The Vow (10 page)

“We missed the exit,” she says, squinting at the piece of paper.

“That’s a surprise. Maybe if you hadn’t started screaming.” Normally I’d be annoyed, but I don’t actually care.

“
You
started the screaming. Why are you still smiling?” she asks. “This feels weird—not getting yelled at for screwing up the navigating.”

“Whatever.”

“Get off at this next exit.”

It takes us a while to find our way back, and traffic is bad so it takes even longer, but it isn’t until we pull into the parking lot destination that the grins fade.

It is not a furniture store.

Annie holds up the map. “I should’ve given this to you. I don’t even know where I screwed up.”

“You didn’t screw up,” I say.

“Unless Oxmoor Ford is selling armoires, yes, I did.”

“Look.” I point across the parking lot to where the Mr. Bernier is standing with his hand on the hood of a ribbon-tied Ford Explorer.

It’s a mirage. Or it’s not, it’s real, but it’s got the sparkle of an illusion, like it might twinkle and disappear at any second. The body of the car is obsidian black, and the grille glistens like bared teeth, muzzled with a fat red bow. Mr. Bernier looks, as always, like a professional wrestler. He’s as shiny as the truck with his Hollywood grin and glossy bald head. And in front of the Explorer, he’s never looked scarier, which is saying something.

Annie says nothing.

I drive the truck across the lot, bouncing over potholes, unprepared for the pangs of nostalgia that ring through me with each lurch. Poor truck. It’s about to be abandoned and doesn’t even know it. I should’ve whined way less about the AC.

Beside me, Annie looks like a compressed spring ready to release, practically vibrating with happiness and hysteria as she leans forward, both hands on the windshield.
“Can you believe this?”
she finally yells in my face.

“No. Maybe you should get off the dashboard, though.”

She’s out of the old truck before we’ve even rolled to a stop. Running, jumping, hugging her dad, jumping again. Squealing.

So I guess she does squeal.

Mr. Bernier chuckles and hands her keys. “Don’t go anywhere yet,” he says.

I watch as she opens the door and hops in.

“Mo,” Mr. Bernier says, and motions for me to get out.

I turn off the truck and climb out the window, probably for the last time.

“I didn’t realize you’d be coming along,” he says, holding out his hand for me to shake. The gesture is polite; the smile is huge. He hates me.

I shake his hand. He doesn’t know it has the dried remnants of his daughter’s spit mixed with mine on it. “Nice to see you, sir,” I say.

“Likewise.”

The after-rain sun is blazing orange behind him, so I use my hand as a shield and squint, and together we watch Annie freak out over the size of the cup holders and the dual-side seat warmers. We’re both thinking it. I’m horning in on his big family moment, the All-American
I love you so much; here’s a brand new truck
surprise. He’s the hero. I’m the intruder.

“So, nice day,” he says.

“Yeah. It was raining before, though.” When all else fails, go with the weather and state the obvious.

He nods.

I take a small step away from him, which he mistakes for a step toward his daughter and the Explorer.

“Let’s give her a minute,” he says. “How’s basketball going? Are you doing the summer session at U of L again?”

“Not sure.”

“Oh, that’s right. I forgot. Annie told me your family is moving back to Jordan.” His voice is soaked with just the right amount of sympathy. It’s both nearly believable and insulting.

I nod, my mind whirling through lies that will still make sense in ten days, when my family is gone and I’m still here. Here.
Here.
I’m staying, but I don’t even know where here is—where I’ll live. Why didn’t I think about that? Maybe Bryce’s? I can’t imagine eating my Frosted Flakes with Mr. Bernier every morning, so definitely not Annie’s.

“Are y’all looking forward to that?” he asks.

“I may be staying, actually. My dad’s attorney is working on getting me some kind of student visa or something.”

He folds his arms over his tanklike body. The Hollywood smile widens. “Well, that’s good news, isn’t it?”

“Yes, sir.” The glare from the sun is too much, so I turn away.

“Mo, did you know about this?” Annie calls from the driver’s seat, where she’s adjusting mirrors.

“No,” Mr. Bernier says before I can answer, and looks at me. For a brief moment he lets his guard down and gives me a hard look—the
I know you want to screw my daughter
look—then it’s back to the chummy grin. It doesn’t even matter that I don’t actually want to screw his daughter. I still shrivel. No wonder Annie would rather have anesthetic-free root canals than introduce guys to her dad.

He walks over to her and I look at my feet. If he knew what Annie and I are planning, he’d kill me.

“Do you want to hop in?” Mr. Bernier asks me, motioning to the backseat. He’s walking around the front to ride shotgun.

