Jessica Martinez - The Vow

But if she isn’t wrong? The possibility makes me sick to my stomach. Just thinking it feels like betrayal.

Except there’s another kind of betrayal happening now. The kind where I pretend something isn’t happening. Like pretending I don’t notice the way Mo has started looking at me when he thinks I’m not paying attention, that I don’t see him thinking about things before he says them instead of just spouting whatever random crap comes to his brain like before, that I don’t sense him treating me just the slightest bit differently than he used to. Ignoring it is a kind of betrayal too.

And so is sitting here waiting for Reed.

“It doesn’t make you a bad person,” Sam says, and I wonder for a second if I said any of what I was thinking out loud. Or maybe she can read my thoughts. “You’re allowed to be yourself. It means being honest. Sorry. That sounds corny.”

“It’s okay.”

“I’m just worried about you. I guess you bring out the preachy big sister in me.”

My breath is gone, sucked out of me.

There is no god. Still. And I don’t believe in an afterlife or souls or reincarnation or that anyone I can’t see is looking out for me. At all. But for this moment only, it seems like it would be okay to pretend.

“It’s okay,” I stammer.

“Really think about it.”

“I will.”

“You know you can call me whenever, right?”

I try to swallow, but my throat feels dangerously dry. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

We hang up and I bring my seat back up. I didn’t notice what time it was when I pulled in, but it seems like I’ve been sitting here for an hour. Maybe more. My stomach growls, a reminder that I haven’t eaten since the Pop-Tart Mo brought me in bed, when I see the back door swing open in the rearview mirror. It’s Reed.

A thrill rushes through me, and I fight not to get out of the car. He doesn’t see me yet. A trash bag in each hand, he’s walking toward the Dumpster, body solid and tight even from this distance. That I can watch him without him knowing, even for a few seconds, seems dangerously sweet. I love his earnestness, how every piece of him is determined, how serious his expression is. It’s just trash, Reed. Except I know his mind is somewhere else. He could be thinking about the restaurant he’s going to open someday, or worrying about having his grandma’s house ready to sell by the end of the summer. He could be thinking about me.

He glances up and sees me. The seriousness in his face breaks for a smile, but only for a second, and in that second the thrill rushes through me again. He doesn’t change his speed, but keeps his movements smooth and deliberate as he tosses the bags into the Dumpster and starts toward the car. He glances around, and I do the same. There’s nobody here to see us. Still, I double-check as he opens the passenger door and slides in.

“Sorry to surprise you,” I say, almost breathless as the smell of the oaks and soil and dampness fills the car. The clouds are thickening, and I can smell the rain coming. “I didn’t want to call from Mo’s phone.”

“Don’t apologize.” He looks around the car, taking in the curled-over Taco Bell bags and half a dozen empty Gatorade bottles.

I shake my head. “None of it’s mine.”

“Sure it isn’t.”

“No, really.”

He grins. “I believe you.” He reaches out and slides his fingers around my wrist. “And I don’t care if his car is a mess,” he says, pulling me into the passenger seat, onto his lap, and my heart is thundering with the absolute rightness of being with him, what I’ve been waiting for, when my brain screams something else.

This is wrong.

“Actually,” he whispers into my ear and kisses me lightly where my jaw meets my neck, “I can’t believe you’re here.” His lips are so soft I’m aching when I have to pull away.

“Wait,” I say, feeling the car spin around me.

He lets go and leans back. “Okay.”

“This feels . . . I don’t know. Sneaky.”

“Okay,” he repeats. “But you came here, Annie. You came to me.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

He closes his eyes.

I fight the urge to reach out and hold his face, to feel his pulse beneath my fingers. “Can we talk?”

He opens his eyes. Blinks. Pushes his glasses up. “Of course. But we have about two minutes before Flora comes out to see if I’ve been attacked by coyotes.”

“You’re closing soon, though. Right?”

“Yeah, but I’m going to Soup and Vicky’s for dinner, and they’ll be waiting for me. Can I see you later? I’ll be home by eleven. You could come to my place and we wouldn’t have to hide in a car just to have a conversation.”

“But I can’t sneak out in the middle of the night.”

Disappointment flickers in his eyes for just a moment, and then he grins. “Well, then at least let me give you something good to think about tonight.”

He slips one hand behind my head, and I fall back into it and close my eyes. His mouth finds mine, and I’m melting between hands and lips when the terrible thought comes out of nowhere, clear and sharp as glass: This is how Mo wants me?

“No,” I whisper, pushing Reed gently back, my palms on his chest and my eyes down. I glance at his face, hating myself for what I see. Shock. Rejection. “I’m sorry,” I say. “Not like this. I need to talk to Mo first.”

I slide back into my seat. He leans forward, putting his head in his hands, and I know this time he’s not going to touch me again. Not today. “I misunderstood,” he says. “I thought you were here . . .” He trails off, and I let the silence fill with our awkwardness, because I can’t correct him. I thought I was here for this too. “I want to believe that there isn’t anything going on between you and Mo. I do believe it, but if that’s true, why can’t you be with me? Why do you need his permission?”

Why? I know why, but I can’t say it. I can barely even think it. Because I don’t know what kind of love Mo feels anymore.

“Unless that’s not what you want, in which case you’re sending one or two hundred mixed signals.” Reed sits up straight and stares at his hands, so I do too. He turns to me, but I’m too distracted by the memory of what his hands feel like to look up.

