber is staying in L.A., too. She’s starting a program to get her masters in speech therapy in the fall. I think she’ll probably stay with Aunt Sally and Uncle Jack for a while because…” She’s pregnant. It hits me then that my dad is going to be a grandfather. That is a really big deal but not something for me to tell.

  Dad raises his eyebrows at my trailing off.

  “I don’t think she’s on the best terms with her mom and stepdad, and you know Aunt Sally, she loves having her family with her.” Did that sound plausible? What one has to do with the other, I don’t know, but he seems to have bought it.

  “They’re being nice to you?”

  Mom puts a waffle down on my plate. I inhale the scent of cinnamon and nutmeg. “Nicer,” I say, emphasis on the er.

  Dad doesn’t look satisfied, so I add, “We’re adults and behaving like it for the most part. You don’t need to worry about me.” I pile all the extras onto my waffle.

  “I’ll always worry about you,” he says.

  I shrug as I stuff a bite of food into my mouth. The explosion of flavors is soooo good.

  “And them,” he adds before he glances away for a moment, lost in thought. It doesn’t take a genius to see he misses his two oldest daughters.

  Maybe before summer is over, I can convince my sisters to give their father a chance at a better relationship.

  “I spoke to Lou Adler about you this week.” Dad takes a sip of his coffee, his attention back on me and a proud tone in his voice.

  The name doesn’t sound familiar. “Should I know who that is?”

  “Lou is the deputy dean at the University of Chicago, a scholar, and sure to be your favorite professor. She’s looking forward to meeting you.”

  “Louella and your dad go way back.” Mom lets half a waffle slide off her spatula and onto Dad’s plate. She retrieves the other half for herself and sits down to eat.

  “He goes way back with everyone,” I say. If you don’t know Michael Hewitt then you aren’t from around here. Plus, his judiciary reputation crosses state lines.

  “Are you saying I’m old?” Dad teases, cutting into his next helping.

  “I think you just did that all on your own.” I smile at him.

  “See that, Sherry, she’s already got the makings of a brilliant attorney.”

  Ugh. I didn’t say anything lawyerly or brilliant, but that’s my dad. I put my fork down. It’s time to bring up my doubts about law school. Test the waters to see how disappointed he’ll be if I change course entirely and stay in L.A. to work for Art in Progress. Am I foolish to even think like that? I’ve been accepted into one of the most prestigious law schools in the country. My future is guaranteed if I follow the path I’ve started down. I could grow to love law. I could do a lot of different things with a law degree—a lot of positive things.

  I could put up the good fight and attend the University of Chicago like planned and then take the world by storm. Turn my father’s dream into mine, too.

  “Mom mentioned you’ve been volunteering at a gallery?”

  My dad’s question startles me out of my thoughts. “Actually, it’s a lot more than that, and I’d like to tell you about it.”

  The shrill ringing of the house phone prevents me from saying anything further. Hardly anyone calls that number, so we all pause a moment. Mom’s eyes meet mine for a quick second before she’s on her feet to answer the call. “Hello?” she says.

  Slowly, Mom turns her whole back to me. Her hand grips the edge of the counter. Her shoulders slump. When she speaks, it’s so quiet I can’t decipher what she’s saying.

  Something is wrong. She’s displaying the classic signs of bad news. Worry numbs my senses. I shiver and can’t stop.

  Mom hangs up the phone. She scoots her chair beside mine so we’re touching, then takes my hand in hers. “Mason passed away this morning,” she says softly.

  I had a feeling that’s what she was going to say. The numbness intensifies as I sit there, quietly suffering through a piece of my heart breaking. Mason is gone. He’s gone, and if I hadn’t visited him last night… If I hadn’t gotten to apologize, to talk to him, tell him how much I miss him and that he’ll forever be a part of me, I would have missed my chance and been even more devastated than I am right now.

  Was he waiting for me? Sticking around until I got a chance to tell him good-bye?

  “He passed away peacefully in his sleep, honey.”

  Silent tears stream down my face. Mom wraps her arm around me while Dad moves to my other side and does the same. “He’s going to a better place,” he says.

