Promise Me (The Me Novellas) (3 page)

His eyes softened a little. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “I didn’t mean–”

I cut him off. “It’s fine. I know you didn’t.” I finished the burger, wiping my hands on the sides of my dress. I was thirsty but I didn’t dare ask for a drink of his soda.

He crumpled the sandwich wrapper and tossed it into the paper bag sitting on the floor. He inched closer to me and his hand found my thigh. I could feel the heat of his touch through the flimsy fabric of my dress.

“I missed you, Em,” he said. His fingers inched toward my hem and then slipped under.

I sighed. He was a neurotic freak but he was
my
freak. And I’d missed him. I leaned into his touch, shifting closer on the couch so our bodies were pressed together.

“
I missed you, too,” I whispered.

I kissed him. He kissed me back softly, one hand under my dress, the other moving up my ribcage. I opened my mouth a little, inviting him to deepen the kiss and he groaned. His mouth slid away from mine and he trailed kisses along my cheek and down my neck. He leaned me back on the couch so he was on top of me. In a matter of seconds, his shorts were off and my dress was hiked up to my waist. I didn’t care. I didn’t want foreplay or romance or whispered sentiments.

I wanted him.

FOUR

I was on my second helping of lasagna. My parents took their time eating, watching me as I shoveled forkfuls of noodles into my mouth. They both had a glass of wine but my Dad’s sat untouched. He was headed back to the restaurant and I knew he’d be pounding diet Cokes as the night wore on.

I’d filled them in a little on the trip, talked about some of the experiences I’d had living with Rosa and Eduardo and their children. They nodded and listened and asked questions, all things I’d expected them to do. But I knew from their faces that it was like listening to a bedtime story. They were paying attention but it was like a fairy tale. Not a pleasant one, to be sure, but something that was simply outside the realm of their reality.

I’d expected that. When I’d signed up for the trip last Spring, my parents had balked at the thought of me spending the summer living in Mexico. Not because they didn’t want me to travel but because they didn’t understand what it was I wanted to do.

“
If you’re interested in doing a semester abroad, let’s research a little,” my mom had said. “No need to just rush into this.”

“
But this isn’t a semester abroad,” I’d told her. “This is a cultural exchange. People Helping People.”

She’d frowned when she heard the name of the organization. “So you’re going to go there and work? Help people? What exactly are you going to do? What on earth are you qualified to do?”

I’d bristled at the statement. Sure, I wasn’t trained in anything. Hell, I’d just finished my second year at Mesa, the local community college because, as my father put it, I was still “looking for direction.” I’d opted to get an associate’s degree in business administration. Numbers spoke louder to me than words and I figured if I started toward a degree, I could maybe transfer it somewhere else. At the very least, I could pretty much guarantee myself a job as a bank teller. Not that counting out other people’s money was something I aspired to do, but it was better than not working at all.

“
I’m not going to work there, Mom. The organization helps people in poor countries finance loans. But this cultural exchange—the thing I want to do—it helps bring their plight into focus to the world around them. Allows people like you and me to experience what life is like for them.”

“
And you want to do that because…?”

I frowned at the memory of the conversation we’d had. She didn’t understand then, and I knew, sitting at the table, her expression expectant,  she wouldn’t understand now. More than anything, I’d done it because I didn’t have anything else to do. Because, suddenly, with an associate’s degree two classes from completion, I still had no freaking clue what I wanted to do with my life. I thought about the portraits on the wall in the hallway and the posters lining my room. I didn’t know who I was or what I wanted. But I knew what I didn’t want. I didn’t want to work in a bank. I didn’t want to keep going to school mindlessly, out of habit more than a purposeful decision.

But, more than anything, I didn’t want to make a decision that would send me in the wrong direction, a decision that might set me up for a lifetime of regret. I stole a glance at my dad. I was pretty sure he hadn’t aspired to be a restaurant manager. I knew he hadn’t. He’d spent his childhood in the water, surfing just like my brother did, had started his marine biology degree at UCSD immediately after graduating from high school. And then Mom had gotten pregnant. With me. And he’d dropped out to support her, to support us. Twenty years later, he’d never stepped foot back on a college campus. I looked away.

I remembered the day at school back in the Spring, the day I’d first seen the flyer tacked to the billboard at the student center on campus. People Helping People. Something about the faces of the people in the photos resonated with me. I didn’t know why, but as I looked at that poster, I knew that I needed to go. To bust out of the cocoon I’d created for myself and see what else was out there. To see if upending my world would give me the kick in the ass I needed.

My dad cleared his throat. “So, what’s the plan now?”

I reached for the spatula and scooped another helping of lasagna onto my plate. At this rate, I’d gain back every pound I’d lost and then some.

“Well, I thought I’d head up to Mesa tomorrow. Sign up for those last two classes I need.”

It was the last thing I wanted to do. But I knew they expected it of me. And, after running away for three months, I felt like I owed it to them, to at least finish the one goal I’d set for myself, regardless of whether I wanted it or not.

He nodded. “Good idea. And what are you thinking on the job front?”

