The Vow

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

He’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 pina 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 pina 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 pina 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.