Jessica Martinez - The Vow

The truth feels like fire. I’m sitting too close, and it’s so searing hot I might melt. I didn’t plan for this. Being confronted and having to deny it all—I need time to prepare, but I don’t have time, and I don’t have energy because I’m so exhausted from walking around missing him. That’s it. I miss him. I miss him too much to be hearing this.

The tears are finally pushing through. I fold my arms on the table and drop my head so at least he can’t see my face. A few seconds. I need a few seconds.

But then I feel warm, strong hands around my upper arms, and it feels like I’m being held together. It feels like sympathy. I’m not sure anyone’s ever given me sympathy like this. I dissolve. Crying like this—head down, no sound, held by Reed—is so sweetly awful I don’t know if I want to stop.

I wait till I can control my breath to speak, but I don’t lift my head. “Please don’t tell.”

He squeezes my arms. “Why would I tell?”

I lift my head, and he’s staring at me in total confusion.

“I don’t know,” I stammer. “Because what we’re doing is really stupid? And illegal? Or because you hate me for lying to you? Or because you hate Mo—”

“I don’t even know Mo.”

“But I hurt you to help him. I would understand if you hated him. Or me.”

“I will never hate you. I’ve already tried. And you’re not in love with him, right?”

“No.”

“And you never actually . . . cheated on me?”

“No.”

He pulls his hands away and I’m instantly colder. “Unreal,” he mutters. “But what about the people who really know you? I mean, your parents—they must know.”

I shake my head.

“What? They think you’re actually married?”

“Shh!” I glance around. The barista is playing a game on her phone, and the middle-aged types are no longer typing but having a real conversation with each other. “I am actually married. They just don’t know that Mo and I aren’t . . . you know.”

“What about your dad being so overprotective? They’ve got to at least suspect.”

“Being overprotective of me is not the same as knowing me.”

“But you wouldn’t even let me meet your dad. He must’ve completely freaked out over this.”

“He did.” I sniff and wipe my cheeks with my palms. I’m finished crying. “My parents have always thought Mo was trying to get into my pants. Especially my dad. It’s like they can’t imagine that he just likes me as a person. And the fact that he’s Muslim freaks them out because they don’t know many Muslims. Or any Muslims. Whatever.”

“So they bought it.”

“Yeah. They bought it because it was their worst nightmare come true.”

He nods, processing this.

“We aren’t exactly talking right now. They think I’ve been brainwashed and kidnapped by jihadists—I think they should make an effort to be slightly less racist.”

“And your friends?”

“Mo is my friend.” I’m over being embarrassed by how this sounds—like he’s my only friend—because it’s been true for so long. “Everyone else is just whatever. And they all think we’ve been secretly together for years anyway.”

“I can’t believe . . .” He reaches out and strokes the back of my hand with his fingertips like it’s instinct, like he can’t not do it. And it’s a few delicious seconds before I realize that I’m in public and jerk my hand back. I glance around, but I don’t think anybody saw.

“Right,” he says flatly.

I swallow and, with my eyes, plead for him to understand. “The worst part has been hurting you. I hated letting you think I cheated on you and making you hate me. I can’t change anything about how things are now, but I still miss you.”

“Why didn’t you just tell me?”

“We promised we wouldn’t tell anyone, and what would it have done? It wouldn’t have made it any easier. I’d be in the same position I’m in now, and I have no idea where we go from here. Nowhere really. I’m committing a felony. Mo and I will have an interview in a couple of months, and if they think there’s something fishy going on, we could be investigated.”

“Is that likely, though? It seems like the government has bigger threats to worry about than some kid in Elizabethtown, Kentucky.”

“He’s a seventeen-year-old Muslim male, born in the Middle East. According to the lawyer, that means we don’t get to slip through the cracks. And considering the timing of his dad’s visa running out, and his family leaving, and our age, they might really send people out to snoop around.”

“You still should’ve told me.”

“But what if you were mad or sad or indifferent and told someone about it?” I shake my head. “You remember a second ago when you touched my hand?”

He looks at my hands now, wrapped safely around my cup, held close to me. “Yeah.”

“That’s why I didn’t tell you. If anyone in this armpit-sized town finds out I’m not in love with my husband, that’s it.”

“But now I do know.”

“Now you do know.” I sigh. “And we’re sitting at Starbucks together. Alone.”

“Is that really such a big deal?”

“Happily married newlyweds don’t get coffee at night with guys they used to go out with. At least not here.”

Reed looks around. The middle-agers are back to gazing into screens. “You want to leave?”

Yes. No. Yes. But leaving Starbucks puts me one step closer to saying good night to Reed, and good night has to be good-bye. So no. I never want to leave.

“Let’s go,” he says.

We make it to the car without touching. But once the doors are shut, he slides his fingers through mine and pulls my hand to rest on his leg. It doesn’t feel wrong. We’re completely alone, and it feels necessary and perfect. For the entire length of the drive I focus on the heat between our palms. Nothing else.

Reed pulls into the Kroger parking lot, and I feel his fingers tighten slightly. “I don’t see your car.”

I point to Mo’s. “I . . . gave the Explorer back.”

He doesn’t say anything, just shakes his head and pulls up next to the Camry.

It’s time to go. I can do this, piece by piece. I start by letting go of his hand. “Thank you for the coffee. And for listening and not hating me. And for not telling anyone—”

But he’s too close. His finger draws a line beneath my chin, turning my head to him, and stopping the words in my throat. “Nobody is going to find out if I give you one kiss.”

