The Vow

Chapter 25

Annie

That’s not real.”

I close my eyes. I don’t need to turn around to know it’s him. Instead, like an idiot, I just stand there clutching a box of frozen Dino-Nuggets, my entire body chilled and goose-pimpled from his deep voice and the freezer.

“Not real food, I mean. They use the parts of the chicken you don’t want to eat, grind it up, add some filler, and freeze it for years. By the time it gets to your oven, it’s more freezer burn than chicken.”

“Microwave,” I say, and finally turn around. “These are going in my microwave.”

He looks good in the worst way, muscly and tan, and his hair is a little wet like he just showered, but I’m not going to stare at him. I slide the box into my basket and wait for him to say something so I’ll know how this is going to go. Angry, awkward, or fake-fine—those seem like the most likely options, but it’s definitely his choice, given the way things ended. The polite smile I hadn’t even realized I was giving him is starting to hurt, so I let it fade. I have no business smiling at him anyway. I’m the lying, cheating ho of an ex-barely-girlfriend.

“So, how are you?” he asks finally.

“Fine. You?”

He stares like it’s the dumbest question in the world. I’ve missed his eyes, brown and warm behind those stupid, adorable glasses. I look back down at the contents of my basket.

“Not that great,” he says.

“I’m sorry.” That should cover it: I’m sorry he’s not that great, I’m sorry for hurting him, I’m sorry I can’t make it better, and I’m a sorry individual. Also, now, as the silence stretches beyond uncomfortable into excruciating, I’m sorry to be having the most miserable social encounter of my life. I need an excuse to pull myself away, but my mind is numb with him still looking at me like that.

“Do you want to get some coffee?” he asks.

“What?”

“You’re probably busy.”

“No.”

I’m not busy, but I don’t know if I want to get coffee. Except I do. But I don’t want to sit close to him and talk with him and feel his eyes on me and let myself pretend for one second that things are different. I don’t have room for more hurting right now.

But I’m not busy. Myrna asked me to stay late and help rearrange the yarn bins, so it’s too late now for bridal portraits, which means I’m going to have to pretend to forget to bring the dress back tomorrow. Mo is at home, most likely watching SportsCenter. Or staring at Duchess.

Reed’s waiting. I can feel my cheeks turning red. “I mean I’m not busy,” I say. “Coffee sounds nice.”

“Are you almost done?”

I look at my basket, barely recognizing the food I put in there. My mental grocery list vanished about thirty seconds ago, so I don’t know what I’m missing. “Yeah.”

“I’ve got a few more things to get,” he says. “You want to walk with me?”

I follow him zombie-like from frozen foods to produce to checkout, barely saying a word. I wonder if he’s heard that Mo and I are married. Probably. E-town is too small to hide from gossip that big. But if he knows, why would he invite me to coffee? He has to hate me.

“So you’re really getting those,” he says, eyeing the Dino-Nuggets as we stand in line.

“They’re not for me.”

“Oh.”

His face. I look away.

Why, oh why, oh why, oh why did I say that? Cringing, I stare at the magazine in front of me, focusing on the beep of the grocery scanner and the smack of the teller’s gum. I want to bite my whole tongue off.

“Right. Not for you,” he repeats flatly. “And the magazine—are you getting that? But that would mostly be for someone else too, I guess.”

My eyes finally focus on what I’ve been staring at. Cosmo. Glossy lips and a mile of cleavage, splattered with sex advice I don’t even understand. I don’t respond, just start loading my groceries onto the belt.

“Sorry,” he mutters. I wish he hadn’t. Apparently he’s too nice to enjoy embarrassing me—not like I haven’t earned it.

He turns to the candy rack, grabs a pack of gum, and throws it in his cart. I’m still bracing to implode from shame, but I can’t not think about that gum. I know that gum. I know what it tastes like in his mouth.

I should have gone straight home after my shift.

I pay for my groceries and wait awkwardly by the customer service desk while he pays for his, though I’m not sure why. We can’t possibly still be going for coffee. Maybe I should save him the hassle of trying to make up an excuse and just tell him I’m not feeling well, which would be 100 percent true. Stupid Dino-Nuggets. I can’t believe I said They’re not for me. I may as well have followed it up with They’re for the guy I’m sleeping with instead of you, the one I cheated on you with. And the Cosmo. Of course, I couldn’t have zoned out in front of Southern Living.

“My car or yours?” he asks.

I almost drop my bags. There’s no logical explanation for any of this. “Yours.”

