The Vow (20 page)

Chapter 21

Annie

Y
ou look like hell,” Flora says.

“Thank you.”

She takes the cigarette out of her mouth and chucks it into the parking lot planter. It looks like it may have held a plant at one time, before being converted into a giant ashtray. “Hon, when’s the last time you ate?”

“I’m sick,” I say.

She takes lip gloss and a compact from her purse and starts reapplying. “Lovesick?”

“No. He’s not here, is he?”

“Believe it or not, he’s sick too. Y’all are either sharing germs or driving each other insane.”

“Neither. Not anymore.”

She sighs and slips the gloss back into her purse, her lips like shimmering worms. “Do I want to know what happened?”

I shake my head.

“You aren’t here to quit, are you?”

“Is Soup here?”

She rolls her eyes, then scratches the back of her head, and the entire hairsprayed mass of burgundy shifts back and forth. “Half of his staff is dying of broken teenage hearts and too sick to work. Of course he’s here.”

“I’m not quitting over a broken heart,” I lie.

“Just like how working here in the first place wasn’t about trying to become your sister?”

I’m too tired to argue, so I just scowl.

“What? If you aren’t going to be working here anymore, it seems like I should be able to say my piece. Your sister was a sweet girl. You’re a sweet girl.”

I stare at my car keys, run my thumb over the panic button. If I press it, she might be startled enough to let it go.

“Stop trying to fill her place in the universe. You’re going to be miserable if you’re always trying to be what other people need you to be.”

“Okay.” I take a step toward the door.

“I’m not done dispensing life tips.” She puts her hand over the knob. “Boys are breakable. Even the big, strong ones that act like nothing touches them, so be careful with them.”

Panic button. Panic button. Panic button. My thumb traces the indent, and I’m about to press it when she pulls the door open and holds it for me.

“Okay, now I’m done,” she says.

I walk through, still looking down so she won’t see the tears pooling in my eyes. Being lectured is so much better than being pitied.

Quitting is awkward, but Soup takes it well. He’s unreasonably kind actually, considering I’ve cheated on his brother-in-law and left him short-staffed with no notice. But maybe Reed hasn’t told him yet. Soup even gives me a hug and tells me to take care, which makes me feel worse about everything and almost unable do what I really came down here to do. After all, I could’ve quit over the phone.

I’ve never stolen anything before. It seems like everybody has a childhood shoplifting story to tell—Mo took Tic Tacs from a Kroger—but I never stole anything, or if I did, I don’t remember it. Maybe that’s why I’m sure someone’s watching me as I stuff the acrylic peach apron into my shoulder bag. Ruffles and ties and more ruffles, I cram them in with my heart thumping, even though I know Flora and Soup are back at the counter scooping custard.

Mo was right all along. This job was a bad idea. I was never trying to become Lena, but I was supposed to get closer to her in some way. I’ve failed. I don’t know how I thought I was going to do it, but without a doubt, I have failed.

I slink out with burning cheeks and my tightly packed bundle of peach memories.

Driving back to my house, I come to the conclusion that I may never feel good again. Not good as in fine. I mean, I may never feel like a decent human being, someone who isn’t pure poison to the people who love her, who doesn’t betray and deceive and abandon. And steal aprons.

The memory of Reed’s eyes at the exact moment the lie stuck makes me wish someone would hurt me like that. Just to make it even. Maybe I didn’t say the words, but I stood in front of him and cried, and let him think I slept with Mo. He’d told me about his ex-girlfriend—why didn’t I dream up a different way of doing it so he didn’t have to be betrayed like that again? Anything would have been better than slicing open his half-healed scar.

I can’t remember his eyes yesterday afternoon without remembering his body. His wanting sharpens the pain, the way his hands reached for me, pulling me in to him, and how his lips found the base of my throat like he’d been just waiting for me to come by so he could taste me. Before he knew I was really there to shred his heart, he needed me.

As I’m pulling into the driveway, my phone rings. I don’t recognize the number. “Hello?”

“Hi, Annie, it’s Sam.”

I’m too drained to fake cheerfulness. “Hi.”

“I just talked to Mo about some of the details on his application, and I thought I should give you a call too.”

