Promise Me (The Me Novellas) (2 page)

I stood, too, and watched as she retreated down the hall, Swami following after her, hoping to sneak outside when the back door opened. Joel had rescued him years ago, a Saturday surf-session with Dad in Encinitas, a little grommet in the water on his brand new board. After, they’d headed up the stairs at Swamis and he’d noticed a puffball of a kitten huddled by a trash can. They’d brought him home, named him Swami after the surf spot they’d found him at, and he’d been a permanent fixture ever since. A little cantankerous, a little aloof, but ours.

I nudged him away from the door and he meowed at me, his back arching a bit before he marched toward the kitchen. Some things never changed.

I picked up my backpack and slowly made my way to my bedroom. The hallway was lined with school portraits, mine and Joel’s, and I studied these, mine especially, as I inched along. Wide-eyed and smiling. That was me. If a stranger had looked at those photos, had studied them with as much scrutiny as I was giving them right then, I wondered what they would see. Would they be able to see the kind of person I was? The questions and thoughts running through my head? Would they recognize my lack of direction, my uncertainty about where I was heading, or would they look at them like some sort of crystal ball, instantly able to see what the future had in store for me? I didn’t know.

I stopped at the last photo of me, my senior portrait, and the one closest to my bedroom door. The photograph of me smiled confidently, as if she had all the answers, as if she knew exactly what was waiting for her after graduation. She was a liar.

Reluctantly, I looked away and faced the partially closed door to my room. I hesitated for a minute before pushing it open.

It looked the same. My twin bed pushed up against the wall, the same bed I’d slept in since I was two, the satin, silver comforter uncreased and piled high with pillows. My posters were still tacked to the wall, an eclectic mix of images: Channing Tatum and the beach and a map of the universe and Gandhi. I shook my head. They were a testament to just how scattered I was, unfocused, my hands in everything, like some giant candy jar where I searched for the one thing that resonated with me, the one thing I was somehow meant to do. I still hadn’t found it. And I was beginning to wonder if I ever would.

I settled my gaze on my white dresser, the top littered with pictures. Me and Grant. Me and Sage.

Sage. I crossed my room and picked up one of the frames and smiled. Me and Sage on graduation day, black caps and gowns, our arms thrown around each other, our mouths open in mock surprise as we held up the black folders that held our diplomas. Her short blond hair was barely visible underneath her graduation cap and her braces glinted in the late afternoon sun as we mugged for the camera on the football field where the ceremony had been held.

I picked up another. Prom. Sage dressed in a strapless yellow gown that almost matched the color of her hair, Mitch Anderson’s arm wrapped possessively around her waist. And me and Grant, both dressed in black, his hand placed stiffly on my shoulder. Sage and I had joked about his formal pose, especially considering how informal he’d been with me in the hotel room after the dance.

I smiled at the memory, at all of the memories represented by the photos lining my dresser. As hard as it had been to leave my new family in Mexico, I was happy about returning to my old one—not just my mom and dad and Joel and Grant. But Sage.

I reached for my backpack and grabbed my phone.

I needed to call her. I needed to tell my best friend I was back.

THREE

The phone rang once before Sage answered with a squeal.

“Oh my God, is it really you?”

I flopped on to my bed. “In the flesh.” I wrinkled my nose. Smelly, gritty, disgusting flesh. I tried to shift my body weight to make less of an impact—or mark—on my pretty comforter.

“Holy shit.” Her voice got louder. “I can’t believe you’re finally home.”

“
Me, either.”

“
Where are you? Home? Grant’s?”

“
No, I’m home.” I shifted on my bed, reveling in the softness of the comforter and the mattress I lay sprawled over. I could always wash it, I told myself as I sank deeper into the fabric. “He picked me up at the airport. Just got home an hour or so ago.”

“
And it took you this long to call me? I thought I was your best friend!”

