Jessica Martinez - The Vow

Still, despite all the silence and awkward exchanges and spurts of aggression, it’s nice to play. It’s nice to be with someone who isn’t Annie. I almost didn’t realize how much I’ve missed him, and since my family left I’ve been living in a vacuum of human contact without even realizing it. I talk to a possessed cat for companionship.

“So when do you leave for Greece?” I ask after I’ve conceded defeat and he’s told me I suck.

“Day after tomorrow. I won’t be back until right before school starts.”

“Lame. Did I tell you I’m not going to basketball camp either now?”

“No. Why? The wife won’t let you?”

“My dad won’t let me.”

He shrugs and stalks off with the ball. I gather my stuff and follow him back to the car.

When we pull in to Wisper Pines, the sun is sinking over the woods like it’s dipping into fire. The trees are burning.

Bryce rolls to a stop and I unbuckle my seat belt. “I can’t believe I believed you,” he says softly. “All these years, I believed the whole best friends crap.”

I stare straight into the sun, the flaming trees.

“Is she happy?” he asks. “Never mind. She is.”

I don’t correct him because I want to leave the car with my jaw still attached to the front of my face. But in my mind, I see Annie’s eyes and the dullness that settled into them on the day she left everything for me. I’m trying, every day I try, but I can’t chase that gloom out. It’s like a bruise that won’t fade, not for skateboarding or cartoon marathons or fake rings or wedding photos or strawberry Pop-Tarts. And in my mind I see the mostly blank canvases she stares at, brush in hand. Definitely not happy.

“Have a good time with your grandpa,” I say, getting out of the car.

He drives away.

* * *

I’m reading my SAT prep book when Annie gets home.

“Was Kristen pissed about the dress?” I ask.

She closes the door behind her and looks around the room like she didn’t hear me. Like she doesn’t know where she is.

“Because at this point,” I continue, “I think we should just put it on eBay to see what we can get for it. As long as we don’t post a photo, we have a chance at making, I don’t know, fifty dollars.”

“What are you talking about?” She looks slightly more centered now, but her eyes are brighter than usual, like she’s about to cry. Or she’s already cried. Of the two, I really hope it’s that second one. She flops down beside me on the couch.

I point to the dress, still draped over the armchair where she left it.

“Oh,” she says. “I don’t know. I didn’t actually go to work. I lied about that.”

“Are you kidding?”

“No.”

“Um. Okay.” I turn the volume down, not because I want to, but it seems like I’m supposed to. On second thought, I should probably turn it off. I do. “So, do you want to talk about it? I don’t care if you want to go be alone for a while or whatever. You don’t have to lie and tell me you’re going to work if you want to disappear for . . .” I glance at the clock. “Six hours? Wow. Where have you been?”

“Mr. Twister. And then my house.”

I let this sink in, feeling a little disoriented by her disoriented-ness. “I don’t care if you go to Mr. Twister or your house. Do you need me to go get your stuff out of the car?”

“No,” she says, turning to me and pulling her leg up under her. “I decided I didn’t need it after all.”

“Okay.” I have no choice but to turn sideways too, but she’s sitting too close, and her eyes are so watery and intense I feel like I’m staring into the ocean and facing a firing squad at the same time. “What’s up?”

“I haven’t been honest with you.”

“So I’m hearing.”

“Or anybody. Or myself. Mostly myself.”

I wait, guessing the truth by the weight of her silence. I think I know. It’s over. She has an angelic glow and a guilty quivering lip. I wish she’d just cry already, but she looks like she’s reigning it in to deliver the death blow first.

“I can’t do this anymore.”

Satan’s Cat slinks into the room, looks from me to Annie to me again, and slinks back out.

I want to pretend. That statement is so ambiguous it could apply to anything, to the distribution of chores on the job chart, to sharing a cell phone, to anything else that isn’t the one thing we both know she’s talking about. I’m a jerk, and I want to force her to spell it out.

But her eyes are like sapphires when she’s about to cry, and I can’t.

“I know,” I say. The words vibrate in my throat and echo in my ears. That must mean that this is real, that I’m really speaking them. “I can’t make you do this anymore either.”

“You never made me do any of it,” she says, closing her eyes as the tears finally spill over. She falls in to me. I fight not to shudder as she presses her face in to my chest, her palms open against my chest. My skin is wet where she’s crying through.

“I shouldn’t have let you do it,” I say. I put my arm on her back so I can feel something. I’m numb everywhere except for where we’re touching. “I just wanted it so badly.”

She’s bawling now, but it’s okay. Better at least to be holding her while she does it instead of watching her. “I’m so sorry,” she mumbles into my ribs between sobs. “I didn’t realize how hard it would be to lose so much of myself. I didn’t even know I had that much to lose. I’m so sorry.”

“Stop saying sorry.”

“But I wanted to do it for you.”

“Stop. It’s okay.” But I don’t want her to stop, only because the more she cries the easier it is not to think about what she said. About what it means. About going home.

She stops talking, but she weeps and weeps until I can only lean back into the couch cushions and stare at the dark TV screen and wait for it to end. And finally she does exactly what I was hoping she’d do. She falls asleep on me.

It would be easy to stretch out with her on the couch, fall asleep with her body on top of mine and her smell wrapped around me. But that’s what I want, not what she wants. What I feel is not what she feels. If it was, I wouldn’t be going home.

