The Vow

ready to pounce and scratch his face off. I take her to the bedroom, close the door on my way out, and sit in the chair across from Mo.

“I thought we were in this together,” he says. “I didn’t know there were things you weren’t telling me.”

“It wasn’t on purpose,” I say, except it kind of was. I can’t tell him how things really were with Reed. “My brain is so taxed, it hurts right now. So much is happening, my stupid job seemed like the least important thing. I didn’t think you’d even care.”

He leans forward, tracing the edge of the coffee table with his finger. “I guess I don’t. It would’ve been nice if you’d told me, though.”

He looks so earnest, I can’t even be mad at him. I’m not sure whether he’s being ridiculous or whether I really should’ve consulted him. Normal married people actually would consult each other before quitting a job. I think. Maybe if my parents ever talked to each other I’d have a clue. “I had to,” I repeat lamely.

Mo looks at me and smiles, but it’s so sad and crooked that I wish he hadn’t. I guess I forgot he’s just as alone as I am.

“You remember that guy at work?”

“Weed.”

“Reed.”

“Right, Reed.”

I stare at the black TV screen and push ahead. “Well, obviously I can’t be married to you and seeing him, so after we left Sam’s on Monday, I went and broke up with him. It was awkward. I don’t want to see him at work anymore.” I could not sound more nonchalant. No big deal. It didn’t matter. Reed meant nothing. And as long as I don’t look at Mo, the tone of my voice can keep saying that.

“Oh.” He sits back and folds his arms over his chest.

“I didn’t tell you because I just wanted to get it over with and I didn’t want you to worry about it.” I don’t say worry about me. That would mean something different. “It’s over. I’d rather not see him.”

“Sure. I get it. Are you okay?”

I stand up and turn around. I didn’t notice earlier, but Mo put my boxes of art supplies in the corner with the window. The one that housed his boxed clutter the last time I was here. And he’s pulled one of the chairs from the kitchen over. I walk over, kneel on it, and pull the gauzy cream curtain back to see the view: a running path and the deep green woods beyond it.

“Annie?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. I’m just nervous about talking to my parents. I’ll feel better after it’s done.”

“Do you want me there for it?”

I twist around, off my knees and onto my butt, and stare at Mo. Do I? I hadn’t even imagined that he would be there, that he would want to be there. I don’t know what my dad is going to do to him. But I guess if we really were married, we’d tell them together. “I don’t know. Do you want to be there?”

“Like I want to chew broken glass. But I’ll do it if you want me to.”

“Can I think about it?”

“Yeah. Just let me know so I can get my gear together.”

“Gear?”

“A helmet. A cup. Maybe a bulletproof vest.”

“I want to do it tonight after my dad gets home from work,” I say. I leave the window and head back to the bedroom. “Are you really sure I can have the bed? You’re going to get a sore back sleeping on the—”

The smell of cat feces stops me midsentence. I’m standing in the doorway, but I can see the curl of grayish brown centered neatly on the pile of folded bedding in the corner. “Uh, Mo?”

“Yup?” he calls from the kitchen.

“You know the pile of blankets in the corner?”

“Yeah.”

“Yours or mine?”

“Mine. I put clean sheets on the bed for you. Hey, can you show me how to fry an egg?”

“Yeah, but first I have some bad news.”

Chapter 22

Mo

So, we have good news,” I rehearse over Annie’s shoulder, following her up the driveway. “You’re going to have brown grandbabies who pray to Allah.”

She doesn’t even turn around. She’s leaning in to each step like she’s pushing into tornado winds. “I know you’re trying to help me relax, but really not funny.”

“I’m trying to help myself relax. And it is kind of funny.”

She’s too distracted to glare at me, which is terrifying. I need to be glared at, scolded, kicked in the shins, something to stop the buzzing and bring things back into focus. But the world is vibrating, and I feel like I’m on the verge of breaking into hysterical laughter or screaming obscenities.

I’m not actually wearing a cup. That would be silly. Mr. Bernier is no crotch kicker; he’s a man’s man, and if he feels the need to injure me, I’m fairly certain it’ll be a punch in the face. Anything else would be sneaky and juvenile, and as pissed off as he’s going to be when he’s led to believe I’ve been sleeping with his daughter for a while now, I don’t think he’s going to cause my testicles any real harm. Hopefully.

“Suppose I could ask him to not break the moneymaker?” I say, rubbing my nose. “I’m thinking about my modeling career.”

“Look, I know you have to say stupid things to calm yourself down, but I need you to stop talking. And as soon as we’re in there, I’m definitely the only one doing any talking. Got it?”

I nod as we come to a stop in front of the door.

“This is going to go better for both of us if you keep your eyes on the floor and your mouth closed.”

I scratch the back of my head. Why does my scalp feel so itchy? I want to tear it off. Is it because I’m sweating like a hog, or do I have fleas? Wisper Pines seems nice enough, but maybe there’s a bedbug infestation issue I’m not even aware of yet. “But what if he asks me a question?”

“Trust me. He’s not going to want to hear anything you have to say unless it’s Yes, sir, we’ll go get an annulment.”

She opens the door.

“Hold me,” I whisper. “I’m scared.”

She closes the door gently behind us, her face strangely serene. I recognize it. Warrior mode. This is Annie with a sword raised, ready to plunge it into someone’s heart.

“Mom?” she calls.

Mrs. Bernier appears in the entrance to the kitchen, paring knife in hand. “I thought you were working. Oh hi, Mo. We haven’t seen you in a while. How are you doing? I heard your family has moved already.”

“Fine, thank you, ma’am,” I say. “And yeah, they did.”

“So where are you staying now?” she asks.

“Uh, Wisper Pines.”

“Oh, those new apartments on the north side? I hear those are nice.”

“Is Dad home?” Annie asks, and I have to love her and hate her for her inability to procrastinate pain. I wonder if it’s too late to bail on this. Annie said I didn’t have to come, but not coming seemed cowardly, and the thought of knowing that they knew and then having to wait for them to come to me seemed like worse torture. Still. I could fake a stomach cramp.

“I’m in here,” his voice calls over the sound of sports commentary and angry cheering.

“So, you don’t have to work tonight?” Mrs. Bernier asks Annie again. “I thought you said you did.”

“I did, but I don’t. I need to talk to you and Dad. Together.”

Mrs. Bernier’s eyes are swimming-pool-blue like Annie’s, but the skin around them is crinkled from sun and worry. She’s got her warrior face on too now. Luckily it’s directed at Annie.