“I can’t keep doing this,” he says. “If you don’t want to be with me, you’ve gotta stop showing up and messing with me. If you—”

“I want you,” I interrupt, embarrassed by the force, the volume, the neediness. All of it. I’m embarrassed by everything I’ve done. “I really do,” I say softer. “I’m just doing things in the wrong order. There were things I didn’t realize until sitting here waiting for you, things about Mo and about myself and some of the mistakes I’ve made. I need to fix everything, including this with you, but I have to do it in the right order so I don’t have to hate myself when it’s all over. I’m sor—”

“No.” This time he interrupts me. “I don’t want your apology. I want you.” He leans over, tucks my hair behind my ear, and kisses me on the temple. “Come back when you’re ready to come back. But don’t . . .” He trails off.

I nod. I’m afraid to look at him, so I stare at the maze of oaks in front of me, so thick I can only see a few feet into them. When I’m ready to come back.

I wish someone would tell me which path means inflicting the least amount of pain, but even as I wish it, I know it’s the wrong wish. It’s what Sam was talking about, me doing what’s right for other people and not myself. She said now or never.

Reed gets out of the car, and I watch him walk away. After he’s gone, I call home—no, my old home. My parents’ house. No answer.

* * *

The mural is not different. I have to tell myself that several times as I turn circles in the center of the room, because it feels different. I’m not sure how that could be. After all, it’s my baby. It grew in my brain, came from my fingers, swirled around me while I slept, but it doesn’t feel the same. It used to be a cocoon to wrap myself in, a spell to disappear under. Now it’s just paint. Pretty, but not magical, not something to hide away in or disappear into.

I turn off the lights and leave the box of shoes and knickknacks I packed on the bed. This time I’m ready.

Mo

This time I’m ready.

I hear the knock on the door, and a lens slides between my brain and the world, clicking into place and everything is sharp. Adrenaline. A phantom ache in my jaw starts to throb even though it hasn’t hurt in days, and there’s a sudden ringing in my inner ear. On my way to the door I think, This must be what war vets feel like when their wounds start aching before it rains, so by the time I check the peephole and see that it’s Bryce, I’m not even surprised. I’m about to get punched again.

I’m not ready in the sense that I’ve done anything to prepare. No Karate Kid marathons, no helmet and face guard stashed by the door. But I’m mentally ready. I’ve been bracing for round two since round one finished ringing in my ears, because I knew Bryce only needed a little more time to mull over the depths of my treachery and he’d realize that one punch to the face, albeit a really good one, was not enough.

He knocks again.

I could not open it, pretend I’m not here, and hide under Annie’s bed like the scared little girl that I am. But why postpone it? This is a much better venue and time to get my face rebusted than, say, outside my locker on the first day of school.

I take a deep breath and open it. Avoiding direct eye contact, I nod hello, close my eyes, tense every muscle in my body, and wait. And wait. Clenching.

“I’m not going to hit you.”

I open my eyes, but I don’t stop wincing. Just in case. He’s standing with his hands in his pockets, so I’ll definitely have enough time to reclench my jaw if he pulls one out.

“Wow. Your face is still bruised. Good for me.”

“Yeah. Well done.”

He grunts. “I’m not going to apologize.”

“I wasn’t counting on it.”

“I’m not sorry, and we are not cool.”

I shake my head. “Not at all.”

There are primate rules about not staring an alpha male in the eye. Every person, monkey, and ape knows this by instinct, but still, I force myself to look at Bryce. He looks at me. We stand in the doorway for an indeterminable length of time, and it’s a little scary and awkward, but neither of us knows what to do.

“Is she here?” he asks.

“Nope.”

“Good. Here.” He holds out his hand, and in it is a pair of ballet slippers, pink and scuffed, those bizarre hard toes, browning around the edges. Sarina’s.

“Natalie says thanks for letting her borrow them. She made my mom wedge her feet into them every day for the last month.”

I shake my head. “Sarina’s gone.” I can’t stop staring at the faded satin, the fraying edges. She really is gone.

“I know, but you could send them to her.”

“No. Tell Natalie she can keep them.”

Bryce doesn’t fight it. I know he gets a kick out of making his sister smile, and this will probably send her over the edge.

“Do you want to go shoot hoops?” he asks.

I try not to let the shock show, but he has to see it. “Yeah. Do you want to come in and wait while I change?”

He looks into the front room, and I can see him considering it. But then his eyes fix on something behind me and he shakes his head. “I’ll wait in my car.”

I turn around and there it is: the wedding dress in all its space-age puffball glory, draped over the armchair. She forgot it. I can’t believe after all that freaking out about getting it back to Kristen, Annie actually forgot it.

* * *

On the court, we don’t say a lot. There is almost no trash talk, which is unusual and unnerving enough to make me feel like I’m about to get punched again. And that screws up my already rusty game.

“So, how was Argentina?” I ask when we stop for water.

“Good.” He takes a swig from his water bottle. “I’m not going to ask how your summer’s going.”

“Okay.”

“Because I really don’t want to know.”

“Okay.”

“I don’t even want to think about it, actually.”

“Okay.”

Without warning, he chest passes the ball hard enough to knock me back one step. “Let’s play.”

We play, and I lose. It’s not like I’m letting him win, but I think he’s thinking about what I’m doing with Annie, and he plays better when he’s furious. And unfortunately that makes me think about what I’m not doing with Annie, and I play worse when I’m distracted.