“Oh. Mo’s got all my info and documents and stuff. I don’t really know—”

“No,” she interrupts, “that’s not why I’m calling. I felt like we should have had a conversation yesterday when you came in. Just you and me.”

I turn off the car, but don’t get out. “Okay.”

“What you’re doing, was it your idea or Mo’s?”

“Getting married?” I ask. “Um, mine.”

She’s silent, and I can feel her not believing me. It didn’t matter so much with the lady at the courthouse, but for some reason it matters that Sam thinks I’m a liar.

“Really,” I say firmly. “It was my idea. I asked him to marry me.”

“Okay.” She pauses, and I picture her putting the phone to her other ear, regrouping, changing tactics. “But if you wanted to change your mind—”

“I’m not changing my mind. I’m married. I want to be married.” It takes every ounce of strength in my body to say it and mean it.

“I believe you,” she says. “I do. But I was doing some research this morning, and there are a whole bunch of different student visas Mo could apply for. He might even be eligible for a high school—”

“I’m not changing my mind,” I interrupt.

“I just need you to know that you
can
change your mind, that you aren’t locked into—”

“I’ve got to go,” I say.

“All right.” Her voice sounds sad. Or maybe it’s pity, and I don’t want Sam’s pity. I want her to like me, but if she feels sorry for me, it’s too late for that.

“Call me if you need anything,” she says, “or if you want to talk.”

“Thanks,” I say. I won’t.

I say good-bye, slide my keys out of the ignition, and go inside.

* * *

A
fter dinner, I tell my parents I’m working on the mural and retreat to my room. That, of course, is a lie. I’m never working on the mural again. Head down, I stuff clothes into duffel bags so I won’t have to look at it, but still, it’s screaming at me, rushing around me, sucking me down.

So my obsessions are off-limits—I’m not thinking about Reed, I’m not thinking about my mural—which leaves my parents and what I’m going to tell them. When I’m going to tell them. What they’re going to do.

Tomorrow morning, Mo and I will move my stuff over; then I’ll come back and do it later in the day. That’s it. The way it needs to be.

I jingle my bracelets, but they sound different. Hollow and sad. I look down. I can’t even remember the point of wearing them anymore. It started as a reminder. I wasn’t going to be the kind of girl who got pressured into doing anything I didn’t want to do, ever again. I was going to stick up for myself.

But what are they really? What are they now? A reminder of being weak, of feeling bad about myself, but I’m not that girl anymore. At least now I’m doing what I want to do. I just thought being my own person would feel better than this.

I notice my hands are shaking as I pack my toiletries, so I stop and eat the last half of a box of stale Junior Mints from my purse. There won’t be space at Wisper Pines for all my books and pictures and the meaningless crap that’s sprawled over my dresser and desk, so I’ve packed a single box of keepsakes that I can’t live without: the music box Dad brought back from a business trip in Chicago, the stuffed giraffe Mo won for me at the state fair, my picture of Lena. The rest is meaningless: Mardi gras masks I used to collect, hair ribbons from ballet recitals even though I quit ballet in eighth grade, tacky pottery I stopped painting years ago. I won’t miss it.

I pile the duffel bags of clothes in the walk-in closet. My art supplies take up nearly as much room, but I can’t leave them, so I cram boxes with brushes, blank canvases, and paints, and push those into the closet too. Thanks to the mural upheaval, everything is already floating in the center of the room, and my parents won’t notice that I’m halfway gone if they take a peek in here while I’m asleep.

They do that. Still. I’m the most frequently checked-on eighteen-year-old in the free world, and I hate it, but they need it, and starting tomorrow, they won’t have it anymore. One more thing to hate myself for.

* * *

I
hear Mom leave around the time the light in my room is changing from pink to yellow. From my window I can see her walking to the car, sun hat in hand.

Maybe if I’d felt anything other than guilt over the last couple of days, I’d notice it especially right now. The sourness in my mouth, the ache like my breastbone pushing in toward my spine—they’re there, but they’re the same. I survived yesterday without vomiting or suffering a collapsed lung, so today’s guilt likely won’t kill me.

I call Mo. “She’s gone.”

“You want me to come help load up your car?”

“Sort of.”

He pauses. “I’m not sure what that means.”

“It means I want you to come help me load my stuff into your car. I’m not taking mine.”