“Sure.”

I climb in and sink into the seat. It’s like my dad’s car on the inside—sexy console, smooth leather seats, and the sweet artificial smell is so heavy I might choke on it.

“This is awesome,” Annie whispers.

“Start it,” Mr. Bernier instructs.

The Explorer’s engine roars to life, and Annie lets out another squeal.

“It’s beautiful! Thank you!” More hugs for Mr. Bernier. More squeals.

“We should’ve bought it sooner,” he says. “It took a while to get your mom on board, but we both knew you needed something safer than that old thing.” He doesn’t even look back at the truck (that is not unsafe or even that old) that Annie and I have practically lived in for the past two years. I wonder if he’s leaving it here to be sold, but I don’t want to ask. I don’t want to know.

I need to chill out. I feel like throwing up or possibly even punching something, but leaving the truck shouldn’t be such a big deal. Why won’t Annie even look at it, though? It’s like she’s completely forgotten how she got here or that it exists.

I need her to look at me so my eyes can ask her all the questions tearing around inside of me.
Are we still getting married? If he finds out, will he take this away? What then? Would you rather have this car than me?

But she doesn’t look at me.

Chapter 13

Annie

H
e’s looking at me. I can feel his eyes from across the yard, where he’s losing a game of croquet to his niece, Piper. He’s only pretending to try, I think, but it’s hard to tell because I’m definitely not looking at him.

“You meant to do that!” Piper insists. Her voice is unusually husky for a five-year-old’s. “Hit it again.”

I glance over to see Reed reach down, pick up the red ball, and pull it back a few feet.

“This time
try
,” she orders.

“Yes, ma’am,” Reed says.

I take a sip of my virgin piña colada—pushed on me by Flora, who is now mixing more exciting drinks for the college girls—and eye the scene casually. I feel light, like I could drift away, but the icy glass under my fingertips somehow anchors me to the party and to these people I don’t know.

It’s odd to be at a party of older strangers. Of course, I know the people from work, but Vicky and Soup haven’t lived here all that long, so the rest of the guests are friends from their old neighborhood in Louisville.

“So are you going to hit it or what?” Piper demands.

I have to look over. Reed obeys and hits the ball through the wicket. Piper growls and hurls her mallet into a nearby bush, then growls even louder when she realizes what she’s done and goes in after it. Reed stifles a laugh while she wrestles it out; then he turns to the grill, where Soup is stationed. “Any advice here?”

Soup takes a sip of beer without looking up from his spread of meat. “Nope. But you think she’s mad now, just wait till you win.”

“Oh, I don’t think I’m going to win,” Reed says loudly as Piper disentangles herself from the bush and brushes the dirt off her mallet. “Piper’s got mad croquet skills.”

“I
know
,” Piper says, and whacks her ball into Reed’s red ball, sending it down the sloped side of the yard and into the creek.

I forget I’m not supposed to be watching Reed, and I don’t look away when he glances up at me with a wry but amused look, his hair falling over his glasses.

He looks different. The twilight and the lawn torches may be to blame. His features are less angular and the edges of his profile are blurring into the night air—no blanching glare of fluorescent bulbs. I hadn’t noticed how much red there is in his hair, but it’s glowing with all the colors of the sunset right now. No peach apron, either. His navy T-shirt looks like that brushed cotton that’s soft like skin.

“Annie, are you hungry?” Soup calls.

I pull my eyes away from Reed’s and make my way over to the grill. “Starving. Aside from this piña colada, I haven’t eaten all day.”

“Burger or brat?”

“Burger.”

Soup scrapes a patty off the grate for me and deposits it onto the open bun. “Extra juicy just for you.”

“Thanks.”

“Eat up. Then you should go take over for Piper before she gets really pissed off and starts swinging her mallet at Reed.”

“Oh,” I say, searching for the right words. Soup is her father, after all. “She’s such a cute little girl.”

“Yeah. Cutest dictator in the world.”

“She’ll be a great big sister, though,” I try, but it comes out with minimal feeling.

Soup shakes his head and glances at his wife. “Good luck, my unborn child.”

Vicky is sitting on a couch on the veranda, surrounded by piles of torn tissue paper and shredded ribbon. Somewhere beneath it all there are stacks of hot-pink onesies and breast pumps and other things that make me vaguely nauseous, but all I can see is wrapping carnage. I didn’t think you got all those things for your second baby. Vicky might be the type of woman who makes her own rules, though. She’s got her grandmother on one side, a frail-looking woman who’s almost asleep or possibly pretending, and someone I don’t know on the other. I’m clear across the yard, but I can hear scraps of the story Vicky’s telling. Something about her mother-in-law and baby-quilt swatches and getting kicked out of a fabric store.