“
Settle down, DQ.” I smiled. Sage had earned the nickname Drama Queen several times over. “I need a shower. Trust me, you don't want to be within a mile of me right now.”

She giggled. “I’m sure that went over well with Grant. Did he stick a clothespin on his nose for the ride home? Put on a hazmat suit before he hugged you? Oh, wait. Maybe he hasn’t touched you yet.”

“Shut up.” But she was right. Even I’d been surprised when he’d offered the hug.

Her giggle turned into peals of laughter. “Seriously. I don’t know how he manages to have sex with you when he can barely even kiss you.”

Grant was not high on Sage’s list of favorite people. Considering I felt the same way about her on-again off-again relationship with Mitch, I let it slide. We were best friends and we did what best friends did: look out for each other, expect and want the best for each other.

“
Whatever.” I glanced at the clock on my nightstand. “I’m probably going to head over to his place for a bit. We didn’t have much of a chance to catch up.”

“
Or screw.”

“
Stop. Dad is supposed to be home for dinner so I need to be back for that, to see him. And Joel. But I was thinking we could get together tonight? I could come by or something?”

“
Of course.” She hesitated for a minute, thinking. “I’m supposed to go to some party with Mitch, but I’ll cancel. Or tell him I’ll meet him later.”

“
I don’t want to butt in on your plans,” I began.

But she cut me off. “Please. I haven’t seen you in forever. Mitch can wait. It’s just a party.”

“Alright.”

We hung up and even though I wanted to spend the rest of eternity lounging on my soft bed, I didn't. I got up and made a beeline for the shower. The water warmed quickly and I peeled off my clothes and stepped into the steamy enclosure, letting the water pelt my skin. The water pooled at the drain, a grayish-red color and I grimaced, wondering what shade my skin actually was underneath the layers of dirt and sweat and grime. I washed my hair, scrubbing my scalp, inhaling the scent of the shampoo. I rinsed and lathered on conditioner and then, grabbing my razor and a bottle of body soap, attacked the three months worth of hair on my legs and under my armpits. The hair on my legs had turned blond from the hours of sun exposure, had grown soft and fine as it lengthened, but I still wanted it off of me. It took almost twenty minutes, and almost the entire contents of the hot water heater, but when I turned off the water and grabbed a towel, I felt like me again. Almost.

I wrapped a towel around my mid-section and padded back to my bedroom. I lifted my wet hair off my shoulders and adjusted my towel, loving the feel of the cotton as it skimmed the smooth expanse of skin on my legs. I’d never felt so deliciously clean.

I rifled through my dresser and pulled out a pair of denim shorts. I slipped into them, zipped and buttoned them. They promptly slid to the floor.

I knew I’d lost weight but hadn’t expected my clothes to fall off of me. “Shit.”

I rummaged through my drawer for something else to wear but it was useless. Every pair of shorts I owned had a zipper or buttons. I made a mental note to visit the mall. Soon. Frustrated, I searched my closet for something else to wear. I found a simple black sundress and pulled it over my head. I didn’t wear dresses often, but it would have to do.

I brushed through my hair and applied some eyeliner. I inspected my reflection in the wall mirror mounted in my room. I was clean. New freckles dotted my cheeks and my nose. My hair had lightened a little, blond streaks through my otherwise brown hair. The exterior changes were subtle. But the ones inside weren’t.

I turned away from the mirror and texted Grant to let him know I was on my way. I headed toward the laundry room, dumping the meager contents of my backpack into the washing machine. I'd brought elastic-waist shorts and pants, tank-tops and loose-fitting long-sleeved shirts on my trip. I'd left half of those clothes behind, for Rosa and her family. They were almost threadbare but I knew she would use them, repurpose them into clothes for the kids or rags for the house. Nothing went to waste there, not even t-shirts riddled with holes.

I called out the back door to my mom, reassuring her I’d be home for dinner, and I headed out the door.

