The Vow

Chapter 9

Annie

What’s your real name?”

I don’t look up from my stack of dollar bills. I’m counting.

“Your name,” Flora demands.

Flora and I have been working side by side for over a week—she knows my name. And she’s old-ish, but too young to be losing her mind, so it’s probably the start of a joke. Based on the last few she’s told me, probably a dirty one. I don’t know if I want my name involved.

“Um, Annabelle,” I say, still thumbing. Am I at twenty-nine or thirty-nine?

“Your last name,” she says, and I now hear the crackle in her voice. It’s not humor.

I put the bills back in the open cash register, uncounted, and look up. She’s holding a butter-yellow envelope with a duck sticker on it. Annie Bernier is hand-written carefully in the center. No address. No stamp.

Today is not the day to talk to Flora about Lena. I’ve been holding back tears since I clocked in, gritting my teeth every time I think about Mo.

“Oh, nobody says it right,” I say, pretending I don’t know what she’s talking about. “It’s Burn-yay. Most people just say Burn-year, but I don’t really care. It’s not like I speak French or anything. My grandpa thinks he’s the accent police, practically yells at people who say it wrong, but his father was born in France, which he thinks entitles him to act like he’s French and treat people like crap.”

I glance at her, hoping she lost interest midramble. She did not.

I point to the envelope. “What’s that?”

She doesn’t answer or give it to me. She just stares, and now I can feel her trying to pull Lena’s features out of mine. I should tell her not to bother. Lena’s face was fuller, prettier, and she had a beauty mark sitting on her cheekbone, just beneath the left eye. In all her pictures, she’s smiling with her mouth closed, like one of those classic beauties from old movies, but I don’t remember her being polished like that. I remember a huge laugh and a tiny gap between her lower front teeth. She could whistle through it.

I hold my hand out for the envelope. Flora doesn’t give it to me, so I let my hand drop to my side.

My cheeks are burning, even though I haven’t done anything wrong. This feels like the time I got busted for cheating off Libby McGregor’s math quiz in eighth grade when she was the one copying off of me. Libby was an idiot, the only person in the whole class stupid enough to think I’d be writing down correct answers.

“You’re Lena’s sister,” Flora finally says. Her lips are flat, the skin around them a sagging web of wrinkles.

“Yeah.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I thought you knew,” I lie. “Rachel and Clara know.”

“You’ve got her eyes,” she says matter-of-factly. It doesn’t sound like a compliment. It sounds like she thinks I stole them.

I don’t say anything. It’s awkward, but I’ve learned that people need a moment. I look around to the front, where Reed is helping a rain-soaked old man fix his umbrella. Otherwise the shop is empty. It’s only five, but thankfully the rain is keeping the swim-camp kids from wandering our way.

Flora takes a ragged breath, her shoulders rising under her curly maroon hair, her eyes never leaving me. She’s inches from my face. When she lets the breath out, I can almost taste the tar from her last cigarette. “How long has it been now?” she asks.

“Eight years.”

“Eight.” She blinks, and I see grimy eyelid creases where makeup has settled. “Why are you working here? Must be killing your parents. You hate them or something?”

“No.” I don’t tell her I had to threaten to stop seeing the shrink if they didn’t let me work here. “I just thought it’d be a fun place to work.” It’s about the stupidest thing in the world to say, but she doesn’t call me on it.

Her face softens. “Your sister was a good kid, sweetie.”

I nod. Pity always comes after the shock. People swell up with it like bloated, belly-up frogs in rain gutters. They don’t know what else to do. Still, it never gets any less uncomfortable.

She takes another phlegm-filled breath, then blinks and blinks and blinks until the misty eyes are nearly gone. Good. If she cries for Lena today, I’ll start crying for Mo and I might not be able to stop.

I want her to tell me what she remembers, but today isn’t the right day for either of us. I won’t even try until she’s used to me. I mean used to me as who I really am.

At the door, Reed finally wrestles the old man’s umbrella into submission and opens the door for him. When he starts making his way toward us, his pants are half-soaked from rain, and he’s drying his glasses on his T-shirt. This conversation needs to be over.

