The Promises We Keep (Made for Love Book 1) (50 page)

“
Hey.
”
He kisses me.
“
Stay here
,
”
he commands. I nod and then proceed to listen to him exit from the driver
’
s seat. I keep my ears tuned in intently as he opens the trunk. There
’
s lots of rustling and I can
’
t make heads or tails of what on earth he could be doing. Just when I think I can
’
t possibly wait another minute, my door opens. I gasp in excitement, eliciting a chuckle from Sonny. He unbuckles my seatbelt and cradles me in his arms before lifting me out of the car. He shuts my door and carries me a short ways. When he places me on my feet, I clasp my hands together and bring them under my chin, trying desperately to contain my giddiness.
“
Ready?
”

“
Are you kidding?
”
I ask incredulously.

When he finally loosens the knot at the back of the bandana, freeing my eyes, I hold my breath as I take in my surroundings. The first thing I notice is the picnic he
’
s got laid out in Hammy
’
s trunk. The back seat is folded down and there
’
s a big quilt that is spread out with pillows and a couple extra blankets tucked into the corner. In the center, there
’
s a vase full of flowers and dinner for two. When I pull my gaze away from the back of the car, I notice we
’
re in a gravel lot
—
no, we
’
re at the local drive-in movie theater.

“
Silence,
”
he murmurs as he tugs his eyebrows together.
“
Is that a
good
thing or a
bad
thing?
”

“
Sonny!
”
I squeal as I spring up and wrap my arms around his neck.

He catches me against his chest and engulfs me in an embrace as he breathes a sigh of relief.
“
You made me nervous for a second.
”

“
This is so great,
”
I tell him, pulling away just enough to look into his eyes.
“
I had no idea you were so romantic.
”

“
Me neither,
”
he says with a laugh.
“
I think you make me this way.
”

“
I like the sound of that.
”

“
I like
you
,
”
he proclaims before kissing the tip of my nose.
“
So, the first movie doesn
’
t start until dark, which means we have a little while. I thought we
’
d eat and hang out for a bit. How does that sound?
”

“
Perfect. So, so, perfect.
”

“
Good.
”

It
’
s my hunger that encourages me to set her down so that we can climb into the trunk. I help her in and she abandons her flip flops and sits with her legs crossed under her while I let my long legs dangle over the bumper.
“
I hope you don
’
t mind, I made us dinner.
”

“
What
’
d you make?
”
she asks with a grin.

“
Turkey and Swiss cheese sandwiches,
”
I answer as I unpack the lunch sack, placing a wrapped sandwich on her paper plate.
“
I also brought potato chips and I figured you
’
d be alright with water.
”

“
You figured right,
”
she agrees with a nod.
“
This is wonderful. Thank you, so much.
”

“
Not too cheesy?
”
I ask, unwrapping my sandwich.

“
Not at all.
”
She leans toward me and puckers her lips and we share a kiss over her flower arrangement. The excitement that courses through my body at her contact makes me feel like we
’
re celebrating
me
and I have to take a huge bite out of my sandwich to change the direction of my thoughts.

We take our time eating, savoring each other
’
s company and conversation. I can barely take my eyes off of her and I can tell she feels the same way about me. We make each other laugh and, of course, I make her blush
—
that will never get old
—
and I
’
m sure that I
’
ve never been happier than I am when I
’
m with her. There
’
s just something about her that makes me feel free. She sometimes tells me certain things that she thinks are proof that God loves her
—
the changing of the leaves in the fall, the feeling she gets when she
’
s in the middle of a full orchestra and she can
feel
the sound, her sister, or my grilled cheese sandwiches
—
well, I believe that
she
is my proof that God loves me. She
’
s a gift; and the more time I spend with her like this, the harder it is for me to believe that I managed to go so long without her when she was right here in front me all along.

After we
’
re done eating, I gather our trash and leave her for a moment to discard it. When I get back, I find her admiring her flowers.
“
I can
’
t remember the last time I bought anyone flowers,
”
I say, rejoining her in the trunk.
“
Did I do alright?
”

“
Sonny
…”
She gives me a look I can
’
t decipher before she breathes in the scent of her flowers and then crawls to place them safely in the front seat. When she sits back down beside me, she takes my hand and laces her fingers with mine.
“
You did better than alright. I know that you don
’
t care about birthdays. You didn
’
t have to do any of this
—
so the fact that you did, and that you put so much thought into it, it makes me feel
so special
.
”

“
You
are
special,
”
I murmur.

She looks at me for a few seconds but doesn
’
t say a word. I can tell by the way her eyes move that she
’
s searching for something
—
what that might be, I have no idea. Then she speaks.
“
Growing up in my house, birthdays were always a big deal. Parties, presents, friends, family, you name it, we had it. Birthdays, to me, are a chance to express or receive a
little extra
love and affection. That
’
s all I
’
ve ever known. I know that
’
s not your story. I know because you
’
ve always told us that birthdays aren
’
t really your thing. I
’
ve always guessed at the reason why but I
’
ve never asked
…
but now I
’
m asking. Sonny, why don
’
t you like birthdays?
”

For a moment, I have no words. Then I
’
m reminded that I
’
m in love with her. I look down at our hands, intertwined and linking us together, and I realize that it
’
s not that I don
’
t want to tell her, it
’
s just that I don
’
t know how to start. It
’
s my love for her that encourages me
—
pushes me to find the will to begin.
“
My mom left when I was five. I know you know that. What you don
’
t know is that every year until I was eighteen, she would always send me a card on my birthday.
”

As my story pours out of me, I realize that I haven
’
t told this to anyone in a really long time. I can
’
t explain why, exactly, but every word I speak seems to awaken a dull ache in my gut
—
and yet I can
’
t stop. I don
’
t want to stop. The woman I love wants to peek inside of me and I can
’
t deny her. I can only pray that what she sees won
’
t scare her away.

“
I guess most kids would consider that a good thing,
”
I continue.
“
I don
’
t know, maybe most kids would consider that to be a sign of hope or something
—
proof that even though she left, she never forgot about me. That
’
s not how I felt. I wasn
’
t
allowed
to feel that because, every year I got a card, Patrick would get so
—
so
effed
up. It pissed him off. Pissed him off that she
’
d gone through the trouble of finding us and yet didn
’
t reach out to him, too. Pissed him off that she never left a return address. Pissed him off that she wasn
’
t with us.

“
My birthdays
…
they were never about
me
. They were about
him
. They were about
his
pain and
his
loss. He would get shit-faced and that was that. Finding a place to take cover while he got rip-roaring drunk until he passed out
—
that
’
s
how I spent my birthdays. I hated getting the mail that day because I knew the card would be there; it always was and he knew it too. Even if I tried to hide it
…”
I shudder, remembering his threats on the few occasions I thought I could get away with throwing it in the trash or hiding it before he could see it. I shake my head, wanting to rid my mind of the memory, and blow out a breath of air. When I bring my gaze back up to meet hers, I notice that her eyes are shiny with tears.

“
Oh, sweetheart, don
’
t cry,
”
I say softly, cupping a hand around her cheek.

“
It makes me sad,
”
she replies, leaning into my palm.

“
Hey
…”
I push myself further into the back and then I pull her into my arms
—
the ache I feel morphing into my need to comfort her from my past.
“
I
’
m okay, you know?
”
I assure her as I run my fingers along the length of her hair.
“
I just
…
I just don
’
t do birthdays.
”