  I nod, too torn up to speak. The person who for a long time meant more to me than anyone, who helped shape me into the person I am today, is gone. I wiggle my nose and suck in my bottom lip, but it doesn’t help. The tears fall in earnest.

  My parents hold me while I cry. Right after the accident, they were furious, torn up inside. Beyond saddened by my actions. They’d taught me better than that, hadn’t they? But they still loved me, and they stuck by me no matter what. Even when so-called friends wanted nothing to do with me, or people I’d known all my life looked away when I walked into church, or the grocery store. It softened the blow slightly, that they found it in their hearts to forgive me. It was a gift I never took lightly.

  Dad gets up to grab me—and Mom—some tissues. When our sobs finally quiet, we talk about what comes next. Funeral arrangements will be made, so I decide to extend my stay. As hard as it will be, there’s no way I can leave without seeing him laid to rest. I ask my mom if I can borrow her phone charger then head upstairs to shower. I stand under the spray until the warm water turns cold. The rest of the day goes by in a blur.

  Sunday morning I wake up and don’t know what to do with myself, so I cook. Banana muffins, lasagna, chicken parmesan, and Mason’s favorite, peanut-butter-chocolate brownies. The recipes allow me to lose myself in the ingredients and measurements.

  Dad passes through the kitchen on his way to a golf game. He mentions something about law school, but I don’t really hear him.

  By late afternoon, I’m drained. I collapse onto my bed to close my eyes for a little bit. When my phone rings, I know who it is without looking. I didn’t answer his calls yesterday, too upset about Mason and worried I’d ugly cry in his ear. I think I’m ready to have a conversation now, so I pick up on the third ring, noting I’m right about the caller. “Hi, Vaughn.”

  “Hi.”

  I squeeze my eyes shut at the sound of his voice.

  “How are you?” he continues. “I was worried when we didn’t connect yesterday.”

  “I’m… Mason passed away yesterday.” I curl into a ball. It’s the first time I’ve said that aloud. I texted Amber and Dixie this morning with the news and to let them know I wouldn’t be home until the end of the week.

  He lets out a miserable sigh. “I’m so sorry. Did you get a chance to see him?”

  “Yeah. I spent a few hours with him on Friday night and Vaughn, it was”—tears prick my eyes but I blink them away—“so comforting to talk to him and finally get closure.”

  “I’m sure it meant a lot to him, too.”

  “I wish I’d pushed to do it sooner.” My whisper is soft and thin, like a worn cloth polishing an old regret until it gleams anew.

  “We all do things at our own pace. If you’d gone earlier, you might not have been ready for everything you needed to say.”

  “True,” I say quietly.

  We’re both silent for several seconds. “How are you?” I ask, remembering my manners.

  “I’m okay. Missing a certain blond, blue-eyed angel.”

  It’s so tempting to lean into those words. Let them support me and give me strength when I feel a little lost. It’s reassurin
g to be missed. Cared for. Especially after the events of the past two days. It’s beyond tempting to confess I miss him, too, but I’m stronger than that.

  Into my silence he asks, “So, when are you coming back?”

  “I—I’m not sure. Mason’s funeral is on Tuesday and I’m going to stay a few days beyond that. Candace was nice enough not to fire me when I texted her I needed the week off.”

  “Dude, let’s go!” someone—Dylan I think—shouts in the background, and suddenly I realize he’s not at home like I initially assumed. He’s out and about, living his life. “Sorry,” he says. “Dylan got his dad’s skybox, and apparently Matt and he are going to have aneurysms if we’re not in it by the time they throw the first pitch.”

  “Don’t miss anything on my account.” I mean it in relation to so much more than the game. I mean it in relation to his life, his career, all the wonderful new opportunities the future will bring his way. Including, no doubt, a girl who will effortlessly pass the dad background check and make Vaughn so smitten he never thinks about the girl he befriended the summer before he became a huge star.

  “I’ll call you tomorrow, but Kendall, I’m here if you need me sooner.”