“You miss her?” Flora asks.

That question is so insulting and stupid, I don’t usually answer it at all, but it’s Flora. I give her a polite “Yes.”

She puts the envelope down on the counter, clearly having forgotten about my name on the front, then gives my arm a squeeze. “I need a cigarette break,” she calls over her shoulder to Reed.

“Sure,” he says. He waits for the door to slam shut before asking, “Didn’t she just take one?”

“Yeah.” I point to the envelope, grateful for the distraction. “Do you know what that is?”

Reed walks over to me and looks at the envelope. He smells like orange peels from prepping the fruit for smoothies. “Yeah, a baby shower invitation for next Sunday.”

He must see confusion on my face, because he adds, “For Vicky.”

“Oh.” Soup’s wife. Did I know she’s pregnant? I don’t think so, but everything’s murky today. I don’t think I slept at all last night. “I’m invited? But I haven’t even met her. What’s she like?”

He leans his hip into counter, and I stay facing him, doing the same. This is new for us. Head-on conversation. “Um . . .” He pushes his glasses up the slope of his nose. “She’s sort of intense.”

“As in crazy or high-maintenance?”

Reed takes a few seconds to consider. He does that a lot, and it makes me nervous. I’m used to Mo firing off the first thing that comes to his mind. “Maybe both,” he says finally. “She’s sort of critical.”

“But Soup’s so nice.”

He shrugs. “It always happens to the nice guys.”

“Does it?”

“You’ve never made some poor guy’s life hell?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

“I find that hard to believe.”

I’d be insulted if he weren’t grinning ever so slightly. It’s distracting. “Soup is so chill, though.”

“Yeah, but he’s sloppy and kind of loud and smokes weed from time to time.”

“Still. The thought of a guy like him being henpecked for a lifetime is depressing. Maybe she’s just pregnant-mean,” I suggest. “My aunt Shayna was psycho when she was pregnant but totally sane before and after.”

“No,” he says. “Vicky was born crazy. Pregnancy has only enhanced it.”

“Ouch. You’re not a fan, I take it.”

“I’m allowed to say that about my own sister.”

“What? Soup’s your brother-in-law? Why didn’t anyone tell me that?”

Reed shrugged. “I thought you knew.”

“What next—is Flora your mother or something?”

“Ha. That woman grabs my butt at least once a day. Definitely not my mom.”

I smile. “Yeah, that would be weirder than it already is.”

He narrows his eyes, and I feel him staring through all my layers. “That’s the first time you’ve smiled today.”

And like that, the distraction is over. I remember. Mo is leaving me. “I’m just tired,” I say.

Reed doesn’t look away, so I don’t either. He noticed I wasn’t smiling. I wonder if he’s sensed how close to the edge I am, if he’s seen that this entire shift has been a string of microdistractions, every customer and conversation good for just a few seconds of relief. If he’s really been watching he has to think I’m crazy, because I’ve remembered at least a dozen times and felt the panic exploding inside of me all over again.

He’s looking at me now. From this close I can see his Adam’s apple and the stubble on his jawline. His eyes too.

“Actually, it’s this thing with a friend,” I hear myself say.

Apparently his eyes are making me stupid. Reed isn’t my boyfriend, and if I cry on his shoulder right now, he never will be.

“You want to talk about it?” he asks, looking vaguely nervous.

“No, I’m good.”

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but you don’t seem good.”

“What do I seem?”

His pause is uncomfortably long again. I push away from the counter, ready to go find some menial task to do, but then he says, “I don’t know. Scared.”

I squint. He’s hard to read, not like Mo whose emotions float around him like fumes. “My best friend’s moving,” I say.

“Oh. I’m sorry.”

“His dad lost his job, and now they have to go back to Jordan.”

“Back to Jordan?”

“Yeah. He’s from there.”

Reed nods and holds my gaze, so I keep talking.

“He moved here when he was ten. It’s weird. He’s so American that I forget he used to be something else, or that he still is something else, I guess. I don’t know. Technically he’s not American at all, which is the problem. Sorry, I’m not making a lot of sense.”

