The Vow (19 page)

Yesterday that would have made me smile. Today it makes me want to die.

“Do you want something to drink?” he asks.

I shake my head but follow him to the kitchenette.

He takes a soda from the fridge, opens it, takes a sip. “So, playing sick. I’m not complaining, but any other reason, besides saving me from boredom?”

My mouth won’t open and my legs feel weak. I hoist myself up so I’m sitting on the countertop and stare at my lap. I realize too late that it’s the wrong thing to do, that he sees something else in how I’m sitting, in me being here. He steps toward me and rests his hand on my thigh. “Have I ever told you how sexy you are? And this dress . . .” He leans in to my knees. He puts the soda down and the shock of his cold fingers on my other thigh almost makes me shudder. “Seriously, it does something to me to see—”

“Stop.”
I almost yell the word, and he jerks away. It rings between us like a slap.

He takes a step back, hands hanging by his sides, and I pull myself together. I won’t look at his face.

He waits. Of course he waits. There has to be an explanation coming, because it was only two days ago that he made me dinner and we talked on the couch and then we kissed on the couch and he had his hands all over me on the couch and it was okay with me. It was more than okay with me.

I don’t have the right words for this. If I’d have planned out the words, I couldn’t have made myself come here. I’m a coward.

He’s still waiting.

“I need to talk to you.” I shake my head. Obviously I need to talk to him. “Something happened.”

“Are you okay?”

I make the mistake of looking up. His eyes are full of worry—worry for me, instead of worry for what I’m about to do to him. “I’m fine,” I say, and look back down to the safety of my lap. When I start again, my voice is shaky and too high. Not my own. “Remember that conversation we had the other day about Mo?”

“Yeah.”

“About how our relationship was, you know, platonic?”

Reed folds his arms, and I see that caramel skin ripple over muscle. “Yeah.”

“Well, something happened.”

“Something.” His voice is hard and flat, a penny with the shine scuffed off.

“It’s not quite . . .” I pause, hating the sound of the voice coming out of my mouth. I sound like the kind of girl who would cheat on her boyfriend. Intentionally. I have to. “It’s not quite like that anymore.”

“You mean platonic.”

“No. I mean, yeah, it’s not platonic.”

“Anymore,” he says, not a drop, not a single whiff of emotion.

“Right.”

His arms, still folded over his chest, move up and down with his breath. “But the other night,
two
nights ago, when you said it was, it still was? Or were you lying then?”

Was I? When are my lies supposed to have started? This is too muddy, but I can’t think whether it matters or not. I guess I was married then. I guess the lying was supposed to already be happening, I just didn’t know it. So I guess I’m supposed to be lying retroactively, even if I thought I was being honest then. Which I sort of was. I close my eyes. I’m not smart enough for lying about lying.

But then I remember the deliciousness of that night, the food, the ice cream, talking, kissing, and it doesn’t matter if I was supposed to be lying then. I can’t lie about that night. “No. I was telling you the truth then.”

He snorts and takes a step toward me, gripping the edge of the counter on either side of my knees. I can feel his breath on my forehead, but I won’t look up again. “It’s been
two days
. You’re telling me in those two days, the two days I’ve spent not being able to think about anything
but
you, you just all of a sudden decided it’d be a good idea to screw your best friend?” He’s not yelling, but it feels like he is. It’s not loud, but it’s brimming with anger. I keep my head down. “The one who thinks of you as a sister? And I’m supposed to believe that it honestly never occurred to you when you sat on that couch and looked at me like I was some kind of pervert for suggesting he might actually want you like that?”

My cheeks are on fire now, hot tears dripping off my nose and soaking into the fabric of my dress, turning the light blue to indigo. It’s better to be crying. I look too guilty to defend myself. He can’t expect any more words.

“And after . . .” He cuts himself off.

But my mind completes it for him. After he fed me. After he told me about cooking school and having his own restaurant someday. After he kissed and touched me and made me feel like I was some sort of angel.

I stare at his hands. His knuckles are white. I didn’t expect him to be so angry, but I’m not scared. It feels like he’s angrier at himself than me, which feels worse. He steps back, out of my reach. When he speaks again, his voice is quiet and so bitter it eats away at me. “After I told you that my last girlfriend cheated on me.”

