The Vow

“Great,” Flora mutters, and I remember she’s talking, but not what she’s talking about. “You kids are going to be annoying, aren’t you?”

“Uh, we’re almost out of butter pecan,” I say, finally pulling my eyes away, as if I’m not so flustered my knees may give out. “I’m going to get another bucket.”

I pretend not to see her smirk as I spin around and escape to the safety of the walk-in freezer. The door swings shut behind me with a soft thud and a sweet chill runs through me. I can breathe. I’m not sure how long I’ve been holding the shiver in, but long enough to make me shaky.

I make my way down the length of the freezer slowly, soothed by the hum of the machinery. It’s a long, skinny room, lined with metal shelving from floor to ceiling. And thanks to Flora, it’s perfectly organized. Frozen fruit, blocks of juice concentrate, buckets of custard, all neat and labeled. I wasn’t lying—we actually are out of butter pecan in the case up front—so I scan the towers of pails for their brown-and-white labels as I walk.

It’s easy to find, but nearly impossible to retrieve. I have to move the peach, triple fudge, and mint chip buckets to get to it, then shove them all back in again. It’s heavy, so instead of carrying it by the skinny metal wire that digs into my palm, I hug the bucket and hook my fingers under the bottom edge.

When I turn around, chin resting on the lid, body thoroughly chilled, Reed is standing back by the door.

“Sorry,” he says. “I didn’t want to scare you.”

“Not scared. Maybe a little startled.” My heart is banging against the massive bucket between us. I wonder how long he’s been here watching me play custard Jenga. “Don’t tell me you’re here for the mint chip, because it’s no longer reachable.” I gesture with my chin to the rearranged shelf. Mint chip isn’t even visible.

“No, I just wanted to say hi.”

“Oh. Hi.” I wait. The thudding. Hard to believe he can’t hear it too, because it feels like my heart is about to pound its way out of my rib cage. “How are you?”

“Good,” he says. “Tired, actually. I spent the morning moving furniture from room to room. How about you?”

“Good.” I don’t volunteer any information about my morning. I got married can’t be good for things at this point in our relationship, or at any point in our relationship. I’m not even sure if relationship is the right word.

“I had fun last night,” he says.

I can see his breath, the sheerest glimmer of icy air escaping from between his lips. But I can’t look at his lips without remembering the moment they touched my neck. “Me too.”

“Good. I was thinking about it, and I hope you didn’t feel like I pushed you into showing me your mural. Hearing you talk about it just made me curious.”

Curious. Was that supposed to mean the itch had been scratched? I’m suddenly freezing and boiling at the same time. I reposition my grip on the bucket. I would put it down, but it feels like protection now—cold and solid enough to shield a blow.

“But afterward,” he continues, “I realized maybe it was really personal.”

“Yeah.” He’s staring at me, and I’m not sure what we’re talking about anymore. The mural or the kissing. I’m about to make it easy for him by saying it was no big deal, but then I remember what he looked like as he stood in the center of my room, spinning a slow circle.

“Anyway, thanks,” he says. “And I’m sorry if you felt—”

“I wouldn’t have showed it to you if I didn’t want to.”

A year ago I couldn’t have said that. The Annie that Chris Dorsey knew certainly couldn’t have said that. Not honestly.

His face relaxes. He’d been talking with his hands, but he lets them drop to his sides. It looks like surrender.

“Good,” he says, and I can feel his eyes trying to read me. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but you’re different.”

“Okay.” I try to smile. “How should I take it?”

“As a compliment.”

“I’ll take it as a compliment then. So, how long do you think we have until Flora—”

Right on cue, the door sweeps open, and Flora’s maroon curls pop into view. “Hate to break up the whatever, kids, but we’ve got customers out here.”

“Coming,” I say, but before I can leave, Reed takes a step forward and reaches across to take the bucket from me. Our faces come dangerously close over its rim. For a second we’re near enough that I feel a shade of the thrill from last night’s kiss.

He lifts the bucket, and my arms drop away. I try to straighten my fingers, but they feel permanently bent.

“You have plans for this Friday?” he asks, following me out the door.

“Just work.”

“I mean after. Can I make you dinner?”

I shrug, trying to offset the grin I can’t help. “Depends. What are you making?”

“Exactly what you want.”

“What if I don’t know what I want?”

“I told you last night, remember? That’s my specialty.”

Chapter 16

Mo

It’s his specialty?” I ask, staring at the hand-written name and number on the scrap of yellow paper. Sam M. Cane. 502-241-3350.

Dad shrugs, licks his finger and turns the page of his magazine. The Economist.

Brutal. I’d rather slam my fingers in the door repeatedly than be here right now with him. I should’ve been the one to tell him. I wanted to, but Mom insisted on doing it, so instead I got to lie on my bed and listen to the first Jerry Springer–style shouting match this house has ever hosted. And now he’s treating me like I’m a traitor. No, like a disobedient child, like I’m not even man enough to own up to my own actions.

He won’t look at me.

I take a bite of my doughnut and lean back against the counter so I don’t have to sit at the table with him. “And I’m supposed to just call him?”

“You aren’t supposed to do anything.” He’s still flipping pages.

“Then why did you give me his number?”

“Because you have immigration forms to file, and you should consult someone. But clearly you’re your own man now. Do whatever you want.”

I’m dying for an emotion from him. A smirk, a grunt, a cocked eyebrow—anything would make his words easier to swallow, but apparently I’m taking them plain. Dry, burnt toast plain.

“It’ll be expensive though, right?” I ask.

“No. He’s not an attorney.”

“Then why am I seeing him?”

“He’s a law student. A cousin or something of one of the engineers at ReichartTek.”

“I shouldn’t see an attorney?”

He finally looks at me. “Can you afford an attorney?”

Definitely not the answer I was looking for.

“I’ll be putting money in your account for living expenses,” he says. “Rent, utilities, food, clothes. If you think you need an expensive attorney to fill out a few simple forms that you could do yourself, go right ahead. Good luck coming up with the money.”

I fold the paper and put it into my pocket. I’m not sure why I didn’t think about money before Annie and I got married. Glaring oversight.