The Vow

rightness of being with him, what I’ve been waiting for, when my brain screams something else.

This is wrong.

“Actually,” he whispers into my ear and kisses me lightly where my jaw meets my neck, “I can’t believe you’re here.” His lips are so soft I’m aching when I have to pull away.

“Wait,” I say, feeling the car spin around me.

He lets go and leans back. “Okay.”

“This feels . . . I don’t know. Sneaky.”

“Okay,” he repeats. “But you came here, Annie. You came to me.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

He closes his eyes.

I fight the urge to reach out and hold his face, to feel his pulse beneath my fingers. “Can we talk?”

He opens his eyes. Blinks. Pushes his glasses up. “Of course. But we have about two minutes before Flora comes out to see if I’ve been attacked by coyotes.”

“You’re closing soon, though. Right?”

“Yeah, but I’m going to Soup and Vicky’s for dinner, and they’ll be waiting for me. Can I see you later? I’ll be home by eleven. You could come to my place and we wouldn’t have to hide in a car just to have a conversation.”

“But I can’t sneak out in the middle of the night.”

Disappointment flickers in his eyes for just a moment, and then he grins. “Well, then at least let me give you something good to think about tonight.”

He slips one hand behind my head, and I fall back into it and close my eyes. His mouth finds mine, and I’m melting between hands and lips when the terrible thought comes out of nowhere, clear and sharp as glass: This is how Mo wants me?

“No,” I whisper, pushing Reed gently back, my palms on his chest and my eyes down. I glance at his face, hating myself for what I see. Shock. Rejection. “I’m sorry,” I say. “Not like this. I need to talk to Mo first.”

I slide back into my seat. He leans forward, putting his head in his hands, and I know this time he’s not going to touch me again. Not today. “I misunderstood,” he says. “I thought you were here . . .” He trails off, and I let the silence fill with our awkwardness, because I can’t correct him. I thought I was here for this too. “I want to believe that there isn’t anything going on between you and Mo. I do believe it, but if that’s true, why can’t you be with me? Why do you need his permission?”

Why? I know why, but I can’t say it. I can barely even think it. Because I don’t know what kind of love Mo feels anymore.

“Unless that’s not what you want, in which case you’re sending one or two hundred mixed signals.” Reed sits up straight and stares at his hands, so I do too. He turns to me, but I’m too distracted by the memory of what his hands feel like to look up.

“I can’t keep doing this,” he says. “If you don’t want to be with me, you’ve gotta stop showing up and messing with me. If you—”

“I want you,” I interrupt, embarrassed by the force, the volume, the neediness. All of it. I’m embarrassed by everything I’ve done. “I really do,” I say softer. “I’m just doing things in the wrong order. There were things I didn’t realize until sitting here waiting for you, things about Mo and about myself and some of the mistakes I’ve made. I need to fix everything, including this with you, but I have to do it in the right order so I don’t have to hate myself when it’s all over. I’m sor—”

“No.” This time he interrupts me. “I don’t want your apology. I want you.” He leans over, tucks my hair behind my ear, and kisses me on the temple. “Come back when you’re ready to come back. But don’t . . .” He trails off.

I nod. I’m afraid to look at him, so I stare at the maze of oaks in front of me, so thick I can only see a few feet into them. When I’m ready to come back.

I wish someone would tell me which path means inflicting the least amount of pain, but even as I wish it, I know it’s the wrong wish. It’s what Sam was talking about, me doing what’s right for other people and not myself. She said now or never.

Reed gets out of the car, and I watch him walk away. After he’s gone, I call home—no, my old home. My parents’ house. No answer.

* * *

The mural is not different. I have to tell myself that several times as I turn circles in the center of the room, because it feels different. I’m not sure how that could be. After all, it’s my baby. It grew in my brain, came from my fingers, swirled around me while I slept, but it doesn’t feel the same. It used to be a cocoon to wrap myself in, a spell to disappear under. Now it’s just paint. Pretty, but not magical, not something to hide away in or disappear into.

I turn off the lights and leave the box of shoes and knickknacks I packed on the bed. This time I’m ready.

Chapter 28

Mo

This time I’m ready.

I hear the knock on the door, and a lens slides between my brain and the world, clicking into place and everything is sharp. Adrenaline. A phantom ache in my jaw starts to throb even though it hasn’t hurt in days, and there’s a sudden ringing in my inner ear. On my way to the door I think, This must be what war vets feel like when their wounds start aching before it rains, so by the time I check the peephole and see that it’s Bryce, I’m not even surprised. I’m about to get punched again.

I’m not ready in the sense that I’ve done anything to prepare. No Karate Kid marathons, no helmet and face guard stashed by the door. But I’m mentally ready. I’ve been bracing for round two since round one finished ringing in my ears, because I knew Bryce only needed a little more time to mull over the depths of my treachery and he’d realize that one punch to the face, albeit a really good one, was not enough.

He knocks again.

I could not open it, pretend I’m not here, and hide under Annie’s bed like the scared little girl that I am. But why postpone it? This is a much better venue and time to get my face rebusted than, say, outside my locker on the first day of school.

I take a deep breath and open it. Avoiding direct eye contact, I nod hello, close my eyes, tense every muscle in my body, and wait. And wait. Clenching.

“I’m not going to hit you.”

I open my eyes, but I don’t stop wincing. Just in case. He’s standing with his hands in his pockets, so I’ll definitely have enough time to reclench my jaw if he pulls one out.

“Wow. Your face is still bruised. Good for me.”

“Yeah. Well done.”

He grunts. “I’m not going to apologize.”

“I wasn’t counting on it.”

“I’m not sorry, and we are not cool.”

I shake my head. “Not at all.”

There are primate rules about not staring an alpha male in the eye. Every person, monkey, and ape knows this by instinct, but still, I force myself to look at Bryce. He looks at me. We stand in the doorway for an indeterminable length of time, and it’s a little scary and awkward, but neither of us knows what to do.

“Is she here?” he asks.

“Nope.”

“Good. Here.” He holds out his hand, and in it is a pair of ballet slippers, pink and scuffed, those bizarre hard toes, browning around the edges. Sarina’s.

“Natalie says thanks for letting her borrow them. She made my mom wedge her feet into them every day