He inhales sharply. “You already told them? I thought you were going to wait until we’d moved you out! I can’t believe they won’t let you take the car!”

“Deep breath. I haven’t told them anything.
I
say I can’t take the car. I don’t want it. I feel guilty enough already.”

“But . . .”

Another pause, this one long enough for me to swing my legs out of bed, stand up, and look at myself in the mirror. My hair is straw. I look like a sparkler.

“But it might be kind of hard sharing a car,” he says.

“Why? We go to the same school. And after that we’ll be in New Haven or Cambridge or wherever you decide to go to college, and I’ll be sitting in an apartment all day painting ugly, childish watercolors. What are we going to do with two cars in Cambridge?”

“I guess . . . I hadn’t thought about it. With everything going on, I didn’t think about the two years part. We didn’t talk about college.”

I pull on a pair of jeans. “There’s lots we haven’t talked about.”

“What about art school?”

I hate the awkward edge to his voice. “I don’t want to talk about it right now.”

“I’m sure there are lots of art schools in Massachusetts and New York. Have you looked into any of them?”

“I said I don’t want to talk about it right now. Are you coming?”

“Yeah.”

* * *

I
make turkey and Swiss sandwiches so I don’t have to watch Mo heft my life out to his car. From the kitchen I catch a glimpse of his skinny brown arms, mostly knuckles and elbows, wrapped around cardboard, and I have to think of Reed’s arms. I can’t help it. Reed’s are thick and solid as trees, and his shoulders are broad, probably one and a half Mo’s. It’s not like Mo’s bad off—he’s tall and coordinated, which is what makes him a good basketball player, I guess.

I spread mayo on Mo’s sandwich, slice an avocado for mine, and add sprouts to both, getting lost in the smallness of each task. Feeding us. Basic. Not thinking too much.

“It’s all in,” Mo calls from the entryway.

“Almost done.” I scoop crumbs into my palm and glance around the kitchen. I’ve eaten in this room for eighteen years, done my homework at that table, carved my height into that door frame. “Let’s go.”

Mo drives, and I look around the car.

“It’s no Explorer,” Mo says, eyeing me. “But there’s no payment.”

“Speaking of payment, how are we paying for anything? Or everything?”

“We’ll be okay. My dad’s putting money in my account.”

“But not for a lawyer,” I point out. “Or for basketball camp.”

“Those are specific punishments, though. He’s not paying for a lawyer because he doesn’t think I need one. And he won’t pay for basketball camp because he’s pissed I got married. If you need money for clothes or art supplies or whatever else, just tell me.”

I look at Mo, and feel the overwhelming desire to kiss him. On the forehead, maybe. I’m not going to take him up on the offer if I don’t have to—I don’t want Mr. Hussein’s charity any more than he wants me to be the mother of his grandchildren—but knowing Mo would go begging for me quiets a little of the nagging ache in my bones. I’m not entirely alone.

We arrive at Wisper Pines and Mo drags my bags up to the apartment.

“So, what next?” he asks. “Did you sleep at all last night?”

I sit down and Duchess crawls onto my lap. “Sort of. Not really. My mom thinks I’m at work.”

“Work.” Mo flops down beside me. “Are you about to get fired or something for all the skipping?”

“I quit.”

“What? Seriously?”

“Yeah, seriously. I had to.” I picture the pain on Reed’s face, remember his white-knuckled grip on the counter.

“Why?”

Beneath my hand, Duchess’s body tenses up and her fur bristles. “What’s the matter?” I whisper, but she’s hissing at Mo.

“Don’t you think we should have talked about it or something?”

I snort. “Are you saying I needed your permission to quit my job?”

“No, I just . . . I . . .” He’s flustered and annoyed, and I can feel the cat’s muscles beneath my fingers. She’s ready to pounce and scratch his face off. I take her to the bedroom, close the door on my way out, and sit in the chair across from Mo.

“I thought we were in this together,” he says. “I didn’t know there were things you weren’t telling me.”

“It wasn’t on purpose,” I say, except it kind of was. I can’t tell him how things really were with Reed. “My brain is so taxed, it hurts right now. So much is happening, my stupid job seemed like the least important thing. I didn’t think you’d even care.”

He leans forward, tracing the edge of the coffee table with his finger. “I guess I don’t. It would’ve been nice if you’d told me, though.”