“Mine’s sort of a mess,” he says.

“I don’t care.” He has no idea what a messy car is. In Mo’s car right now there are at least ten Taco Bell bags that I’m refusing to throw out for him, not to mention a giant puffball of a wedding dress taking up the entire backseat. And just thinking about coming up with a lie as to why I’m not driving my Explorer makes me tired.

We walk from the fluorescent-lit store into the night. It’s post-rain black and steamy, and the puddles look like pools of ink when the moon reflects. Warm water spills over the edge of my flips and wets my toes.

“Piper was doing that the other day, and it reminded me of you.”

“What?”

“Walking through every puddle possible,” he says.

“It’s a compulsion,” I say, and veer left to wade through the next one. “I can’t not do it.”

“I noticed.”

In the car, the smell of him is so familiar, like rain and night, it feels like I should be allowed to reach out and touch his forearm. I still don’t know why I’m here, but I don’t care anymore, and that’s scary.

Starbucks is empty, except for a few middle-aged types staring into laptops—thank goodness, nobody I know. And the barista looks vaguely familiar, but I think it’s because she used to come into Mr. Twister. I don’t think she recognizes me.

Reed insists on buying my coffee. I don’t want him to, but I don’t want to insult him either, so I let him and take mine with an extra packet of guilt.

“You get to choose the table,” he says to me, as if getting to pay for coffee is a perk, and hands the barista a ten.

“That one,” I say, pointing to the corner booth farthest from the window.

It isn’t until we’re several sips in that the awkwardness begins to lift.

“So, work is pretty lame now,” he says. “Flora isn’t as much fun as you were.”

“Thanks, I guess.”

“You didn’t have to quit, you know.”

I smile, but it’s barely lip-deep. We both know I had to quit. I take another sip for something to hide behind.

“So, you’re working at Myrna’s Country Craft?” he asks.

“Yeah. How did you know that?”

“This is a small town, Annie.”

My lungs stop pulling air midbreath. The sound of my name wrapped in his voice—it’s amazing and terrible. Mostly terrible. I want him to say it again.

“I may not be from here, but I’ve got family in the grapevine,” he says. “Vicky and my grandma report gossip like it’s their job.”

Report gossip. I have to say it. He wants me to say it. “So you know I’m married, then.”

“Yeah,” he says softly. He’s peeling the cardboard sleeve off his cup, smoothing it out over the table. It’s one of those pointless, fidgety things to do when you need your hands to be busy. I start doing the same to mine.

He’s trying to press the ridges in the cardboard flat, but it wants to curl. I love his painter’s hands, red from turpentine and speckled with cream. I could watch him fidget all night.

At least neither of us say the stupid things that shouldn’t be said. He doesn’t say congratulations. I don’t say I’m sorry. Not again.

“And I know about your sister.”

I can’t think. My heart is in my throat.

“Why did you tell me you were an only child?” he asks.

“Well . . .” I falter. Well, what? “I am now,” I finish lamely.

He stares at me and I look away. I want to ask him if he knew when we were together and was just waiting for me to tell him, or if someone told him after we broke up. Not that it matters. Either way, he thinks I’m a liar.

“People treat me differently when they find out,” I say.

“I wouldn’t have.”

I know. I should tell him that I know, but I can’t. Just thinking it hurts. “Never mind,” he says. “It doesn’t matter.”

We settle back into silence, but this time my mind is racing to come up with a question, anything to keep him from asking about Lena or Mo or other prod-able wounds. “So, how’s Soup?”

“Good. I have a new niece.”

“I was wondering if Vicky had the baby yet. Did everything go okay?”

“Yeah. They named her Candace, and she never cries except when I’m holding her. Then she screams like a maniac.” He grins, forgetting himself, forgetting me, for a moment.

I picture him holding a screaming infant, remember Piper throwing her croquet mallet into the woods, and have to laugh. “Keep up the good work, Uncle Idiot.”

“I will.” His smile is rueful. “I seem to be having a hard time pleasing the women in my life lately.”

Too much. It’s meant to be a joke, but I feel like something pierced my skin, sliced through breast and muscle and rib cage, right through my heart. I’m a monster. “No,” I say, but my voice is weak when I want it to be firm. “You did—”

“Forget it,” he interrupts. “I don’t want you to.”

