Empty Promises (The Promises Series Book 3) (4 page)

“Ugh … Seriously, how can she just walk over there and strike up a conversation? I know she’s not immune to that particular group of guy’s looks. Hell, I’m fifty feet away and they’ve reduced me to pathetic little girl status without even knowing I’m here. I’d give anything to just be able to go up and talk to him.”

“Him?” Casey asks, raising her perfectly arched eyebrow at me.

I feel my cheeks redden. “I meant them.”

“Course you did, sweetie.”

“Oh, shut up.” I smile until I notice Brie heading back to us with Ethan, Jackson and TJ in tow.

“Better close your mouth, Emily, you’re drooling,” Casey murmurs before stepping forward to say hello.

I’m so not prepared for this. I look down at my ballet pumps, faded skinny jeans and rumpled cream sweater. This is not how I wanted to look when I finally spoke to him.
Damn it, damn it, damn it.

Lord, just take me now.

“Hey,” Jackson greets, and the other two nod their heads, acknowledging my presence without actually having to converse. They all know Brie and Casey, but to be fair, I don’t think there‘s a single guy in the whole of our senior class who doesn’t at least know of them. They’re equal parts stunning, popular and nice; not traits that usually go together with pretty girls. Della and Dannii, another two girls from our squad, unashamedly demonstrate that. They’re our school’s version of the typical clichéd mean girls. It’s kind of a shame; up until last year, Dannii seemed to be a genuinely nice girl, but then she started to hang out with Della more. The transformation was pretty rapid. It was like zero to bitch in one week flat.

From the corner of my eye, I can see TJ studying me as Ethan and Jackson talk with the girls. I’m instantly self-conscious. I used to have a thing where I twiddled with my hair when I was anxious, and I’d be doing it right now if I had enough to twist. My pixie-length blond hair is barely long enough to run my fingers through. I smile at him because really, what else can I do? He grins back, although I can tell he’s deliberating about whether or not to talk to me. His smile, although polite, doesn’t reach his eyes, and the way his hands are stuffed deep into his pockets makes him look uncomfortable. He’s rocking back and forth on his heels and I'm sure he’s waiting for someone to jump in, call for his attention and rescue him.

I like to consider myself a pretty approachable person, but since being diagnosed, people seem to have forgotten how to talk to me like a regular girl. It was all good until I lost my hair. Blair and I buzzed our heads before mine could all fall out, and instantly, people’s reactions towards me changed. The bald head is a beacon for “this girl must be sick.”

I remember the first day I walked into the teenage oncology unit. The dayroom was like a sea of pale-faced teens, each battling with varying amounts of hair loss. It shocked me almost as much as the initial diagnosis, but what eventually became normal for me still took other people by surprise.

“You’re Emily, right?”

I’m about to answer, but he tags on, “the girl with cancer,” to the end of his question and I almost choke on my tongue. I should be used to people without filters, but it still gets me that they seem to think cancer is my defining feature.

“That’s me,” I say, pulling out my cell to give myself a distraction.

“So, how’s that going? You on treatment still? Or are you, you know, okay now?”

Well, fuck, this is awkward. I look up from my cell to see him push his hands even deeper into his pockets. He looks really uncomfortable at having to make conversation with me. The rest of the guys are still talking animatedly amongst themselves.

“I’m okay,” I lie. I tell myself that it’s to spare him the mortification and discomfort that would no doubt ensue after asking the terminally ill chick if she’s cured, but if I’m honest with myself, it’s to save my own embarrassment.

“Awesome,” he replies, looking genuinely happy for me.

I almost groan as I attempt to smile, but it’s so strained I’m sure it looks more menacing than anything else. An obstinate silence descends for what feels like a ridiculously long amount of time before Brie finally turns and links her arm through mine.

“Okay, the boys are getting the tickets, and we need to go get the snacks.” I let her lead me away as I mentally prepare myself for the next few hours.

Casey and Brie are paying as I struggle with pulling my sweater off; my little exchange with TJ left me hot and bothered, and not in a good way. I drape the top over my arm and look up to see Ethan standing in front of me, merely inches away.

“Cool shirt,” he says with a crooked grin as he thrusts his hand out towards me. I look down to see I’m wearing one of Dad’s old Pink Floyd tees that my Mom shrunk years ago; I’d immediately claimed it. It’s one of my favorites.

“Thanks,” I reply a little more zealously than intended. He’s still holding his arm out towards me and I scrunch my nose in confusion.

“Your ticket.”

“Huh? Oh, my ticket, right. Thanks.”

He hands it over and waits a beat before asking if I’m all right.
Great, I’m obviously making a stellar impression.
I nod, and he turns to join the rest of his friends. Just like that, I nose dive straight off his radar.

Excellent.

“ARE YOU GOING to eat that?”

I look down at the salad I’m pushing around on my plate and then back up to meet Blair’s worried stare.

“I’ve got no appetite,” I tell her, shoving my plate to the side. My agitation is almost palpable. I watch as she lets her fork drop with an obnoxiously loud clatter and then sits back in her seat, folding her arms.

“You need to cheer up. It was just one night at the movies, and you’ll likely have another opportunity to speak to him. We’re still going to the Kickstart gig next week, so you could talk to him there,” she says, willing me to stop with the moping.