  For a moment I can’t speak for fear of saying something that gives away how much I want to be with him, kiss him, make love with him until the world stops and it’s just us. Finally, I manage a very choked, “Okay. Thanks.” We disconnect, and my poor heart aches again from the strain of another small good-bye.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Vaughn

  I place my size tens on the stenciled yellow footprints, cross my wrists over my head, and let the body scanner do its thing. For about five seconds I’m an island of stillness in a sea of constant motion, separate from the conversations, loudspeaker announcements, and general chaos of LAX.

  When the TSA technician waves me forward, I offer her a quick “Thanks” and walk to the end of the conveyor belt spitting out a steady stream of carry-on bags and plastic bins full of electronic devices, wallets, keys, and other personal paraphernalia. My stuff has cleared the screening tunnel but not the plastic barrier designed to keep all us impatient passengers from grabbing our shit right out of the mouth of the X-ray machine. Over the ambient noise of people and technology, I hear the distinct and familiar sound of my ringtone. It’s only a bag and a bin away, but the older woman in front of me struggles to lift her carry-on off the conveyor, which creates a momentary backup.

  “Can I help?” I question while bringing the wheeled bag down for her.

  “Thank you.” She beams her appreciation as I extend the retractable handle and spin the luggage so it faces her.

  “No problem.” Leaning past her, I take my sunglasses and ringing phone out of the bin.

  “Don’t want to miss a call from your girlfriend?” she teases.

  I smile and shake my head while noting the unfamiliar number flling the screen of my phone. “No girlfriend, I’m afraid. She won’t have me.”

  “Well, then, you’ll just have to work harder to change her mind.”

  “That’s my plan,” I reply, and shoot her a thumbs-up at the same time I hit the button to take my call. “Hello?”

  “Vaughn Shaughnessy?” A woman with a crisp British accent asks, and I immediately picture Miss Moneypenny sitting behind a tidy desk at MI6, wearing a phone headset.

  “Yes.” My gut tightens for reasons I can’t attribute to lifting my carry-on bag off the conveyor.

  “Please hold for Mr. Cowie.” I hear a faint click and then music flows into my ear. Laney Albright’s first single now competes with an amplified security reminder about unattended bags.

  Holy shit. This could be it. This could be “the call.”

  I’m almost to my gate and halfway through the next Laney Albright song when it cuts off mid-verse and a familiar voice says, “Hello, Vaughn. Nigel here. Have a minute for a chat?”

  “Of course.” I stop at the perimeter of the waiting area for my gate, take a deep breath to steady my nerves, and swipe my damp palm along the leg of my jeans.

  “You sound like you’re North Bank Lower at Emirates, with Arsenal closing on the goal.”

  “Sorry.” I press the phone to my ear. “I’m at the airport, about to get on a flight.”

  “Ah, well, there you go. I’ll keep this short. Vaughn, fancy being the new host of America Rocks?”

  I close my eyes for a moment and do a mental lap around the terminal, shouting and high-fiving everyone in sight. “Yes. Sure. I would absolutely fancy that.”

  “Brilliant. We’re of a mind then. The casting team, the judges, the test audiences—hell everyone you auditioned for, including John and myself—unanimously agree you’re the right fellow to welcome America back to its favorite show.”

  “I’m …” Honored? Grateful? Stoked beyond words? “I appreciate this opportunity, Nigel. I won’t let the show down.”

  “Not a worry. We talked with a lot of people in the course of making our decision, and everyone called you hardworking, easygoing, and a total professional. You’ve got your ego in check and your head on straight. The term ‘hawt AF’ came up a bit as well,” he adds, managing a decent twang. “Whatever that means. Nobody will explain it to this crusty old codger.”

  A laugh escapes me. Even though I suspect he’s joking, I duck the explanation. “I think it means my ego just got out of check.”

  “I don’t believe it. Not for a second. Speaking of seconds, I know yours are limited. Let me run through the next steps before I wish you bon voyage.”

  “That’d be great.” I glance at the gate. “They haven’t started boarding yet.”