“But I mean it. No. No, you didn’t not . . . please me.” The word is wrong. Old-fashioned or sexual, and I didn’t mean it either way. He’s abandoned the dream of flattening the dismantled cup sleeve and is tearing it into thin strips, like I didn’t say anything.

I want to say You made me feel amazing, or I couldn’t stop thinking about you. But I can’t say that without muddling past and present. I’ll accidentally admit it’s still the same way: I can’t stop thinking about you.

“I didn’t not want you,” I try.

He taps his fingertips gently against the naked cup. “Wow. Good for me. I didn’t not please you, and you didn’t not want me. I hope you don’t mind if I don’t not think that’s the worst compliment I’ve ever had.”

I swallow. I don’t make sense, I know, but it’s the best I can do. “I shouldn’t have come,” I mumble.

“Wait.”

I don’t remind him that I have to wait because he drove.

He keeps his eyes safely on the cup. And when he starts talking, it’s so soft and low I have to lean closer to him so I can hear. “I’ve been thinking about something. But I need you to just listen for now, and at the very end you can tell me that I’m insane. Okay?”

His tone pulls me closer. “Okay.”

“I started thinking about it a few days after we broke up, and it’s gotten bigger and bigger in my mind, and it’s the only reason I didn’t turn around and walk away when I saw you tonight.”

My fingers are trembling and I don’t know why. I clench them into fists and tuck them under my thighs.

“You remember the night I made dinner for you?”

I nod. My life is full of forgettable nights. That is not one of them.

“And you explained to me that you and Mo were just friends, and that was all you would ever be?”

I nod again.

“I believed you. Even though I was still getting over being cheated on, and I didn’t believe for a second that he didn’t want you like, well, how I want you, I just believed you.” He looks up from his cup and stares at me. His eyes are pulling at me, trying to take something I can’t give. “I still believe you.”

He’s blurry. But tears pooling aren’t a confession. I’m not admitting to anything. I blink them away.

“But I think you lied about other things,” he says. “I know you said Mo got a student visa, and I don’t know much about immigration stuff, but I know that marrying a US citizen is the golden ticket. And I know that when we were together, when you were supposedly cheating on me, I . . . I think I know that you weren’t. I think you were falling in love with me the same way I was falling in love with you.”

I’m stone. But the pressure is building behind my eyes, and I feel like I could crack and split open at any moment, and everything would come pouring out.

“If I’m wrong . . .” He stops and shakes his head, and his hair falls over the front of his glasses so I can’t see his eyes. “If I’m wrong, I’m nuts. Certifiably postbreakup insane. But I’ve spent the last couple of weeks thinking about you, I mean, what kind of person you are, and what you might do for someone you love. I don’t know. It’s not too much of a leap to think you may have married Mo so he could stay.”

The truth feels like fire. I’m sitting too close, and it’s so searing hot I might melt. I didn’t plan for this. Being confronted and having to deny it all—I need time to prepare, but I don’t have time, and I don’t have energy because I’m so exhausted from walking around missing him. That’s it. I miss him. I miss him too much to be hearing this.

The tears are finally pushing through. I fold my arms on the table and drop my head so at least he can’t see my face. A few seconds. I need a few seconds.

But then I feel warm, strong hands around my upper arms, and it feels like I’m being held together. It feels like sympathy. I’m not sure anyone’s ever given me sympathy like this. I dissolve. Crying like this—head down, no sound, held by Reed—is so sweetly awful I don’t know if I want to stop.

I wait till I can control my breath to speak, but I don’t lift my head. “Please don’t tell.”

He squeezes my arms. “Why would I tell?”

I lift my head, and he’s staring at me in total confusion.

“I don’t know,” I stammer. “Because what we’re doing is really stupid? And illegal? Or because you hate me for lying to you? Or because you hate Mo—”

“I don’t even know Mo.”

“But I hurt you to help him. I would understand if you hated him. Or me.”

“I will never hate you. I’ve already tried. And you’re not in love with him, right?”

“No.”

“And you never actually . . . cheated on me?”

“No.”

He pulls his hands away and I’m instantly colder. “Unreal,” he mutters. “But what about the people who really know you? I mean, your parents—they must know.”

I shake my head.

“What? They think you’re actually married?”

“Shh!” I glance around. The barista is playing a game on her phone, and the middle-aged types are no longer typing but having a real conversation with each other. “I am actually married. They just don’t know that Mo and I aren’t . . . you know.”

“What about your dad being so overprotective? They’ve got to at least suspect.”

“Being overprotective of me is not the same as knowing me.”

