Broken Promises (17 page)

I reach out and rest my hand on top of his. “I don’t cheat, and there’s no way he’s stealing me away from you. If he makes you uncomfortable, I won’t do it. You come first, Derrick.”

He shakes his head. “I’m not going to be that guy. You do what you think is best.” He watches me for a moment as if trying to put his finger on a thought that won’t sit still.

I shovel more salad into my mouth and feel a little self-conscious. “What? You want some?”

He smiles softly and shakes his head. “I think he did something to you, and you didn’t forgive him. You’re still mad about it.”

I nearly drop my fork and spew salad across the diner. Derrick has never been that perceptive before. There are two ways to play this, denial or tell him the truth.

You’re getting married, putz. Tell him the truth.

I frown and lean back in the booth. “You’re right. He did something, and I can’t let it go so there’s no future for us like that. Trystan banished his ass to the friend-zone for eternity.”

“What’d he do?” Derrick is careful. He knows he’s poking sore spots and, based on the way he’s hiding behind his plate, he knows I don’t want to answer.

“Okay. I’ll drop it.” He doesn’t push it further, just picks up his food and takes a bite. The lack of argument is anticlimactic. I want him to care enough to press me. I want him mad enough to threaten to beat Trystan to a pulp, but he doesn’t. “Well, he seems like a good guy. Would it be weird if I asked him to play a little one-on-one this weekend?”

What the hell? He was just asking me to distance myself from Trystan, but he wants to be buds with the guy? Derrick seems bipolar at times. It’s as if there’s a great guy and a total dick fighting for control of his brain at all times.

I hide my surprise and wave my fork in the air, trying to make light of things. “Ah, so there’s a bromance brewing?”

“Ha. Funny. Nah, I just thought if he’s going to be around you, I should get to know him better.”

I nod agreeably because I don’t know what I think of the whole thing, but I manage to conceal my thoughts by focusing on my food for the rest of the conversation. My mind won’t let go of the thought of the two of them being friends.

Why is that bad? It’d be like Derrick and Seth being close. That wouldn’t have been weird, so why does it bother me that he wants to spend time with Trystan?

Maybe it’s because I didn’t sleep with Seth. I wasn’t madly in love with Seth, either. That changes things. A fiancé shouldn't be all friendly with a guy that nailed his girl. It is weird and makes me feel like a concubine or something.

“Earth to Mari,” Derrick snaps his fingers in front of my face. The doggie snap needs to stop. Maybe I should be glad he’s not using one of those dog training clickers.

I smile and shake off the unsavory thoughts. “What? What’d I miss?”

“When are we having dinner with your father?”

I roll my eyes. I can’t help it. “You’re such a suck-up. I can’t believe you asked his permission to marry me.”

After the blow up in the restaurant I chased Derrick into the park. My engagement is embarrassing on two levels—one he initially threw the ring at me, and two, when I tried to apologize, he laughed it off and said that was his proposal. He knew we were meant to be because I ran after him. The whole temper tantrum was a test and I passed. He slipped the ring on my finger and I kept it there.

He never really asked me.

I didn’t have that dream moment where the world stops as he waits for me to say yes.

To add to that mess, Derrick asked my father’s permission, so Dad thinks that I had a romantic proposal. I didn’t intend to hide the facts, but now they seem embarrassing. I’m such an asshat that I screwed up my engagement. There’s no way to say that and have it come out right, so when people ask, I skip from the beginning of the story to the ring. Add one big ass bride-to-be smile and no one asks questions.

Derrick chews his food loudly, and takes a swig of soda. “Have you met that man? He’s not someone I want to piss off for eternity. I’m on enough shitlists as it is.”

“What do you mean?”

He wipes his face with the napkin and then confesses, “I haven't, um, told my mom about our engagement.”

I shriek, “What?” Everyone around us stops what they’re doing and stares. I wave and smile like Miss America, my face turning red.

Derrick chucks my chin. “Awh, you’re so cute. But seriously, I told her about you, just not that I proposed.”

Yeah, I can understand skipping that part since it was a train wreck, but not telling his mother?

I blink, shocked. “She’s going to kill you. You know that, right?”