Everything runs cold. My blood, the tears, my thoughts. I am a monster.

“I’m so stupid,” he says to himself, and pulls his hand down over his face, over his mouth like he wants to wipe me away.

“You’re not stupid.”

“But apparently I have a
type
.”

Type. He doesn’t say the word. Of course not. He’s not the kind of guy who would call a girl a slut, even if she deserves it. And besides, his eyes say it perfectly. I look into them and hold his gaze long enough to see what I made him feel.

Crushed. My rib cage. I can’t breathe. I’m all puncturing splinters on the inside, so chewed by pain I must be bleeding. Somewhere the blood must be gushing out, pooling, filling all the spaces around my heart. I let out one humiliating half-stifled sob, and he turns away from me in disgust.

“What kind of person does that?” he yells. “Tell me. Was there any point where this felt real to you?”

“I’m so sor—” I start, but he cuts me off.

“Go,”
he shouts, coming closer again.

But I’m frozen, scared to move, scared that this’ll be the last time I see him.

“I didn’t mean to hurt—”

“Go!”
He slams his fist down beside me.

I go. I slide off the counter and run. He doesn’t want to hear that I’m sorry, because there’s no way he can believe it. I wouldn’t. I stumble out the door, and it’s a miracle I don’t trip running down the stairs, tears and the midday sun blinding me. I make it to the car, but my hands are shaking so much, it’s hard to get the key in the ignition.

I’m sobbing. I didn’t think it would hurt this much, but I’m already doing it, and there is only one direction to go now. I finally get the car started and pull away from the curb.

I had to do it. It had to be done. I repeat it over and over so repetition can either make it true or numb me. Hurting Reed was the price for saving Mo. I had to do it. It had to be done. I had to do it. It had to be done.

But If I’d have imagined that his eyes could ache like that, I don’t know. I don’t know.

Chapter 20

Mo

D
id you know?” I ask.

“Hello to you too.” My father’s face on the computer screen is distorted, the webcam stretching his forehead and shrinking his chin. And the sound of his voice is a half second ahead of his moving lips. “Did I know what?”

“That Annie and I were committing a crime. That we were going to have to pretend to be married for real.”

He raises an eyebrow. “It doesn’t matter if I knew. You didn’t consult me before you got married, remember?”

I lean back and fold my arms. He’s right. “But did you?”

“If you’re asking me if I know what marriage fraud is, the answer is yes.”

“Does Mom?”

He stares blankly, unimpressed by me, by the question, by Mom—it’s hard to tell which. Maybe all of the above. “Good question,” he mumbles.

I picture the triumphant look on her face at the Taylorsville courthouse. If she knew, it didn’t matter. It was more important to her that I stay. And that she win.

“Would it have changed anything if you had known?” he asks.

“No. But you should’ve told me.”

“Again, I had no idea you were considering it. You just ran off and got married behind my back.”

“I mean after,” I argue, knowing it’s pointless, that he’s right, that I’m the one who didn’t go to him for help. “You should’ve told me or helped me find out about a student visa for college or some other way to stay. Instead you just retreated and made your plans and ignored the rest of us because you didn’t care. You don’t care.” I stop for breath. I never talk to him like this. I’m not yelling, but my pulse is racing, and I’m telling him the truth. It’s disorienting.

“That’s a bit dramatic, Mo. You were the one who shut me out.”

“So what, you wanted to teach me a lesson because I went to Mom instead of you? You could’ve at least found me a real lawyer.”

“You asserted your independence,” he says. “I was letting you be your own man.”

“You washed your hands of me.”

“If that were the case, I wouldn’t be paying your living expenses.” It’s the same even voice he uses with Mom, the same impassive look on his face. The screen between us and the out-of-sync audio don’t help. He seems like someone else. Or maybe I’m someone else. “Have you found a job yet?” he asks.

“Have you?”

He glares.