My heart is beating so loud I can’t hear my thoughts. He’s right. But I can’t lean in to him because there’s something worse than someone finding out. There’s ripping open my heart at all its ragged edges, only to be scraped out all over again.

“Just one,” he says.

I don’t say yes, but I can’t say no. He kisses me so soft and slow I forget everything. There’s a black night, a dark car, and the perfect rhythm of us.

Just one. But just one kiss can last and last and push and pull, so that even after he takes his mouth away from mine it’s still happening.

He brushes my lower lip with his thumb, then kisses where he touched it. “I can’t call you, can I?” he says.

I bite my lip and shake my head. He kisses my lip where I bit it.

“So will you come find me, then?”

I’m not sure if he’s asking or telling, but I nod. I want this. I’ll come.

Mo

I’ll go,” I say.

Sarina’s sigh is ridiculous—long and loud and practically musical. I picture her lying on a couch, hugging a throw pillow, her usual phone-talking position. At least it used to be. “Thank you,” she says.

“Don’t thank me until I actually do it. There’s always a chance I’ll forget. So I just swing by the dance studio and ask for the spring recital picture?”

“Yeah. Miss Deena will know which one. She showed it to me, but she wanted to get all the girls to sign it, except people were already on vacation, and then we left so quickly.”

“Why don’t you just have her email it to you?”

“Because I want the one with the real signatures on it, and I think she framed it for me. Haven’t you been listening?”

“Yeah. Fine. I’ll do it tomorrow,” I say, poking around in Annie’s laundry basket. I can’t clean the kitchen without a rag, and I can’t get a rag without digging through Annie’s freshly washed whites, and I can’t dig through whites without inadvertently touching panties, and I can’t touch panties because the minute I do, Annie’s going to come walking through the door and yell, Why are you touching my panties, pervert?

“I didn’t realize how few pictures I have of me dancing,” Sarina says.

I push the basket away. I’ll use paper towels instead. “So have someone take some.”

“There’s not exactly a ballet studio on every corner,” she says, her voice dull and gray. Not unlike the canned mushroom soup I just tried to eat, actually. But Sarina’s bad moods always come out with a disturbing lack of volume. “Or anyone to take them,” she adds. “And I don’t even know which box all my dance stuff ended up in.”

“You should do what Annie and I are doing tonight.”

“Please don’t say putting on leotards and jumping around.”

“Do-it-yourself bridal portraits. We need them for our interview.”

“That actually sounds like fun,” she muses between bites of something crunchy.

“If by fun you mean torture, then yes. But you could probably steal Dad’s camera and figure out how to use the timer. You know, if you really wanted ballet shots.”

“That is such a lame idea.”

“Fine, don’t,” I say. “How is Dad, by the way?”

“Fine.”

“Of course. Actually”—I pause, knowing I’m about to sound pitiful—“just tell me, is he, like, ever worried about me?”

There’s silence on the other end. Maybe she’s chewing. I wait.

“About you?” she asks, a strangely cynical hint to her voice. “Living the American dream, with your own apartment and car and friends and future? Gee, I don’t know. The last time Dad and I girl-talked he said he worried about you all the time. And then we braided each other’s hair and had a pillow fight.”

Sarina and sarcasm. Sarcasm and Sarina. The entire world is rippling under the weight of that inconsistency. I’m not sure whether to backpedal or play along. My other option would be hiding, as Armageddon is undoubtedly upon us.

“I can’t believe you just asked me that,” she continues. “What’s the matter with you?”

Lots of things are the matter with me, but I’d rather talk about what the matter with her is. She hasn’t tried to pick a fight with me since middle school. “I’m an insensitive jerk?” I suggest.

“Well, as long as you realize it,” she mumbles.

This is going so much worse than I thought it would. “Tell me about school.”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“That bad?”

“No. I just don’t want to talk about it.”

“Dad said you’re taking Arabic classes at night. Is it coming back?”

“WHAT PART OF I DON’T WANT TO TALK ABOUT IT DO YOU NOT UNDERSTAND?”

“I didn’t know Arabic classes were off-limits too! I’m just trying to find something good to talk to you about!”

“And there’s your problem,” she says. “I don’t have anything good to talk about. If you need to talk about good things, you should talk to Mom. She’s great at lying to herself and others. You know what? I’ll go get her for you.”

“Sarina,” I say, but she’s gone. I stare at the laundry basket for at least ten seconds before I recognize what I’m looking at. Yeah, that’s a bra. With straps and hooks and lace around the edges of cups the shape of half-moons—

“Mo!”

I shove the basket away with my foot. “Mom.”

“Darling! How are you? I’ve missed you so much this week. What with Sarina starting back up at school, and your uncle Ahmed’s family swarming this place, it’s been . . .”

She prattles on, and I check out, because Mom is still Mom, even if she’s on the happy side of her swing. But Sarina is not still Sarina. Not at all. The probability of her having been abducted by aliens is unlikely, which means either something specific happened to upset her, or the thousands of sucky little things that she’s been ignoring have suddenly sunk her.

It wasn’t even anything she said as much as it was her voice being so small and bitter. Until she went ballistic, that is, and then it was loud and bitter.

“Mom.” I interrupt her midsentence, no clue what she’s even talking about. “What’s the matter with Sarina?”

She pauses. “Nothing.”

“Doesn’t sound like it. Is she right there or something?”