  “I’ll be brief. Can’t have you getting stern looks from the steward. We’ll reach out to your agent next and send over contracts. She and our lawyer will bat that around a few times, just to be sporting. Meanwhile, our PR folks will work with you and yours on a press release and some other publicity. Once we all sign on the dotted line, we’ll pull the trigger on the announcement. Until then, though—”

  “Not a word. I understand,” I assure him, although I feel like my unstoppable smile might as well be a neon sign that reads I GOT IT! “Other than my agent, my publicist and my—” I almost say “my manager,” but catch the words before they tumble out, because as of Friday morning I don’t have a manager, and I haven’t spoken with my father. “Other than them, I won’t discuss this with anyone.”

  “Thanks. So, business or pleasure?”

  “Sorry?”

  “Your flight. Is it for business or pleasure?”

  Some of my triumph dims as the cloud of Kendall’s loss—the whole Kendall situation, really—floats back to the forefront of my mind. “Technically, neither. A friend of mine—you met her, actually. Kendall Hewitt. I don’t know if you remember, but I introduced you at—”

  “Laney’s party. Of course I remember Kendall. I very discreetly—because I am discretion itself after two martinis—suggested you invite her along for your weekend of work.” He chuckles. “Took my advice, eh?”

  “Unfortunately, no. She recently lost someone who meant a lot to her. A friend she grew up with. I’m taking a few days to be with her. Offer my support. It’s a difficult time.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. Would you convey my condolences when you see her?”

  “Yes. I—”

  “I best let you go. I don’t say so often, but there are a few things more important than America Rocks, and you’re onto one right now. Safe travels. We’ll be in touch.”

  “Thanks,” I reply at the same time a gate attendant announces preboarding for my flight. A few minutes later I’m staring out the window of seat 3C, caught in a weird emotional limbo. The rush from Nigel’s call has calmed to low-grade euphoria. I can’t share the news with anyone at the moment, so even a limited round of thank-yous and congratulations with my inner circle will have to wait until I deplane. Meanwhile, another part of my brain is working overtime to figure out exactly how I carry o
ff this uninvited visit I’m making. I have Kendall’s home address from Dixie, so I could just show up on her doorstep and tell her I’m there for her if she needs me. Some might consider that an ambush, though, so maybe I should call first? Hey, I just happened to be in the neighborhood and wondered if you needed my emotional support, or missed me, or are open to revisiting the topic of “us”?

  My cell rings again, reminding me I haven’t toggled to airplane mode yet. They’re still boarding the main cabin, so I pull my phone from my pocket and glance at the screen. It’s my father. Apparently good news travels fast. My low-grade euphoria rises a degree, and I figure I have enough time to take the call and thank him before I’m wheels up, because he deserves massive credit for helping make this happen. Basking in our achievement might provide the right foundation for rebuilding the father-son part of our relationship.

  “Hey Dad. I take it you heard—”

  “I saw it.”

  The short reply, delivered in his terse tone, effectively cuts my words off. “Already? I didn’t think it would happen this fast.”

  “You knew about this?”

  “I learned, like, ten minutes ago. Nigel called to tell me—”

  “Goddammit. Nigel knows about this?”

  Okay, we’re definitely not on the same page. A cold fist squeezes my gut. “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about a video someone uploaded of you stumbling around intoxicated at the end of your driveway after parking your car in the motherfucking hedge. The lighting sucks and the sound is lousy, but it’s definitely you. And if I’m not mistaken, Kendall costars in this candid documentary currently elevating CelebrityDrunkCam channel to trending status on YouTube. Jesus Christ, Vaughn. What the hell were you thinking? Your mother and I have already buried one child. Don’t you dare put us through that nightmare again.”

  For an endless moment my mind spins like a tire in mud, fighting for sufficient traction to follow what my father’s saying. Then, slowly, his words sink in and form treads strong enough to propel my thoughts forward—straight into a brick wall of consequences so huge I can barely measure them. The first brick hits me directly in the heart. “Kendall…” Shit. “Kendall wants her privacy.”