Reed folds his arms, and I have to notice how solid they are, muscle and power and confidence crossed over his chest. “No, I got it. This guy’s your boyfriend?”

“No. He’s . . .” I swallow. I gave up on trying to define whatever Mo and I are ages ago, but now that he’s leaving, I’ve got this desperate need for someone to understand why it’s so terrible. Mo’s more than just some boyfriend. “It’s hard to explain. He’s my best friend. And he’s not my boyfriend, but . . .” I stop myself before I say but I love him.

“I got it.”

He doesn’t get it. I’m an idiot. Nobody gets it. “My parents, friends, boyfriends I’ve had—they all think we’ve got some secret thing going on.”

“Are they right?”

“No. But . . .” After the last week of dying for Reed to just look me in the eye, I’m suddenly wishing his gaze wasn’t so intense. The brown is warmer today, the amber flecks brighter. Like sparks. “Mo helped me get through a hard time. He’s like my brother. My really sarcastic, pissed-off brother.”

Reed says nothing, but his eyes become so suddenly sympathetic I have to look away. Sympathy might kill me today.

“So why is Vicky inviting me to her baby shower when we’ve never even met?” I ask.

“She’s not. I am. Apparently you aren’t supposed to throw a baby shower for yourself, so Vicky put me in charge of the party.”

Not what I was expecting. I frown at the yellow envelope still in my hand, then tap the ducky sticker. “Nice touch.”

“Vicky took me off invitation duty when I suggested doing it by email, but the rest of the party is my baby.”

“Yeah? What’re you planning?”

“She nixed the keg and the strippers, so I don’t know. Maybe we’ll have a bonfire and torch some furniture.”

I give an uneasy laugh. I don’t know him well enough to really tell, but he doesn’t sound like he’s kidding. Mo’s sarcasm is louder than a foghorn. This is dangerously dry.

“Annie, I’m joking.”

“I knew that.”

He raises an eyebrow.

“Okay, so I didn’t,” I admit. “You’re hard to read.”

“Not once you get to know me. And it was worth it for the look on your face.”

“I don’t think there was a look on my face,” I say.

“There’s always a look on your face.”

I’m not sure what this means. I want to think about the possibilities for a while, but he doesn’t stop to let me.

“We’ll barbecue in my grandmother’s backyard and probably play something civilized like croquet or horseshoes. Acceptable?”

“Perfectly.” I place the invitation on the lip of the counter so it hangs between us. “When is it?”

“Sunday night. Soup wants everyone from work to be able to come.”

“This Sunday?”

He nods.

“I’m supposed to go into Louisville with my dad,” I say. “I don’t know when we’ll be getting back.”

The back door squeals behind me, and eau de nicotine-and-hairspray fills the room. Reed takes a tiny step away from me.

“Damn rain,” Flora mutters as she walks by. She doesn’t look at me, which means she’s still thinking about Lena. I want to tell her she needs to smoke something stronger than a Marlboro Light for that, but the door chime sounds and a group of drenched kids rush in, giggling and dripping all over the place.

Flora takes the first order, and Reed begins to move away when something comes over me. Desperation. I don’t want him to walk away yet. Without thinking, I reach out and place my hand on his forearm. It’s warm and smooth. The muscle beneath my fingers tenses. What am I doing? It was supposed to be a friendly gesture, but now there’s a current running between his skin and my fingertips, and I can’t pull my eyes from my white hand on his tan forearm.

“Uh, thanks for cheering me up,” I say, attempting to sound casual.

He stares at my hand. “You’re welcome.”

I should let go of him now, but I don’t want to break the current or lose the smell of rainwater and oranges. I want to hold on to his calm. I’m still frozen when he takes his free hand and lifts my fingers from his arm in a movement so achingly slow that it takes me a moment to realize what he’s doing. He’s freeing himself. Now it’s too late to pull my hand away, and the humiliation is already singeing my whole body.

I want to die.