Ha. Finally, a crack in the stone. I’ve pissed him off, and I haven’t even shared my fabulous news yet. “Turns out I can’t work anyway,” I say, doing my best not to grin. “The genius law student you sent us to said it’ll take a few months for me to get work authorization. Probably more. I might as well go to basketball camp.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Work authorization. The form is being filed, but it takes—”

“I got that. I meant basketball camp. Obviously that’s out of the question, since I’ve already been reimbursed and your spot on the roster is long gone. You can spend the rest of the summer studying for the SATs and working through that reading list I gave you.”

I fight the urge to stand up and walk away from the computer. It’s not like I really thought I could still go, but he could’ve at least been more annoyed. Or apologetic. “Is Mom there?”

“She’s at the store. Sarina’s here, though. Do you want to talk to her?”

I did when we planned this call, but now I’m not sure I can hold a decent conversation with anyone. “I guess.”

Dad leaves. After a few seconds Sarina appears, and she looks okay. Thousands of pixels, thousands of miles, but she looks okay. I didn’t realize I was worried she wouldn’t be until now.

“Hey,” she says. “Your nose looks huge.”

“So does yours. It’s the webcam.”

“Oh. How’s it going?”

“Fine, I guess. Sort of weird being alone in the apartment, but I won’t be for long. Annie’s moving in.”

“I heard.”

“Yeah?” I say, trying to imagine the conversation that must have gone on after I called Dad on the way home from Sam’s. I can’t, though. I don’t understand them anymore. The who-knew-what, the who-was-right—that’s their fight. I don’t want to be on anyone’s side anymore.

“How’s Jordan?” I ask.

She hesitates. “Good, I guess. I feel a little lost with the language. It’ll come back though, right? That’s what everyone is telling me. It hasn’t been that long.”

I hate and love her optimism at the same time. “What about Teta and Jido? And are the crazy cousins still crazy?”

“Everyone’s good. Teta and Jido are making a big fuss over us, and the cousins generally ignore me, which is good.”

“Good.”

“I didn’t realize how rich Teta and Jido are,” she continues in a whisper, which is probably unnecessary with her Kentucky-accented English. “Do you remember their house?”

“Sort of.”

“It’s
huge
. And we have, like, servants. People actually do my laundry and make my bed. Oh, and there’s a cook and a driver. Can you believe that?”

“I’d sort of forgotten, but now that you mention it, I do remember getting in trouble for stealing food from some guy in a uniform with a beard.”

“That would be the cook,” she says. “Amir.”

“Wow. Seven years, same beard. Go, Amir.”

She laughs, but it’s tight and nervous. There’s more. I’m torn between wanting to hear it and hoping she doesn’t tell me everything. “Have you started school yet?”

“It’s summer here too,” she says.

“Right.”

“I went to mosque the other day.”

“Yeah? How was that?” I ask. We only went to mosque in Louisville a few times. I guess people were nice enough, but I always felt like such a fake. We were too far away from everyone to be part of any sort of Muslim community. Nobody else there was the only Muslim in their school.

“It was nice,” she says. “Teta goes all the time, so I go with her. Mom and Dad not so much. And I’ve started wearing a
hijab
when I go out.”

I try picturing Sarina’s face framed by a head scarf or anything but her light-brown hair, and I’m lost. “Do you hate it?”

“No. Actually, I kind of like it.”

I’m not sure what to say. A few weeks ago I would’ve been disturbed, borderline pissed, but now, not really. She doesn’t sound particularly miserable. Except then I remember who I’m talking to. Sarina would sing on her way to the guillotine. “Is Mom wearing it too?”

“Yeah. Most of the women here do. It isn’t so weird when everyone is doing it. In fact, I stood out more those first few days before I started. So, how’s Duchess?”

“Duchess?” It takes me a moment to realize she’s talking about Satan’s Cat. “Still alive.”

“Tell me you’re being nice to her.”

“She’s getting free room and board at the illustrious Wisper Pines. That’s as much nice as I’ve got in me.”

“Seriously, just pet her every once in a while, okay?”

“That beast nearly clawed my eyes out last time I tried to touch her. Luckily for you, Annie seems to like her.”

“Good.”

She sounds relieved enough that I shelve the comment I was going to make about the rising black market rate of feral cat kidneys.