My car, an older Toyota Corolla, was parked in the alley behind the house. I felt a little flutter in my stomach as I inserted the key into the lock. I sank into the driver’s seat and hesitated before starting the engine. What if this was something I’d forgotten how to do? What if I didn’t remember how to drive a car? Not the steering or the braking or anything like that, but those little rules that you learn along the way. Just how much gas you need to give to make it through the yellow light; how hard you need to step on the brake without jerking to a stop; and just how close you can cut it when squeezing past a car as you make your way to the right turn lane. It had been three months since I’d driven and I suddenly felt like it was my first day behind the wheel.

“
Stop it,” I whispered to myself. I’d only been gone three months. Driving a car hadn’t changed. I hadn’t changed so much that I wouldn’t remember this. I was being ridiculous.

Thankfully, I was right. As soon as I turned the key and backed out of the alley, I relaxed. This was my car, the same car I’d been driving since I was sixteen. A lot of other things might have changed, but my little car was the same.

Grant lived in an apartment in Mission Beach, a few blocks north of Belmont Park, bayside on the little strip of land that jutted out from Pacific Beach. I crawled along Mission behind tourists and locals, catching glimpses of the Pacific as I drove past store fronts and restaurants and low-rise apartment buildings. I turned left on Island Court and navigated my way to the alley, parking directly behind the garages attached to his apartment. It was the end of summer and street parking was nonexistent.

I climbed the steps to his second-story apartment, a blue building badly in need of a paint job, and rapped once on the door.

“It’s open,” Grant called from inside.

He was sitting on the couch, watching a Padres game. A burger and package of fries from Jack in the Box sat in front of him on the wooden coffee table, a massive drink next to it. My mouth watered. Somehow, I’d forgotten to eat.

He popped a french fry into his mouth. “That was fast.”

I sat down next to him on the couch. “I tried to hurry.”

He picked up the burger and took a bite. Mayonnaise and ketchup oozed from the bun and I salivated some more.

“
That looks amazing. Mind if I have a bite?”

He looked at me. “Thought you were starving?”

“I was,” I said. “I am. But I was more dirty than hungry.”

I reached for the burger but he held out his hand to stop me. “Hang on. Let me grab a knife. I’ll cut you your own piece.”

I sighed. “I didn’t bring home the Ebola virus, you know. And I’m pretty sure giardia isn’t transferred by saliva.”

He raised his eyebrows. “You have giardia??”

“Oh my God, no.” I shook my head. “I was joking.”

He went to the kitchen and came back holding a butter knife. “Well, I didn’t know. You’ve been living in a Third World country for three months, Em.”

“I went to the clinic yesterday,” I said, watching him as he sliced off a section of his burger. “I have a clean bill of health. No gastrointestinal issues. No skin diseases. No STDs.”

His eyes shot to mine.

“Again. Kidding.”

He handed me the burger and I bit into it. The flavors exploded on my tongue and I almost cried, it tasted so good. I resisted the urge to wolf my half of the sandwich down and chewed slowly instead, savoring it.

Grant was still staring at me.“So, you’re kidding about not having any STDs or not being tested?”

I stopped chewing. “Jesus Christ. I was on an experiential learning trip, not a swinging singles cruise.”

“I don’t like it when you joke about that kind of stuff.” He picked up his drink, his eyes locked on me. “You know that.”

I rolled my eyes and looked away. I wasn’t sure if he meant he didn’t like me joking about being with someone else or about having been exposed to potentially contagious diseases. It could be either one with him.

“I did not sleep with anyone while I was in Mexico.” I plucked a french fry from the carton and popped it in my mouth before he could object. “Except Matteo.”

His mouth dropped open.

“He’s
two
.” I shook my head. “Because, see, when you live in a shack in Puerto Vallarta, everyone shares a bed. Or a mat, as the case may be. There are no beds, Grant. No couches. No television. And no one has time to hook up because they’re all so goddamn busy trying to find enough food to eat so they don’t
starve
.”