Empty Promises (The Promises Series Book 3) (7 page)

“Yo man, done. Let’s get outta here.”

I twist and watch a stupidly hot guy with buzzed dark hair and a lip ring march towards us. His long-sleeved, gray henley is pulled deliciously tight over his slim yet muscular frame. My mouth is suddenly dry. Very, very dry.

Hot damn.

The T-shirt guy still hasn’t looked up, so the hottie with the piercing slaps him across the head as he passes on the way to the exit. “Matt, come on!”

T-shirt guy,
Matt,
immediately rubs the spot and stands. He looks pissed. “Lucas, you dick, that hurt.”

“Quit your bitching, little bro. I need to go.” He looks back and catches me watching him. His lips quirk ever so slightly before he turns again and disappears out the exit. That smirk, his lip ring … I’m pretty sure my ovaries have just exploded.
Wow.

Matt throws down his magazine and heads out, trailing his brother. I spin to make eyes at Blair about how yummy the brothers are, and she’s reading away, oblivious. I don’t think she’s even heard the exchange. “Did you just see how hot those two were?” I ask in a dreamy voice.

“Huh? What two?” she asks, not looking away from her e-reader.

“How could you not have noticed them?” I drop backwards dramatically and she finally looks at me and shrugs. “What the hell are you reading that has you glued to that thing?” It’s more a rhetorical question, but suddenly she’s all animated and alert.

“Oh, it’s so good. It’s this book about this deaf guy who’s a songwriter and so swoon-worthy and this girl who’s helping him and they…” she trails off when she sees my expression. “What’s funny?”

“Swoon-worthy?”

“Oh, shut up. He’s hot!”

“No, the two guys you just missed in
here
were hot, but you were too immersed in your fictional boyfriend there.”

She scowls and is about to shoot some smart-ass retort, no doubt, when my name’s called to go through.

“Saved.” I grin. “Be back soon.”

“Take your time,” she fires back as she picks up her e-reader and carries on lusting after her book boyfriend.

Maybe that’s where I’m going wrong. I shouldn’t be lusting after Ethan; I should be engrossing myself in perfect fictional boys, and get my hits that way. Let’s face it; Ethan may as well be fictional. The way things are panning out; I have about as much chance with him as I do with Mr. Darcy.

August 10
th
, 2013

Dear Diary,

Turns out getting insurance for a terminally ill girl for any type of extreme sport is about as easy as extracting blood from a stone. It seems every company in California is hung up on the whole cancer thing. No one is willing to let me participate in case I croak on ‘their time’. I get it, but it sucks.

Blair left after we spent three hours online searching for cancer-friendly extreme sports. She looked more defeated than me. Instead, I’ve talked her into accompanying me while I get a tattoo. She’s coming with me Monday after school to go check out some shops. I’m equal parts excited and terrified, but I like the feeling. I head through the house looking for my parents so I can prep them on the idea, and fall short of their room as I hear the conversation going on inside.

My dad seems to be comforting my mom while she cries about how this is the wrong way around. They should be the ones to die first. I lean against the wall beside their room, careful to keep out of sight. Mom isn’t holding back now; she’s full-on sobbing and hiccuping while telling Dad that they’ll never see me in a wedding dress.
Like he hasn’t figured this out yet for himself.

My stomach plummets to the floor and I shift from one foot to another. The floorboards creek and I dart back to my room before they give me away. I paint my nails to try and distract myself until I hear cupboards opening and closing in the kitchen. I’m assuming it means they’ve both pulled themselves together enough to risk seeing me, so I make my way through.

“Where’s Dad?” I ask as I watch Mom pull a packet of coffee from the back of the cupboard.

“He’s gone for a run, sweetie,” she says matter-of-factly before throwing me a smile. Mom’s got a great game face. If I’d not overheard her conversation, I’d have no clue she was just upset.

“Okay, I have an idea, and I want you to just trust me, so grab your things and come with me. We’re going out.”

Mom looks a little bewildered by my cryptic request before she shrugs and grins. “Fine, lead the way, Emily.”

We climb into her car and I scroll through my phone until I find the address of the nearest bridal store. I locate one three miles away and begin inputting it into the GPS. Mom looks at the address, and I can see the gears in her head turning as she tries to work out the address and wonders what would have me dragging her out the house for.

She’s a good sport and doesn’t seem too put out that I’m refusing to tell her what it is we’re doing as we make the short journey.

A few minutes roll by before we pull up outside Dana’s Bridal Boutique, and the GPS signals that we’ve reached our destination on the left. Mom looks at me questioningly and I give her a rueful smile. There’s only a bakery, coffee shop and the bridal store on this small stretch of road.

“I overheard you and Dad talking this morning.” She still looks confused so I point to the Bridal Boutique. She covers her mouth with her hand as she leans back into her seat, her eyes crinkling as realization dawns. “You were talking about the fact that you should go first, and that you’ll never see me in my wedding dress, or be there with me at the delivery of your first grandchild. Well, there’s little I can do about an immaculate conception,” I shrug, “but this,” I point to the store again. “This I can do.”

