The Vow

“I can do that.” She exhales and her shoulders drop a little. She looks worried. “Are you going to be okay?”

I glance around me. Okay. Am I going to be okay? “Yeah?”

“Really?”

I have no idea. I don’t even know if I want to be okay. Up until an hour ago, dedicating myself to winning the love of Satan’s Cat or killing her was actually starting to sound like a viable life plan.

I lean over, rest my chin on my palm, and stare at the grout between two tiles. Grout is way less likely to make me cry than Annie’s eyes all full of sympathy and worry. “I didn’t think it was going to be this hard. Saying good-bye, I mean. But I can take care of myself.”

“I know.”

“Not that you’d believe me based on the state of this place an hour ago, but I’ll do better.”

“I believe you. But I need you to be okay okay. Like not too depressed to shower or eat or talk to humans.”

“Annie.”

“Mo.”

“My family just left. Left. They did it. It’s over. My childhood, everything, I’m—” I stop myself just short of saying what I really mean: I’m completely alone. It’s too pitiful. “I’ll be okay.”

“You’ve got me.”

I run both hands through my hair. It’s still wet and I feel the water drip down into the collar of my shirt. “I know. But my sister had to leave, and I can’t for the life of me figure out what I’ve done to deserve to be sitting here, while she’s somewhere learning how to wrap up her head so nobody sees hair.”

“So don’t waste it.”

I look up from the grout into Annie’s eyes. Sometimes she says the most brilliant things. “Okay.”

She pulls out her cell, to check the time I assume—of course, the prison guards will be waiting for her—but then she puts it up to her ear and turns to face the cabinets, as if this prevents me from hearing her conversation.

“Hi . . . Yeah, I know, but I’m going to be late . . . With Mo . . . Can’t you just tell Dad I can’t make it? . . . Because . . . Mom . . . his family left two days ago. . . . Maybe. . . . I’ll ask him. . . . I’ll call you back.”

She hangs up. “Do you want to come over to my house for dinner?”

I pretend to think about it for a couple of seconds. She pretends to believe that I’m thinking about it. And then I shake my head no.

It’s been a while since I’ve been to dinner at the Berniers’, but I’m pretty sure it hasn’t changed. Good food, bad feel. Bloodless and brittle. Lena must’ve been the heart that pumped life into those people, the walls, the air. I don’t understand where Annie fits into all of it or how she even survives, but it’s dry and colorless and fragile, and I’d rather eat Cinnamon Toast Crunch on my couch and have another staring contest with Satan’s Cat.

She nods, understands. She takes out her phone, dials her mom again, and turns back to the cabinets. “Hi . . . No, he’s got a lot to do here. Actually, I’m going to stay and help him. . . . I know. . . . I don’t care. . . . Yes, I am. . . . Tell him I’ll be back by midnight. . . . I’m eighteen. . . . Just because. . . .”

I get up and walk back into the living room. Satan’s Cat is perched on a single box in the corner, the one I wouldn’t let Annie unpack. Back when the cat was Duchess, Sarina played games with her every evening, hid her catnip toys, actually stroked her fur.

I wonder what Sarina’s doing now. I’m assuming Jordan has a plethora of nasty cats to love, but I can’t imagine she’s adopted one already. She’s probably lying in bed clutching a stuffed animal, worrying about whether or not I’ve remembered to read Duchess a bedtime story. I check my inbox to see if she’s responded to the email I sent yesterday. Nothing.

“TV?” Annie asks, flopping down on the couch.

“Sure. Don’t get in trouble over me, though. I’m okay if you have to go.”

She purses her lips and examines the remote. “I know. I’m exerting a little independence. You know, being my own woman and all that crap.”

“But they just bought you a brand-new car. Maybe you shouldn’t piss them off.”

Satan’s Cat hops off the box and onto Annie’s lap. “If I was going that route, I’d have told them I got married last week.”

“Good point,” I say, and sit down beside her. “But I don’t want them hating me any more than they already do, on the off chance they do find out and your dad is deciding whether to kill me or only cut my testicles off.”

“Do you want me here?” she asks.

“Of course.”

“Then shut up.”

“Okay.”

We watch a double episode of COPS, then stop to make dinner, which consists of grilled cheese sandwiches—possibly the best I’ve ever tasted—and a pear she finds in her purse. We split it bite for bite, and it’s the first fruit or vegetable (excluding Crunch Berries) I’ve had in days, so it tastes pretty incredible. Next up, a reality show about an animal stuffer with a shop called Xtreme Taxidermy, which completely captivates Satan’s Cat, which reaffirms that my name choice for her was a good one. And the last show I remember is Access Hollywood, but I fall asleep in the opening sequence, vaguely aware that I’ve got my feet on Annie’s lap and that I’m not miserable for the first time in days.

* * *

When I wake up at seven the next morning, Annie’s gone. But the cat is asleep on the couch directly above my head, either keeping sentinel or plotting to smother me. Either way she fell asleep and failed to accomplish her goal.

The note on the coffee table says: Pick you up at 8:00.

I check the clock. 7:15.

In the next forty-five minutes I take my second Wisper Pines shower, eat breakfast, brush my teeth, iron a dress shirt in case I’m supposed to look presentable, and lose another staring contest to Satan’s Cat before I decide to go wait outside.

Outside is weird. I haven’t been outside in days. The sun feels slightly abrasive, to the point of making my skin itch, and I’m hearing an uncomfortable number of sounds. Not particularly loud, but too many little ones: birds, cars, wind, bicycles and their bells, leashed animals, chatty walkers—it seems excessive. I’m turning to go back inside when Annie rolls up. The glossy new car surprises me. I wonder if in my mind she’ll always be driving the old truck.

“I forgot how in-your-face this thing is,” I say, climbing into the passenger seat.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“That it looks like an obsidian chariot from outer space.”

“I see you’re feeling more like yourself,” she says. “That’s probably a good thing. Would you rather take your car?”

I scan the parking lot for my dad’s Camry. I haven’t exactly driven it around yet. I think it would make me miss him. “No, I just miss the good old days in the truck.”

“Sure. The truck with no AC and a broken door that you couldn’t stop complaining about. Of course you do. How’s Wisper Pines this morning?”

“Aside from the unconscionable bastardization of the English language I have to be reminded of every time I see Wisper without an h, it’s fine.”

“So yes, feeling more like yourself. Do I need to tell you to chill out, or are you going to get there on your own?”

“I’m good.” I put the address my dad gave me into the navigation system and inspect the map it produces. “I don’t trust this map.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.”

“You just don’t trust the car,” she says. “The navigation system hasn’t been wrong yet.”

“Is this the first time you’ve used it?”