The Vow

“Yeah.”

She thinks for a moment, then leans forward and pats the dashboard affectionately. “The finest vehicle in Kentucky.”

I narrow my eyes. “Under normal circumstances there is no way a vehicle without AC would be considered an acceptable dowry, but since you’re also bringing an American passport to the table, I’ll overlook it.”

“So we have a deal,” she says.

“We have a deal.” I take my right hand off the steering wheel, spit in my palm, and hold it out. “Shake on it.”

The smile disappears, and she shrinks back toward the window. “Absolutely not.”

“Don’t be a wuss. Just spit in your hand and shake.”

“You’re disgusting.”

“It’s like signing a contract. We made a deal; now we swap spit.”

“It’s nothing like signing a contract.”

“There are other ways to swap spit. Do you want me to pull over so we can make out instead?”

She spits in her hand, takes mine, and shakes it firmly.

“Note to self,” I mutter. “Threatening to kiss the fiancee yields immediate submission to my will.”

“Ha,” she says, and wipes our spit on my shorts. “Gross. Turn off the wipers.”

Then I hear it: the strangled moan of rubber on dry glass. I didn’t even notice the rain stop, but it has. I turn off the wipers. Annie rolls down her window, so I do the same, and the wind roars in and fills my ears, clears my mind. For just this second, I’m flying. I’m staying.

I’m staying.

It’s hard to say who starts screaming first, but it’s one of those roller-coaster screams—high-pitched for her, closer to a yell for me—where exhilaration meets pure terror.

We scream until we’re hoarse; then I make Annie get out the directions again.

“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.