I watch as a million different emotions wage war behind her sapphire eyes before she admits defeat, closes them tightly and slumps forward resting her elbows on her knees and her head in her hands. I watch quietly as she holds a finger up to me, signaling she needs a minute. When she finally opens them again, they’re glassy but she seems to have recovered her composure enough to step outside the car. I don’t know what to make of the situation, and honestly, I’m regretting my decision as I climb out and round the car. Maybe this was a stupid idea and is too much for her. Hell, maybe it’s too much for me. I’m about to apologize and tell her so when she finally speaks.

“You really are something kind of wonderful, Emily,” she says before ambushing me in a fiercely tight hug. I sigh and feel a little of the tension drain from my shoulders, like someone’s just turned on an invisible faucet to ease some of the pressure.

“I’m sorry you heard that conversation. I was just having a weak moment. We don’t have to do this,” she whispers into my hair and squeezes before pushing me back to see my face.

“I’m glad I did hear, and I want to do this. Is that weird?” I answer, and it’s the truth. I
am
glad I overheard their conversation. I hate that she feels like she needs to be strong one hundred percent of the time for me. It’s not healthy.

“It’s not weird at all, Emily.”

“Good. Okay, enough of this.” I square my shoulders. “Let's get in there and go play dress up.”

A bell sounds as we enter the store and I almost pee my pants at the unexpected shrill of it. Mom laughs as she ushers me through and we shuffle further into the room. It’s fancier that I was expecting. The whole place is whitewashed except for the dark cherry wood floors. Huge crystal chandeliers hang from the ceilings, and there are multiple seating areas, with velvet couches and large standing silver candelabras.

“Hello.”

A beautiful lady with reddish hair and huge black hipster glasses like Blair’s barrels towards us under a mass of cream-colored lace and tulle. I pause because I haven’t really thought this through.
Like, at all.
I figure I have two options at the moment: lie and tell her I’m planning my wedding, or the truth, even though that will be all kinds of awkward. The lady deposits the mound of fabric onto one of the chairs we’re standing by, fishing out a hanger and shaking the whole thing a few times. As if by magic, the material transforms into a beautifully intricate lace gown before us. She smiles, running her hand over the skirt and then hangs the gown on a little silver hook.

“Beautiful, isn’t it? It’s imported Chantilly lace. We just had it delivered.”

Mom sighs beside me. “It’s magnificent,” she replies and the lady beams at her.

“So, ladies, do you have an appointment?”

“You need an appointment to try a wedding dress on?” I mutter to myself, bemused.

“Of course, I can book you in right now if you’d like,” she asks, pulling an enormous cream leather appointment book from under the counter. She begins leafing through the pages. “I know I have an opening, ah, here it is. How about three weeks from today?” she says, looking up over the rim of her glasses.

Shit, it’s possible that I might not even be here in three weeks. I swallow the thought like an acrid pill, and it leaves a foul taste in my mouth. Well, I guess this solves my little conundrum about what tact to take. There’s only one way forward; I’m going to have to tell her the truth. As much as I hate playing the cancer card, I’m pretty sure it will be my only chance at getting to try anything on today.

“Oh, I’m sorry—” Mom begins, but I cut her short.

“The thing is, Miss—”

“Please, call me Dana.”

“Oh, um, the thing is, Dana, I have kind of a unique situation here.”

I proceed to tell her about my prognosis, and what it is that we’re doing here and why. “So you see, I know it’s a lot to ask and I’d completely understand if—”

Dana stands from the little couch that she’s been sitting on since I basically blindsided her and waves her hands in the air. “Sweetheart, I’ve heard all I need to hear,” she says, pulling out a tissue from a little silver box beside the couch, and wiping her nose. “I have a client booked in just over an hour for a final fitting. I know that’s not much time, but it would truly be my pleasure to help you.”

My mom thanks her and passes her another tissue before she leads us through the store and into what can only be described as a dress closet on steroids.

We spend a few minutes overwhelmed by all the dresses before Dana pulls out a pure white, silk Vera Wang strapless gown with a sweetheart neckline. It’s strikingly simple, except for the thin, light blue sash that ties in a neat little bow on my hip. If I actually were getting married, I have no doubts I would be begging my dad for this dress.

It’s perfect.

“Here, just slip those on and I’ll be in to strap you up in just a second,” Dana says, offloading a pair of white satin pumps. They have a gazillion tiny crystals shimmering from the heels and are off-the-charts beautiful. I clutch them to my chest, trying to keep the gown I’m half-wearing from slipping down. She’s back holding what I’m assuming is a veil before I even have a chance to adjust my stance. Mom’s patiently sitting in the viewing area, awaiting my entrance.

“Okay, sweetheart, time to suck it in,” Dana warns before pulling the corset at the back of the dress so tight that I might actually faint. I’m pretty sure my circulation has been cut off from the waist down after she finishes manipulating my body into a perfect hourglass. It’s about as comfy as a G-string fashioned out of razor blades, but it looks incredible.