His mom lives in Jersey. I’ve yet to meet her, but I spoke to her on the phone a couple of times. She sounds like a cookie-baking kind of mom, busting with pride at his achievements. The apocalypse couldn’t keep her away from him in an emergency.

“I know. I feel kind of bad about it, which is why I thought we should have an engagement party pretty quickly. My mom can meet your dad, and they can compare notes on how hard it is to raise kids and all that crap. It will be a great opportunity for your dad to see how much I adore you.” He drowns a few fries in ketchup before shoving them in his mouth.

“And your brother?”

“He'll keep his mouth shut all night and be a perfect gentleman.”

I laugh, certain that won’t happen. “A party? We’re going to have an engagement party?”

“Yes, with all our friends and family.” He takes my hand and kisses the ring he put on my finger. “Say yes.”

“Of course. Yes.”

He sighs and wipes his forehead as if he were sweating. “I was afraid you’d say no. Mari is usually anti-party. That’s going to be interesting when you’re the bride and the center of attention. Better get used to it future Mrs. Derrick Pynea.”

CHAPTER 29

MARI

^“
B
ob, Bob, Bob.” I’m saying his name over and over again, playing with the way I move my mouth. I feel like a fish. The more I say it, the more his name sounds like ‘blob.’

I’m standing outside the diner, in the back parking lot, hidden from the main road by the building. Trees line the streets of the old neighborhood. My eyes rest on some little kids across the street playing at the McDonald’s, fixating on this one little boy who’s crying. He stands at the bottom of the slide with tears on his chubby cheeks and doesn’t move. He’ll stay like that until his mom comes and gets him. I didn’t see what happened, but I want to watch her reaction. This moment is the kind of thing that I missed out on with my mother.

A woman a little younger than me appears wearing sweats and sneakers, her hair tucked behind her ears. She kneels in front of him and smiles, kissing his face as she scoops him up into her arms.

Something inside my chest squeezes tight and I realize something—I want that.

I never noticed it before now, but I want that. I want to be a mother and a wife. I want to offer my kid the affection I didn’t have. Until now, I wasn’t interested in anything but working. I put happiness on hold and buried myself face-first in books and then in work until I had no life left.

For a long time, I wanted nothing to do with marriage or babies. No, thank you. I wanted to be independent. I wanted to do things on my own terms, my own way. I didn’t want to be joined at the hip with someone, and I sure as hell didn’t want to get knocked up and be trapped at home with a tiny helpless human. I’m an only child, and it shows. I have no idea how to act around babies because I've never really been around them.

But watching the little boy and his mom makes me realize I’ve not moved forward, not in a long time. I don’t think about anything except work. I only talk about patients and Dad. Until the night Trystan showed up in the ER, I'd barely taken a day off.

I pop my lips and resume my bobbing.

His voice coming from behind me scares me out of my skin. “How many times are you going to say my name? I’m not sure if I should be flattered or afraid.”

I turn around slowly, smiling like a goofball. I wave awkwardly, wondering how long Bob and Trystan have been standing behind me. Trystan is wearing ripped jeans, a white t-shirt, and faded black Chucks. There’s a red cap on his head obscuring his face somewhat. Bob’s wearing a Men In Black suit.

I twist my hands in front of me, feeling my face catch fire. “Yeah, so, you heard that?”

“Bob, Bob, Bob, Bob,” Trystan mocks, then starts laughing. He’s laughing so hard he can barely stand up straight.

Bob wears a concerned look, like he's afraid I might have been hexing him. “If you’re done with whatever that was, let’s move on before he’s ambushed by fans.”

I salute Bob and grab Trystan by the crook of his elbow. He giggles and nearly trips over his feet. “This way, Mr. Scott. We have to shove you in my trunk.”

“Hey!” He straightens, finds his footing, and walks toward my car.

“Nice giggle, by the way.”

He smirks at me and tugs down his visor. “You liked it.”

“I did. It was very manly.”

Trystan chortles again and gets into my car. “Shut up, Jennings, and drive.”

“It's Dr. Jennings, to you. Don’t make me kick your disrespectful ass.” Trystan snorts and sinks back into the seat, slouching down so he isn’t as tall. It must be weird to spend your whole life hiding.

Is that what I’ve been doing? Hiding? Not from people, but from life. I toss the thought aside as I pull into the parking lot, and pull my car into the back of the high school. Trystan looks at me like I’m nuts. "Feeling homesick?”