“Annie.”

I startle. It’s Reed, standing beside Soup, the croquet mallet still in his hands.

“Oh, hi.”

He’s brushed his hair to the side so I can actually see his eyes now. Yes. Different from at work.

“You want a burger?” Soup asks him.

“Sure,” Reed says, dropping the mallet in the grass. “I’ll drown my croquet woes in grease.”

Soup scrapes another burger off the grill.

“Woes?” I ask. “You looked like you were doing just fine out there.”

“My ball is somewhere downstream and underwater, and my croquet partner left me to catch and torture frogs. Oh yeah, after calling me Uncle Idiot.”

Soup chuckles. “Sorry.”

“I’ve been called worse by Vicky,” Reed says with a shrug.

“Haven’t we all,” Soup mused. “Annie here was just bragging about how great she is at croquet.”

I choke on my burger.

“You okay?” Reed asks.

“Fine.” I cough. “Just surprised since I’ve never bragged about being good at any sport in my entire life.”

“What?” Soup feigns astonishment. “A minute ago you were standing here telling me you could wipe the floor with Uncle Idiot. Make him cry for his mama and everything.”

Reed shakes his head. “I have to draw the line at you calling me Uncle Idiot too.”

“He lies,” I say, trying not to laugh. “I’m terrible at any sport involving a ball or aim or coordination. Not great at the ones involving speed or strength either. Plus, I already have an Uncle Idiot—my mom’s brother—so I wouldn’t call you that. I promise.”

“I don’t believe you. I think we need to play croquet.” He puts his plate on a table, burger untouched.

I follow Reed back to where the croquet mallets are lying on the ground, the skinny heels of my sandals sinking into the grass with every step.

He eyes my feet. “Those aren’t exactly croquet shoes.”

Up until this moment I’ve loved these shoes—they go perfectly with my blue sundress—but I’m suddenly wishing I’d chosen something a little less girly. “Then I’ll blame them when I lose.”

Still, I slip them off and toss them beneath a garden bench. The piña colada goes beside my plate of half-eaten burger on top of the bench, and I join Reed by the croquet balls.

“Which color?” he asks, holding up a green and a yellow ball. His knuckles are flecked with a different-colored paint now. Eggshell blue.

“What if I say red?”

“Then I guess I’ll have to go wade through the creek and find the red ball.”

“You’d do that?”

He looks down toward the creek, his hair flashing gold in the sun. “You’d make me?”

I hesitate. “Yellow.”

He drops both balls at the starting post, and they make a satisfying
clunk
against each other. “Why’d you choose yellow?”

“I’m an artist,” I say. “Yellow is sunlight.”

“Sunlight? I don’t know. I think of lemons or butter before I think of sunlight.”

“But you’re a chef.”

“I am a chef.”

“Lemons and butter are nice but not exactly essentials. I can’t live without sunlight.”

He puts his hand over his chest. “And my chef ’s heart is breaking right now.”

I lean on my mallet, feel the head sinking into the grass under my weight, the sweet heaviness of the summer air pushing down on me.

“Who starts?” I ask.

“Ladies first.”

I line myself up and take my first shot. It doesn’t go very far. My ball only makes it halfway to the first wicket and about a foot too far to the left. “It’s because I’m barefoot. And I’ve been drinking piña coladas.”

He walks back to the bench, picks up my drink, and takes a sip. “This is virgin.”

“Shoot,” I say. “Then I guess I’m just really bad at this. Exactly like I told you I am.”

His laughter is deep and natural, not loud but melodic. I want to be closer to it. I wait by the post and watch the setting sun warm his features as he concentrates on the ball. He hits it, and it rolls through the first wicket.

“Cheater,” I mumble.

He taps the side of my calf with his mallet. “I wasn’t the one trying to distract my opponent.”

“I’m not trying to distract you.”

“You should not try a little harder then.”

Distracting. I look away, fighting the shyness suddenly warming me.

We hit the ball a few more times each. “You weren’t kidding,” he says. My ball is finally through the first thicket; his is a foot from the end post.

“About my athletic abilities? Nope. I’m not sure why you aren’t giving me the same treatment as Piper got, though.”

“You want me to let you win?”

“No. But you could at least let me think I’m catching up.”

“Sorry,” he says. “I’m not afraid of you like I’m afraid of Piper. I love her, but she’s nuts.” He hits his ball too hard, deliberately missing the post by two feet. “Better?”

“Much. So you’re painting something blue?” I ask.