“I know. I’m just a little gutted that the only interaction I've had with him resulted in me standing and looking completely vacant and spaced out. You only get one chance at a first impression, and mine sucked.”

“Well, if you really did ‘drop off his radar,’” she says, doing finger quotes, “he won't remember meeting you.”

“Jeez, thanks. Way to make a girl feel good about herself!”

“Oh, calm it. I just mean that if he doesn’t remember you, you get a second chance at your first impression. Silver linings and all that!”

“And if he does remember me?” I grimace.

“Well, then you’re already winning. He’ll know who you are, which means he took an interest the first time you spoke, and you just need to unleash the funny, witty, slightly mental Emily I know and love. You’ll dazzle him, and if he’s not ass-over-tit madly in love with you inside of thirty seconds, the guy’s a moron. And honestly, Em, who wants to date a moron?”

“Me!”

She leans forward to push my shoulder as she laughs and orders, “Come on, let’s head to class,” clearing our table and placing the tray on the racks as we make our way out of the cafeteria. We normally sit in the quad, but I’m cold as hell today, even though everyone else is walking around in T-shirts.

I decided that I needed some normality back in my life, so Mom called the school and arranged for me to return. There’s only a finite amount of trash daytime television you can watch before your brain turns to mush; the prospect of becoming a
Real Housewives
addict became scarily appealing and an actual probability.

The news of my terminal status seems to have already made the rounds, which is kind of a relief. I didn’t want to come back to questions about my treatment, so I’d asked Brie to inform the cheer team of my plight. Blair had said that the quickest way to pass the news through the school was to confide in the cheerleaders. She was adamant that if they thought it was a secret, the whole town would know inside of forty-eight hours. Turns out, she was right. It’s an oddly impressive and efficient gossip grapevine they operate.

I spent most of yesterday trying to ward off looks of sympathy; I was worried that I would arrive at school today and be faced with more of the same. I needn’t have worried, though—this is high school, after all. My news has already been bumped from the top spot amidst the hype of an apparent R-rated tape of Jennifer Gray and some unidentified old dude doing the rounds on Facebook. It seems to be the only thing anyone is discussing today. I hope I see her; I could kiss her for taking the heat off me.

We finally round the corner to AP English and are met by a set of abs, seemingly made of steel. My reactions aren’t quick enough to avoid the collision into Jackson’s broad chest and I face plant into his pectorals before stumbling backward. He lunges forward to pull me upright just as Blair lurches me into her side to try and steady me. I feel like a rag doll.

“Sorry! Emily, isn’t it?” he asks. “I didn’t see you there. I haven’t hurt you, have I?” I can tell from his panic-stricken face and his slight overreaction to our minor collision that he knows I’m sick.

“Yeah, no worries,” I reassure him. He actually looks pale. The poor guy probably thinks I’m about to keel over and die.

“Okay, well, sorry again,” he says with a rueful smile, sidestepping past me and disappearing around the corner.

Jackson comes across quite sweet. He’s tall, blond, built and gorgeous. And he has the reputation to go with his looks. He’s a certified man-whore, just like his best friend and my infatuation. You would think knowing this about Ethan would lessen my affections towards him, but it doesn’t deter me; not even a little. I’m certain there’s something more to him than what he projects, and I would give just about anything to be the one to discover what that is.

“Earth to Em … you sure you’re okay?” Blair asks, scanning me like she’s looking for broken bones.

“I'm all right. Seriously though, his chest—it didn’t give even a little. It was like a slab of marble. Is it wrong that I want to see it bare now?”

“Oh my gosh, you’re incorrigible! But no, I’d sign up for that particular peep show too. Shame he’s such a slut. He’s cute.”

“Hold the phone. Blair Thomas is actually declaring a guy cute!” I say, mocking the fact that Blair almost never shows an interest in guys.

“I’m not blind, Emily. I just have a good check on my hormonal state, unlike you.” She sticks her tongue out at me as we head into the classroom.

I don’t attempt a retort because I know as well as she so obviously does that when it comes to Ethan and the rest of Kickstart, I’m about as chemically balanced as a frat boy at his first mixer.

July 23
rd
, 2013

Dear Diary,

Dr. Zahn seems happy with my decision to go back to school. She was also impressed that I’ve taken her up on this cancer diary malarkey. Truth is, I think it’s helping to write this stuff down. I’m not angry anymore, which is a good thing, but I’m not sure where I am on my little route to acceptance. Supposedly, I should be in the bargaining phase, but I’m not. I gave up on the bargaining idea, and pleading with God that I’d be a better person and go to church every Sunday without fail; that I’d start doing more things for charity, and even abstain from alcohol, drugs and sex before marriage. Not that honoring that part would be hard.

I was a model teenager, and the cancer still came back.

I haven’t lost my faith in God, per se. I need to believe that there’s something more for me after this. There just has to be because the alternative is too scary to wrap my mind around.

I caught my dad praying last night; he’s not religious, not even a little. I’d gone to get a glass of water in the middle of the night and he was sitting at the kitchen island. His hands were clasped in prayer while muttering something under his breath with a glass of whiskey sitting by his side. His eyes were red and glassy when he looked up and noticed me.

My dad is a good-looking guy. All my friends have crushed on him at one point or another … well, all except Blair, that is. He’s tall, broad and has an athletic physique. Unlike most of the school dads, he still has a head full of thick blond hair—there’s not a solitary grey in sight—and he always looks put together.