“I still have a key to the basement and, thanks to Tucker, I have permission to be in the school theater whenever I want.”

He sits up straight, and his jaw drops. “What? I donate piles of money to this theater department, and they didn’t do that for me!”

“That’s because you were a pain in the ass when you were here. Come on, loose lines. Let’s nail that part into your head,” I say as we get out of the car and walk across the dark parking lot.

“You had me at ‘nailed.’” His lips pull up into a twitchy grin.

I elbow him and scold. “Be serious. You’re running out of time. If Seth hadn’t died, they wouldn’t have given you an extension. So, tell me the truth—why can’t you seem to remember any of this script?” We’re at the side door. I pull it open and head inside. I pass a custodian and show him my badge. So, maybe I’m not really supposed to be in here, but it’s not like he knows that.

Trystan follows with his head down. He’s easily recognized, so he doesn’t speak until I unlock the basement door and flip on the lights. They hum to life as we stand on the metal grate at the top of the landing. This is where I was standing when I heard Trystan talking to Seth about the girl he couldn’t have. The words float up to me and the past crashes with the present in a surreal way.

That girl had been me.

Trystan stands there for a moment, looking at walls covered in familiar dingy yellow paint. He puts his hands on his hips and inhales deeply. “That smell never gets old.”

“No, it doesn’t.” It’s a combination of basement aroma coupled with the faint odor of paint. Add in the old furniture, dust, and dampness, and it becomes its own signature scent. “If these walls could talk, huh?”

I feel his eyes on my cheek and glance over at him. “Yeah. The last time I was down here was with you. You patched me up and covered…” His voice trails off, and he swallows hard. “You hid the beating my father had given me the night before.” The corner of his mouth pulls up, and he looks away, placing his hand on the railing. He glances down at the old couches and unused props below. Flats still line the walls and stretch from floor to ceiling.

Trystan doesn’t talk about his dad, and I can’t blame him. The man is scary. “Have you talked to him at all since then?”

He shakes his head and stares at the old couch. “Nah, there’s nothing to say.”

“Come on.” I reach out to touch his hand, but stop short, hesitating. My palm hovers above his and I pull it back. He pretends he doesn’t see, but I know he did because of the way he flinched when I was about to touch him.

Ignoring it, I bound down the metal steps, past the old canvas flats the school uses in productions and head over to the couch. “Is this the same one?”

Trystan passes me and jumps on it. The black pleather couch is fluffy and worn. It’s been patched up with duct tape to hide signs of wear. When Trystan’s weight comes down on the furniture, I can hear the air rush out of the holes in the upholstery. It hisses between the gaps in the tape. He sits up and pats the seat next to him. “Yup, it’s the same one.” He’s grinning.

“What’s that look?”

He shrugs and beams at me. “I don’t know, happiness?”

“You’re happy to be at school?” I offer a crooked smile. “Maybe I should have examined your head more closely when I had the chance.”

“Ha! Funny girl. Okay, come on. Shove those lines into my head. Work your magic, Mari.” He hands me the script, and we jump in.

This movie isn’t bad. Actually, it’s pretty good. It’s got a lot of kickassery where Trystan won't have to speak, save a few one-liners, but those aren’t sticking either.

Back in high school, Trystan was chosen to play the lead in school plays because he’s so charismatic. Even then, Tucker claimed his mind was a sieve—nothing stayed in there very long.

That’s not quite right, though. It was more like text couldn't get past his eyes, like there was a disconnect between printed words and his memory. There’s no way for them to spill out of his mouth by just looking at the paper. I think that’s why running lines with him had worked back then, but it’s not working now. Adding another person and creating a connection to the text isn’t overpowering whatever is occurring.

Something else is going on.

A few hours pass and we’re both frustrated and tired. Trystan sits on the edge of the couch hunched over with his head in his hands. He tugs at his cap and sighs. When he sits back and looks over at me. “We tried, but this isn’t working. I should just back out of this now.”

“You can’t. They already stalled the production timeline for you. If you back out, they’ll charge you an insane amount of money.” I toss the script on the table and sink back into the couch, pulling my feet up under me. I wrap my arms around my ankles and press my pointer and index fingers to my temple.