The Vow

“Yeah.” I fight the urge to shudder. He’s rubbing slow circles on both sides of my neck, and I could melt if I let myself. “The mural is good. I’m knee-deep in coral, but it’s coming.”

“Done before I leave?”

“Before you leave?” The words are out of my mouth, full of confusion, before I remember that I’m not supposed to be surprised by this thing that I already know. I’ve been letting myself fall, pretending there isn’t an endpoint. Fall. School.

“Before I go back to Nashville in August,” he says. He’s still kneading my neck, and the muscle feels like it’s sighing beneath his fingers.

“Hopefully,” I say. But I don’t feel the least bit hopeful now. “Maybe not, though.”

“I may have to come back up and see it over Labor Day weekend.”

I give him a skeptical glance. He’s not really going to drive three hours to visit a high school girl with an iron curfew.

“You don’t believe me? Nashville’s not that far. Not too far to drive to see my girlfriend.”

“Your girlfriend.”

He stops rubbing, but keeps his hand on the back of my neck.

“Is that what I am?” I ask.

“I don’t know. Is that what you want to be?”

“I don’t know. Is that what you want me to be?”

He smiles. “You’re not making this easy.”

“Just answer the question.”

“Of course that’s what I want you to be.”

“Good.” I feel warm. My skin, from feet to hands to cheeks, is turning pink, but I’m not embarrassed.

“Besides,” he adds, “we’ve made out in your room, the freezer, the parking lot, the break room. If you’re not my girlfriend, that means—”

“You’re a man slut,” I break in.

“Exactly what I was going to say. And I’d hate to get a name like that in place as small as Elizabethtown.”

He leans back and looks at me. Something about the set of his mouth and the way his eyes narrow when he does that, I feel like he’s seeing right through me. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Sure.”

“Your friend Mo—is he gay?”

“No.”

“Oh.” He scratches the back of his neck, where the hair looks so soft and shiny I want to reach out and rub it between my fingers. “So did you guys used to go out?”

“No. He’s like my brother.”

“Yeah, you said that before. I just thought maybe he was like your gay brother.”

“Mo is definitely not gay. Or if he is, he has both of us pretty well fooled, because he’s been genuinely lusting after the same girl for years.”

“But you guys haven’t hooked up, not even once?”

I make a face. “Not even once? No. And I don’t hook up just once with people.”

“That’s not what I meant. Remember, I’m the man slut.”

“Right.” I put my empty bowl on the faux-wood coffee table and search for words to clear the muddiness. “He’s . . . he’s Mo.”

“I believe you when you say you’re just not attracted to him. There are plenty of girls I’m not ever going to be into that way. But . . .”

“But what?” I push. I’m not nearly as stupid as I must sound to Reed, but I’ve heard this explanation before. It’s lame. Mo being male can’t be the reason we can’t be just friends.

“But he’s a guy.”

“Yeah. Like you. And you just said you weren’t attracted to every female in the world.”

“But he’s a guy and you’re you,” he continues. “I mean, I’m trying not to sound creepy here, but I can pretty much guarantee that any straight guy who spends any amount of time with you is not going to be thinking about you like you’re his sister.”

I sigh. “That is creepy.”

“But true. Sorry.”

I’m not sure how to respond, so I don’t. Grass wallpaper the shade of creamed honey covers all four of Reed’s walls, and the effect transports me. I’m in a wheat field. Not so different from the whirlpool of my mural at all. But from my wheat field I can still hear Reed, and what he’s saying is wrong. It’s sort of a compliment, but it’s wrong. Mo doesn’t think of me that way. Reed just doesn’t know him, doesn’t know us.

“I’m not trying to make you mad,” he says.

“I’m not mad.”

“I’m just being honest. At first I thought you were talking about him all the time so I’d know you weren’t interested.”

“What? Really?”

“Yeah, but then I started to think you were interested,” Reed says, “and you were still talking about him, so I just assumed he was gay. No, assumed is the wrong word. Hoped?”

“Is it that big of a deal?” I ask, feeling that same frustrated, desperate feeling I have every time this conversation happens.

“Having a straight guy as a best friend? I guess not.” He reaches out and traces the pomegranate stains on my arm. “Don’t be upset. I just don’t understand your dynamic or whatever, but I . . .” He trails off and pulls his hand away. “I should probably be totally honest with you.”

I turn to face him, bracing for pain. Nothing good has ever followed that phrase.

“I came here this summer to sort of get away from things. To work. To help my grandma. Definitely not to get into something with someone.”

“Oh.” I’m watching his face, but he’s staring a hole in the wall behind me. I can’t think of anything else to say.

“My last girlfriend cheated on me, and it was sort of recent.” He pauses, but not long enough for me to speak. “It’s why I tried not to notice you at first.”

The way he wouldn’t look at me, that slight annoyance at having to show me things, those details seem so far away now, I’d forgotten I’d even had to forget them. “But . . .”

“But then Rachel and Clara and the other girls were just too much. Too flirty and annoying.”

I picture the college girls with their cigarettes and cleavage, telling stories about getting wasted with some professor—I’d seen so little of them after the first week or two. They worked the days I had off. Come to think of it, the baby shower was the first time in a while that I’d seen any of them.

“So I had Soup change the schedule so I could work with you and Flora instead. And then I was seeing you every day, and you’re so different from anyone else, I couldn’t not . . . notice you. And want to be with you.”

He looks embarrassed, and I want to reach out and stroke his prickly cheek because I’ve never felt so flattered.

“So I’m trying not to be weird or possessive, and I know I probably came across that way just then. I didn’t used to be that kind of guy, the jealous type, I guess, but it’s hard not to assume the worst now. Anyway, I’m sorry. Being friends with Mo makes you happy. I don’t want you and Mo to be anything different than what you are.”

I’ve eaten too much. I didn’t realize it until this moment, but the spice is pressing up into my throat, burning.

What we are. Husband and wife.

The mashed-up chiles and pork and creamy walnut sauce roll around inside of me, pushing me closer to nausea, and I have the sudden horrific thought that I might be vomiting the perfect meal into that Ice-Age single- basin sink.

I remember to breathe, and it helps. I’m not going to throw up, and I’m not ashamed of what I did. Marrying