He rests his mallet against his leg and holds his speckled hands out. They look calloused and rough beneath the splatter. “Yeah, I just finished the den. Moving on to the kitchen next. I should be finished with the rooms by next week, then starting outside after that.”

“At least it’s not too big,” I say, glancing back at the quaint house. It has a separate garage and a weathered fence that borders the entire property.

“Yeah, but the upkeep is still too much for her,” he says. “That’s why she’s selling it, which is why I’m painting it. I’m hoping to have it ready for her to put up for sale by the end of the summer so she can move into a place where she doesn’t have a lawn to mow or stairs to climb.”

“Sounds like a lot of work,” I say.

“I don’t mind it. I’d rather spend the summer with her than my parents, and she’s been pretty lonely these last few years. Plus I’m getting free room and board in the apartment over the garage, so I’ve got my own space and my own kitchen.”

“Where do your parents live?”

“LA.”

“Huh. You don’t sound like you’re from California.”

“I’m not. I grew up in Louisville, but my parents moved out West a few years ago. I did my last two years of high school there, then came back the second after I graduated.”

“But California’s the place everyone wants to escape
to
.”

“I wasn’t exactly living in Beverly Hills.”

“Oh.” I slap a mosquito off my leg.

“What about you?” he asks.

“What about me?”

“Born and raised here?”

“Yeah.”

“And your family? Any crazy sisters, neglected grandmas? Now you know all about mine.”

“Oh.” I stare hard at the mallet in my hands. “My family’s small.”

“Siblings?” he asks.

I shake my head.

“Just a mom who used to teach Victorian Lit,” he says, “and a dad who doesn’t like it when you get home too late.”

“That’s pretty much it.”

He squints at me. I know I sound dumb or aloof, but I don’t want to talk about my family.

“So, what time is officially
too late
tonight?”

I smile and hope it’s dark enough that he doesn’t notice. “Actually tonight they’re out with friends, so they’ll just be texting me every hour.”

He laughs. I should probably tell him I’m not kidding. Instead I say, “So we can finish our game, at least.”

“Theoretically.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“Well, no offense, but at this rate I’m not sure your ball is ever going to make it to the post and back.”

I glare at him as I walk over to my ball, put my bare foot on top of it, roll it toward the next wicket, and push it through. “I actually do much better at this game when I’m playing in the dark.”

“I can see that.”

I nudge and roll my ball through the next few wickets with my toes, aware of Reed’s eyes on my bare legs. It’s dark enough now and we’re far enough from the lawn torches that I’m probably just a silhouette.

A high-pitched laugh floats over, and I glance at the center of the party, where people look like they’re pulsing in the moonlight. The voices are getting louder as the sky darkens and the drinks flow, but it’s the sound of orderly drunkenness. Occasional cackles and hoots are as bad as it gets—a
grown-up
party, as opposed to the few high school benders Mo and I have made brief appearances at. Nobody half-naked on the couch, nobody puking in the bushes.

We’re on the edge of the gathering, visibly separate. I can’t see Reed’s grandma anymore. She must’ve gone inside, and Vicky has finished with the gifts and is shouting for Soup to get her more pink lemonade.

“I’m glad you came,” Reed says. “Aside from the work people, I don’t know many of them.”

“They seem nice,” I say.

“They seem about ten years older than us.”

He has stopped playing entirely and is sitting on a large rock, leaning back on his palms, watching me cheat. It’s too dark to see much more than his eyes, but I can still feel them warming my skin.

“So, you’re a chef. What do you cook?” I ask.

“Food.”

I roll my eyes. “Really? How fascinating.”

“I’m still reeling from being told butter and lemons are nonessentials.”

“If I take it back, will you tell me what you like to cook?”

“Sure.”

“Good. I apologize to butter and lemon lovers everywhere.”

“I’ll accept your apology on their behalf.”

“So, answer my question.”

“I like to cook whatever makes people happy. For my grandma that’s hot browns, cheddar grits, and derby pie. For Soup and Vicky, ribs and chocolate anything. For Piper, mac’n’cheese.”

“What do you cook at culinary school?”

“Uh, mostly unpronounceable French sauces.”

“And what do you cook for people who don’t know what makes them happy?”

“That’s my specialty. I make them something so good they realize that’s what they’ve been wanting their whole lives. They just never knew it before.”

“Pretty sure of yourself.”

“Not really,” he says, giving his glasses a nudge and looking embarrassed. “I just love making food.”

“Okay, one more question,” I say. “When you cook for yourself, what do you make?”

He squints and I can feel his eyes evaluating me. “Something different. But I don’t believe in exotic just for the sake of exotic. It has to taste good. Have you ever had Moroccan food?”