But he doesn’t let go. He turns it palm up, takes the envelope from the counter, and puts it in my open hand. “Come.”

I nod.

He lets go of me. My heart is racing so fast I could collapse, but he doesn’t notice. He’s already taking the next order. Trembling, I slip the envelope into my apron pocket and get back to work.

^*^*^*

Unbelievably, I manage to serve custard beside him. My heartbeat doesn’t slow, and the rain doesn’t stop, but business picks up anyway, though I have no clue who I’m serving. Some kids. An elderly couple. My middle school band teacher, whose name it takes me half a minute to remember, and his wife. Some more kids. Then Soup stops by to “make sure you guys haven’t burnt the joint down yet” and tinker with the still-broken Relic and finicky ice machine. He wishes us a happy weekend, then leaves with miscellaneous ice machine parts and a peanut butter milk shake.

The whole time I can feel Reed from across the room, an actual vibration when he’s closer. Twice our bare arms brush and I hold my breath.

When it is that the rain finally stops I don’t know, but when I step outside to haul trash to the Dumpster with Flora, it’s magically silent. The night is moonless. The poststorm air is sweet and still.

We take two bags each. She makes her way around glassy puddles, and I walk through them, then I walk her to her rusted Cavalier. We’re open for another hour, but the shop isn’t busy, so she’s casino-bound. I’m staying till close.

“Where’s your car?” Flora asks as she digs through her purse for keys. Reed’s is the only other vehicle in the lot.

“My friend dropped me off.”

She turns toward me with her mouth hanging open like a big saggy fish. “Are you crazy?”

I flinch. That word. Nobody ever says it to my face. Once you’ve spent time in a mental institution, people are careful about phrases like that. It takes a moment to realize what she assumes. “Oh. No. I’m not walking.”

She looks like she doesn’t know whether to believe me or not. And sad. She looks sad again.

“My friend’s picking me up,” I say, surprised by the tremble in my voice. “I would never walk that road.”

A few more seconds of silence pass between us before her face softens.

“Of course not, sugar. I just thought . . .” She lowers her eyes, embarrassed. “I don’t know what I thought.”

I do. She thought I was insane. She thought I was trying to relive my dead sister’s life, that in the weirdest and unhealthiest of ways, I was trying to be her, even walk the road she was stolen from. That would be crazy. “I don’t think I’m her,” I say.

“Of course not.”

“And I’m not trying to be her.”

“Okay,” she says. We stand in awkward silence.

“I should get back in there,” I say finally. “Reed’s all alone.”

Flora gives me a half grin. “Ha.”

“What?”

“You know what I mean.”

“No, ma’am.”

“Do I look blind to you?”

I sigh and stare into the oak trees behind her. “There’s nothing going on. He’s nice and all, but I don’t really know him that well.” I’m trying to sound casual, but my voice is too high.

“Nice and all,” she grunts, and raises an eyebrow. “I love you, sugar, but you might be an idiot if you think the way he’s looking at you is nice and all.”

I step back.

“Now be good,” she says and gets into her car.

I walk back across the parking lot, jingling my bracelets and thinking about being good—whether she’s talking about Lena or Reed or scooping custard. I’m always good. I have to be. It’s the thing I have going for me.

Reed is serving a middle-aged man and his son when I come in. I watch him for a moment, hoping he won’t turn around and see me. I replay the moment from earlier, and my arm burns where he held it.

The man pays, and before I can pretend to be doing something, Reed turns around.

“You’re back. Thought maybe you’d decided to go play the slots with Flora.”

“No, I’m not lucky.”

“Or twenty-one,” he says.

“Right,” I say. “It stopped raining.”

He gives me a funny glance. “A while ago, I think.”

“Oh. I guess I just didn’t notice.”

He walks over to the broken Relic, picks up the screwdriver Soup left on the counter, and starts fiddling with it. “You live in your own world, don’t you?” he says.

“What do you mean?” He says it like it’s not an insult, but I’ve heard too many versions of the same comment to take it any other way. Spacey, dazed, out of it—this is how people see me. I should be used to it.