“So,” I say.

“So.”

But then there’s nothing to talk about. We’re not good at this—scheduled conversations, our noses too big, our words out of sync with our mouths. Even if we do this regularly, I have to assume the talking will just get harder and more unnatural as our worlds shift further and further apart. Until we don’t even know each other.

“So you’re coming over winter break?” she asks.

“Depends. Turns out I need special permission to leave and come back if I’m in the process of becoming a permanent resident.” Another of Sam’s bombshell revelations.

“Oh.”

“So Mom’s not there?” I ask even though Dad already told me.

“Nope.”

“Has she been a total basket case?”

“No. Yes. Both. Yo-yo. How’s Annie?”

“Fine.” I put my feet up on the coffee table, and Satan’s Cat hisses from her lookout. I flip her off.

“Are you giving me the finger? Was that Duchess?”

“No and yes.”

“Can I see her?”

“I couldn’t make that cat come to me if I was wearing a catnip suit.”

“Okay. Parting request, once she calms down, rub her belly for me.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Then ask Annie to.”

I roll my eyes. “If I remember.”

She smiles. “Thanks.

“You’re welcome.”

We hang up, and I stare at the empty Skype window.

Living alone sucks.

I could email Bryce. Yeah, I’ll do that. I open up a new email, ready to tell him the truth—or the lie that Annie and I are in the process of making true—but I can’t. I stare at the white screen and blinking cursor instead. There isn’t a good place to start. And I can’t even concentrate on it because as worried as I am about Bryce’s reaction, it’s not what’s really gnawing at me.

I’m worried about Annie.

She was so stalwart yesterday, a rock, an Amazon warrior, but then she had to go all comatose on me in the car after—how am I supposed to process that? I thought we were in the clear, but the delayed zombie routine means we’re definitely not. Not until she’s actually told her parents. If she’s even going to tell her parents.

Satan’s Cat thumps her tail against the wall.

“Stop it.”

She glares, keeps doing it.

“Seriously. Cut it out.”

It’s hypnotic, the swirly eyes, the rhythmic
thump . . . thump . . . thump.

“I swear, I’ll put you in the bathroom.”

She smiles at me. It doesn’t seem like she should be able to, like that’s even anatomically possible for a cat, but I swear, she smiles, and that smile says
Go ahead. Try.

I sigh. We both know I can’t put her in the bathroom without sustaining significant lacerations to my face.

I close my laptop, email unsent. Next week Bryce’ll be home for five whole days before he’s off to Greece. I’ll tell him then.

“Happy now?” I growl.

No answer. Just
thump . . . thump . . . thump.

* * *

I
spend the rest of the afternoon making room for Annie: cramming all of my clothes into the bottom two drawers, pushing my hangers to the left side of the closet, transferring my toiletries into just one of the drawers in the bathroom, clearing my books and retainer case from the bedside table. I strip the sheets and put clean ones on for her.

I’m not sure when I forget how miserable talking to my family made me, but I do. Somewhere between stuffing pillows into fresh pillowcases and scrubbing the toilet, the anger is replaced by a wave of sheer relief. Because Annie’s coming. And when she’s around I’m not spiraling toward insanity or begging the cat to stop screwing with me or worrying about Sarina. I get to live with my best friend. It’ll be fun. We’ll stay up late watching
South Park
reruns, and she can set up her easel in the corner of the family room where my boxes and junk used to be, and maybe she’ll even make some half-decent food every once in a while. Not like I’m expecting her to, but it’d be nice. I could offer tutoring for food. Or even better, she could teach me how to make some half-decent food for myself. That would work too.

The relief doesn’t last long before guilt finds me, prickles my skin like the glare of that evil, evil cat. I am one selfish bastard. I’m sitting here thinking about how awesome this extended slumber party is going to be when Annie is at home packing up her life. Closing down. Logging out. Shutting off.

It’s not that I don’t feel bad, because I do. But I didn’t ask her to do it. She dreamed it up and chose it again and again and again, even after I tried to talk her out of it. So maybe it makes me a jerk, but for the first time since my family left, I’m happy. After a few days of loneliness, living with Annie sounds like heaven.