“But you wouldn’t even let me meet your dad. He must’ve completely freaked out over this.”

“He did.” I sniff and wipe my cheeks with my palms. I’m finished crying. “My parents have always thought Mo was trying to get into my pants. Especially my dad. It’s like they can’t imagine that he just likes me as a person. And the fact that he’s Muslim freaks them out because they don’t know many Muslims. Or any Muslims. Whatever.”

“So they bought it.”

“Yeah. They bought it because it was their worst nightmare come true.”

He nods, processing this.

“We aren’t exactly talking right now. They think I’ve been brainwashed and kidnapped by jihadists—I think they should make an effort to be slightly less racist.”

“And your friends?”

“Mo is my friend.” I’m over being embarrassed by how this sounds—like he’s my only friend—because it’s been true for so long. “Everyone else is just whatever. And they all think we’ve been secretly together for years anyway.”

“I can’t believe . . .” He reaches out and strokes the back of my hand with his fingertips like it’s instinct, like he can’t not do it. And it’s a few delicious seconds before I realize that I’m in public and jerk my hand back. I glance around, but I don’t think anybody saw.

“Right,” he says flatly.

I swallow and, with my eyes, plead for him to understand. “The worst part has been hurting you. I hated letting you think I cheated on you and making you hate me. I can’t change anything about how things are now, but I still miss you.”

“Why didn’t you just tell me?”

“We promised we wouldn’t tell anyone, and what would it have done? It wouldn’t have made it any easier. I’d be in the same position I’m in now, and I have no idea where we go from here. Nowhere really. I’m committing a felony. Mo and I will have an interview in a couple of months, and if they think there’s something fishy going on, we could be investigated.”

“Is that likely, though? It seems like the government has bigger threats to worry about than some kid in Elizabethtown, Kentucky.”

“He’s a seventeen-year-old Muslim male, born in the Middle East. According to the lawyer, that means we don’t get to slip through the cracks. And considering the timing of his dad’s visa running out, and his family leaving, and our age, they might really send people out to snoop around.”

“You still should’ve told me.”

“But what if you were mad or sad or indifferent and told someone about it?” I shake my head. “You remember a second ago when you touched my hand?”

He looks at my hands now, wrapped safely around my cup, held close to me. “Yeah.”

“That’s why I didn’t tell you. If anyone in this armpit-sized town finds out I’m not in love with my husband, that’s it.”

“But now I do know.”

“Now you do know.” I sigh. “And we’re sitting at Starbucks together. Alone.”

“Is that really such a big deal?”

“Happily married newlyweds don’t get coffee at night with guys they used to go out with. At least not here.”

Reed looks around. The middle-agers are back to gazing into screens. “You want to leave?”

Yes. No. Yes. But leaving Starbucks puts me one step closer to saying good night to Reed, and good night has to be good-bye. So no. I never want to leave.

“Let’s go,” he says.

We make it to the car without touching. But once the doors are shut, he slides his fingers through mine and pulls my hand to rest on his leg. It doesn’t feel wrong. We’re completely alone, and it feels necessary and perfect. For the entire length of the drive I focus on the heat between our palms. Nothing else.

Reed pulls into the Kroger parking lot, and I feel his fingers tighten slightly. “I don’t see your car.”

I point to Mo’s. “I . . . gave the Explorer back.”

He doesn’t say anything, just shakes his head and pulls up next to the Camry.

It’s time to go. I can do this, piece by piece. I start by letting go of his hand. “Thank you for the coffee. And for listening and not hating me. And for not telling anyone—”

But he’s too close. His finger draws a line beneath my chin, turning my head to him, and stopping the words in my throat. “Nobody is going to find out if I give you one kiss.”

My heart is beating so loud I can’t hear my thoughts. He’s right. But I can’t lean in to him because there’s something worse than someone finding out. There’s ripping open my heart at all its ragged edges, only to be scraped out all over again.

“Just one,” he says.

I don’t say yes, but I can’t say no. He kisses me so soft and slow I forget everything. There’s a black night, a dark car, and the perfect rhythm of us.

Just one. But just one kiss can last and last and push and pull, so that even after he takes his mouth away from mine it’s still happening.

He brushes my lower lip with his thumb, then kisses where he touched it. “I can’t call you, can I?” he says.

I bite my lip and shake my head. He kisses my lip where I bit it.

“So will you come find me, then?”

I’m not sure if he’s asking or telling, but I nod. I want this. I’ll come.