“I mean you seem like you’re thinking hard about things that aren’t in this room.”

I don’t know what to say. It is, by far, the nicest interpretation of what Mo calls Annie’s Planet. “I guess so. Drives my mom crazy.”

“You said your mom teaches literature, right? That must make you a bookworm.”

That makes me a disappointment. “She used to teach,” I say. “But I’m more into painting than reading.”

“I’m guessing not the type of painting I’m into these days.” He holds up his arms and I see the pale-yellow flecks of paint. They’re on his jeans too.

“I’ve never painted the outside of a house,” I say. “But I’m painting a mural right now.”

He stops tinkering with the Relic and turns to me. “Really? Where?”

I’m suddenly shy, wishing I hadn’t started. It sounds so juvenile—painting pretty pictures on my walls. “My room.”

“What of ?”

“Um. The ocean.”

He puts the screwdriver down and waits for more.

“I want it to feel like you’re underwater when I’m done.” I say. “I’ve only just finished the water. I’m doing coral now.”

“Hmm.”

I can’t tell what that means, what he’s thinking. “Mo thinks it’ll give me nightmares about drowning.”

“Mo is the friend? The one who’s moving?”

I nod.

Reed pushes his glasses up and looks over to the table in the corner where the man and his son are finishing their sundaes. “Or maybe it’ll give you good dreams. Maybe you’ll be able to breathe underwater.”

I try to imagine it, but can’t quite make myself take a breath. “Maybe.”

The man and his son leave, and Reed and I start the cleanup process together in silence, except for the music. It’s an ABBA CD, one of seven CDs we have to rotate through. I’m so sick of this one already, I’m considering accidentally dropping it into the blender.

The rattle of my truck pushes through the music, followed by the three long blasts of the horn.

“Is that your dad?” Reed asks.

I shake my head, embarrassed. “Mo. Sorry. Sometimes he’s kind of like a five-year-old. I’ll go tell him to wait.”

“No, we’re done. I can do the cash and lock up.”

“You sure?”

“Of course.”

The horn blares again.

I give an apologetic shrug and untie my apron. “He knows my parents are strict about what time I get home.” I don’t add that he’d be doing the same thing if it was noon.

Reed eyes the clock. “Strict? Your application said you’re eighteen.”

“It’s complicated,” I stammer.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to criticize. I just—”

“No, it’s okay. I know it’s early.” I don’t attempt to explain that even though I can carry a gun and buy cigarettes and get married and die for my country, if I’m not home by 10:20, all hell will break loose.

“Are you on tomorrow?” he asks.

I nod, remembering the wave like cool water that flowed through me when he touched my arm. I can feel it now.

“Good,” he says.

“Why did you read my job application?”

He smirks. “Perk of being the boss’s brother-in-law. I was just making sure you looked good on paper too.”

I duck out before he can see that I’m smiling.

I can’t stop smiling.

I make it halfway down the steps before I see Mo. He’s staring at the Mr. Twister sign like he wants to rip its head off and set it on fire. His face is gray and crooked and hard. He looks like his dad.

Guilt rolls through me, flushing the smile and the warmth in my chest away. Head down, I make my way to the truck.

I forget that he deserves a charley horse for honking like a psycho and slide into the passenger seat. I can’t kick him out of the driver’s seat tonight either. He loves driving.

“Hey,” I say.

“Hey.”

“How was your day?”

He grunts.

Nothing else needs to be said, not with the anger rising off him like fumes. We just sit in silence, hurtling down the road I will never walk because I am not crazy.

It feels wrong, this silent mutual misery, but fighting with him would be worse. Besides, how many more times will we get to sit beside each other like this? The thought connects like a kick in the gut, and it takes all my willpower not to crumple beside him. Two weeks—no, less than two weeks now—and he’ll be gone. Have they bought plane tickets? Has Dr. Hussein come to his senses and started looking for a job here? What really happens if they just don’t leave?

I don’t ask a thing. It nearly kills me, but I let Mo be broken and silent because I know he wants it that way. It’s all I can do to let him have it.