Home. Jordan. I say it over and over to make it real. I don’t feel the same hysterical panic as last time, so does that mean I’m in shock? Last time it was a death sentence. This time . . . I don’t know. Maybe I’m not the same person I was then, though.

As gently as I can, I slide my arm under Annie’s neck and the backs of her knees. She’s light, so it’s not hard to lift her up and take her to her bed. Not hard at all.

Annie

This isn’t so hard,” Mo says.

“Right.”

“It’s easy.” He fiddles with the straps on his backpack and steps toward the Departures screen. “I’m going to Disney World. I’ll be back next week with a sunburn and a Minnie tattoo on my butt.”

“I can’t see them doing real tattoos at Disney, but whatever makes you feel better. Does it?”

“No.” Mo starts toward the ticketing line. I stay by his side. I’d rather look like a dog who’s figured out she’s not going on the family vacation than let him get too far right now.

We stand in line. I hurt all over. The people around us pull bags, push babies, lean on each other, and bicker at the same time. It’s all of the reasons why airports make me uneasy. The emotions of strangers shouldn’t be so close and inescapable. I wonder if they can all see what I’m feeling by my face. Probably not. Guilt. Relief. Panic. Anger. Love. I don’t even know what that would look like.

“So, about Reed,” he says.

“Yeah?”

“He’s not so bad.”

“I know,” I say.

“I wanted to hate him.”

“I know. He thinks you’re not so bad too. He thinks I should’ve introduced you guys sooner so he could’ve gotten to know you.”

Mo rolls his eyes. “Let’s not get carried away. I don’t need to be custard boy’s pen pal or anything.”

I elbow him in the ribs.

Mo takes the confirmation email out of his backpack, and I see it in his hands. It’s just the smallest quiver. I wish I hadn’t seen it. I wish he were as fearless as he has been acting.

He examines the paper, folds it, and puts it in his back pocket, and when his hand is free again, I reach over and take it. We don’t need to look at each other. Holding hands is okay. After all, we’re not just friends. Maybe there is no category for what we are, but categorizing types of love seems childish now.

Mo is not my boyfriend. He’s not my husband either, or won’t be in a few weeks once the annulment is finalized. But we’re holding hands because it makes me feel less sad and him less nervous, and because we still love each other.

He can pretend he’s going to Florida, but I have to be realistic. This is the last time I get to be with him for a while. When we talk about it we say “a while,” which sounds better than “a long time,” which sounds better than “forever.” But it could be any one of the three. Saving up enough money to travel to Jordan this year is impossible, but I could definitely scrape together the cash for a trip or two to Cambridge or New Haven if he ends up back in the States for college. Sam says his student visa chances are pretty good. Mo’s pretty hopeful.

After Mo gets his boarding pass and checks his bags, we make our way toward security. The line isn’t long, but we have to say good-bye before he can get in it.

“Can I watch you go through?” I ask. My voice is solid. I’m not going to cry.

“Yeah. What do you think my chances are of getting felt up by that big dude with the wand?”

“I don’t know. You’re kind of cute. Maybe if you show a little leg.”

He laughs, but it’s nervous and distracted, barely a laugh at all. He’s not thinking about security.

We’re not walking anymore. We’re standing still, and my heart is in my throat. I want to freeze time, and I want this over. Either. Just not this.

“So,” he says.

“So.”

He lifts his arms, and I walk in to him, wrapping my arms around his body, squeezing so hard I don’t know how I’m not killing him. I might be killing myself. All the skin and muscle and bone of him are too solid, and I can’t absorb him into my body. My arms ache, and when I can’t squeeze any longer, I relax and just let him hold me. I’m soaking in a lifetime of Mo in just one hug, and I can feel a part of myself soaking into him too. It’s more than his smell and the texture of his skin. I’m collecting his thoughts—no, our thoughts. I have to take them all, our glances and our words and our memories too, because it’s almost too late.

It is too late.

He lets go and turns around without saying good-bye. I feel something crazy, a scream working its way up me, but not a scream because I don’t open my mouth. My heart is squeezing itself to death.

He turns around and gives me his smile of beautiful white teeth. “I love you,” he calls.

“I love you, too,” I call back.

That’s our end. I can’t watch him now, not without crying. I can’t stand here and see him show his passport and take off his shoes and shuffle through the line with all the other passengers like I thought I could. Like someone anonymous. I turn around and walk step after step after step toward the airport exit. Away from Mo. Into the after.

Thank you to all the attorneys in my life (and there are many) who helped me wade through the immigration issues for this book. I now understand even less why you all choose to do what you do. But whatever. To each his own. I owe a special thanks to Michael Martinez for going above and beyond his brother-in-law duties by reading the entire manuscript. Mike, that ruled of you. Your knowledge and suggestions were invaluable. Next time I get your name for Christmas I’m going to buy you something awesome, or maybe just less lame than last time.

And to the attorney in my life whose expertise would have been most helpful, but who refused to answer any questions or discuss any issues, thanks for eventually being okay with me writing this book. I owe you.

Thanks also to the editorial team at Simon Pulse, whose patience and creativity was astounding: Anica Rissi, Liesa Abrams, Michael Strother, and everyone else who pored over the manuscript and brainstormed ideas to make things work. I recall at one point during my Dream Act crisis, Anica promised to get on the phone with President Obama if we couldn’t make all the pieces fit. I don’t doubt she would have.