The Promises We Keep (Made for Love Book 1) (41 page)

“
I guess to answer your question, yeah. It
’
ll be a good birthday.
”
She laughs and shakes her head at me.
“
It might not sound like it after everything I just said, but I believe it. It
’
ll be different, but good. Do you know why? Because she
’
s still going to be surrounded by people who love her
—
you
included. That
’
s what she needs right now. Besides,
hello
, who loves birthdays more than us?
”

“
No one,
”
I reply with a chuckle.

“
Exactly.
”
She studies me for a minute and then rests a hand on my shoulder.
“
What about you? Are you okay?
”

I blow out all the air in my lungs as I tilt my head back and rest it against the side of the bed. I wish the answer to her question was a simple yes or no, but nothing seems to be that simple these days. The truth is, I
’
m probably just as much a walking contradiction as Addison. I
’
m confused and sure at the same time
—
confused because I feel like, as I start to dig for answers, I
’
m getting responses from myself and from God that I wasn
’
t expecting.
Trust issues? I didn
’
t know I had trust issues. I haven
’
t figured out if it
’
s about me trusting myself or me trusting God, but either way, that wasn
’
t something I was prepared to face
.

Yet, in the midst of all of my confusion, I
’
m now sure that this breakup wasn
’
t a mistake. It
’
s something that I need. After what Pastor Doug said, I believe this is something that Addie needs, too
—
even if neither of us knows why.

“
I
’
m working on it,
”
I finally manage to answer.

“
Good. I can live with that. Now
—
enough with the heavy. Are you going to hide that thing?
”

“
Yeah. Guess I should, huh?
”
I stand up and then extend a hand down to help her to her feet. She accepts my gesture as she hops up.

“
Sooo
—
any idea what Sonny
’
s got planned for me?
”

A grin pulls at my mouth as I position the cardboard around the bookshelf, making sure it won
’
t move without assistance.
“
My lips are sealed.
”

“
Yeah, I thought they might be,
”
she mutters, folding her arms across her chest.

“
He
’
s going all out, though.
”

She squeals and claps her hands and I can
’
t help but laugh.
“
That
’
s what
’
s got me so anxious! He
’
s never been excited about birthdays.
”

“
Well, now he
’
s got a girlfriend who
loves
them.
”

She hums through a smile.
“
He
’
s so great.
”

“
That
’
s what I like to hear. Best friend or not, I
’
ll kick his butt if he hurts you,
”
I promise.

“
I know you will,
”
she says, wrapping her arm around my waist as we make our way out of the room.
“
That
’
s what big brother
’
s do.
”

“
You got it.
”
I give her shoulders a squeeze and follow her as she leads me to the kitchen.

“
Know
what else
big brothers do?
”
she sings.

“
What
’
s that?
”

“
They stay for dinner. How does spaghetti sound?
”

“
Delicious.
”
 

For two nights I get hardly any sleep, my mind too consumed with thoughts of Roman and Kathryn and their broken engagement. Now that I know Roman
’
s last name, Mr. Holloway and I are Facebook friends. My insomnia leads me to find Kathryn
’
s profile Wednesday night.
Yes, I went there. I
so
went there. I stayed long enough to click through every picture that is available to view by someone who isn
’
t her internet friend
—
and Roman was right. She looks happy.

Her profile picture is of her and her husband; he
’
s standing behind her and his arms are wrapped around her, his lips pressed against her cheek as she grins. Her cover photo is of the two of them with their daughter
—
well, their legs and their daughter; she
’
s standing between them, her little arms stretched up as her parents hold each of her hands.
She
’
s
adorable
and looks so much like Kathryn, who is stunning. I picture her with Roman and can imagine that they once made quite the handsome pair.
Made. Past tense.

Was it John Lennon who said
all you need is love?
Because apparently that
’
s not true. At least, it wasn
’
t true for Roman and Kathryn. It scares the hell out of me that it might not be true for Beckham and me, either. Thus the reason for my inability to get any sleep.
That, and the mystery behind the gigantic box across the room
.

Tonight
—
or is it morning yet? Have I slept?
—
I found a huge cardboard box covering something up when I walked into my room. When I turned to seek out Avery, I found her already leaning against the doorframe of my bedroom. She smiled and nodded at me and I knew immediately who it was from.
My BMW
. I will admit that the idea of the gift made me excited
—
because I love birthdays, mine or anyone else
’
s, and because it came from
him
—
and it pushed my fears of Beckham and I splitting up for good to the side, a little bit.
Only
a little bit.

I look at my alarm clock. 1:37
.
It
’
s officially my birthday.
And since I can
’
t sleep
…

I stand and hurry to flick on my light before I head to the huge box, which is probably a good three feet taller than me, and carefully move it out of the way. I gasp as I look at my books, towering over me like a floating spiral staircase. I lose my hold of the cardboard and it falls backward, flopping across my bed, but I hardly notice. My heart is beating wildly and I can
’
t tell if I want to laugh or cry. Not surprisingly, I end up doing both.

It takes me a few minutes to spot the books I don
’
t recognize and when I see the bindings of the hardback classics
—
Fitzgerald, Austen, Dickens, Tolstoy
—
I clap my hands around my mouth and cry harder. I
’
m filled with so much excitement and so much longing that the two emotions are struggling to exist in my little body. I have to let myself cry for a few minutes in order to get a grip. When I
’
m finally able to take a deep breath, I wipe away my tears and find a smile. I also spot a card sticking out between
Great Expectations
and
Anna Karenina
. I snatch it, suddenly feeling incredibly impatient.

The front of the card reads
Happy Birthday
. The inside is blank, except for two lines scribbled in Beckham
’
s chicken scratch writing. I chuckle at the sight of his script, remembering all the times I teased him about how hard it is to read his handwriting; I tell him all the time that he
’
s already got one doctor-like qualification he can add to his resume and he didn
’
t even have to work for it. All jokes aside, though, I can read his note just fine.

I bite my lip, hiding my grin from no one, as I sink to my knees. I
’
m overwhelmed with relief. His words, his gift
—
this moment
shatters any doubt in regards to our future. Without even knowing it, he gave me the best birthday present I could ever ask for. I love the bookshelf and the fact that he knows me so well that he can get me a gift like this
—
but that
’
s not the best part. What matters more is that he gave it to me in the midst of everything that sucks between us. And he didn
’
t write
love, BMW
—
he wrote
I love you
. It
’
s a declaration. It
’
s
the declaration
that reminds me and assures me that Beckham and I are not Roman and Kathryn.