I reached for the glass of ice water in front of me and took a long swallow. I hadn’t thought of anything at all.

“She just got back, Mark,” my mom said. “She needs a little time to readjust.”

“
She also needs to start thinking seriously about how she’s going to repay the three-thousand dollars we loaned her to take the goddamn trip.” My dad wasn’t mad but he was serious.

“
I’ll start looking tomorrow,” I told him.

“
We’re always looking for good help at the restaurant. You know that.”

I shook my head. “No.”

When he raised his eyebrows, I added, “I don’t want any handouts. You’ve already done enough by loaning me the money to go. I’ll find something on my own.”

It was a half-truth. I didn’t want handouts. But the last place in the world I wanted to work was the restaurant. Not just because my dad managed it, but because it had been my go-to for as long as I could remember. It had been like a revolving door for me, a position always there when I needed to work for a week or a month. I’d scrubbed dishes, been a hostess, bussed tables, taken orders.

I needed to do something on my own. Like the trip I’d just taken, the job had to be what I wanted, what I needed. It was up to me to figure out what I wanted to do, who I wanted to be.

The front door slammed shut and footsteps echoed on the tile floor. Joel poked his head into the dining room, his expression contrite.

“Sorry I’m late,” he said as he slid into the empty chair at the table. He flashed me a smile. “Hey, sis.”

My mouth dropped open. He’d grown an inch for every month I’d been gone. His hair, blond like Mom’s, was almost white from his sun-filled days at the beach. And his braces were gone. A set of beautiful, white teeth smiled at me.

“What happened to your braces?” I asked.

Joel reached for a breadstick and bit into it. “Uh, the ortho took them off.”

“They look good.” I looked at my little brother who suddenly didn’t look so little anymore. “You look good.”

He shrugged. “Thanks. You look
…skinny.”

“
She’s working to remedy that,” Mom said. Her voice was stern. “And we need to figure out a way to remedy your tardiness issue.”

Joel rolled his eyes. “This isn’t school, Mom. It’s summer vacation.”

She nodded. “You’re right. This isn’t school. It’s home. And when I give you a time to be back for dinner, I expect you here. In that seat. Eating.”

“
Alright, alright,” he muttered. “I’m sorry.” He scooped lasagna on to his plate and tried to make himself invisible.

My dad, who watched the exchange silently, shifted his focus back to me. He held a breadstick in his hands and broke off a piece. He chewed it, his eyes on me. “Back to the job.”

I stared at my plate.

“
The offer is there. Promise me you’ll at least consider it.”

I nodded. “I promise.”

He took a tiny sip of his wine, more for my mom—to acknowledge that she’d poured it—than because he wanted a taste. “I need to head back. Dinner rush.”

He planted a kiss on my mother’s head and squeezed my shoulder as he walked by.

My mom stood and began stacking empty plates. “You can keep eating. I just want to get these dishes cleared. Susan is coming by tonight.”

“
Sage’s mom?” I asked.

She nodded. “She’s been doing some gardening this summer. Had some questions so I told her to swing by.”

Sage and I had been best friends since sixth grade but our parents had never had more than a casual friendship. That had changed a year ago, when our moms had bumped into each other at some gardening expo at the convention center. Like the seedlings they’d both carried home that day, their friendship had blossomed. Sage and I always snickered about it, mostly because they’d never bothered to take the time prior to that day to see if they had any interests in common. With all of the time they spent together, shuttling us between houses when we were younger or sitting next to each other on the bleachers during volleyball games, it somehow never occurred to them that they might have something in common other than their children.

“
OK.” I scraped my fork across my plate and licked it. Three pieces of lasagna and two breadsticks and I still wasn’t full. Maybe I’d been wrong about bringing home a virus or bacterium. Maybe I had a tapeworm living inside of me.

“
Are you going back to Grant’s tonight?” she asked from the kitchen.

I picked up my plate and glass and brought it in to her. Our galley-style kitchen, small by most home’s standards, seemed gargantuan when I compared it to the shack I’d lived in for the past three months. Rosa’s entire house would have fit in our 9x9 kitchen, with room to spare.

“No. I haven’t seen Sage yet. We’re going to hang out for a little while, I think.”

She opened the dishwasher and loaded the plates on to the bottom rack. “And how are things with Grant?”

“Fine.”

“
Everything’s good?”

I rolled my eyes. Didn’t I just tell her they were? “Everything’s fine, Mom.”

She turned the faucet on and rinsed the spatula in the sink. “Good. I just didn’t know. Three months can be a long time when you’re young.”

My mother had a love/hate relationship with Grant. As much as she liked him, she also had no qualms about telling me I was too young to settle down. Her picture of a perfect life for me would be seeing me date several guys, even if it meant I slept with all of them, too. Not all at once, of course. But her mantra was that it was better to experiment and figure out what I want now than to settle on the first guy I dated and never find out what I was missing. I’d never had the guts to ask her if she was speaking from experience. After all, she’d married my dad when she was eighteen. I wondered if she had regrets, if she felt like she’d taken a wrong turn, gone in the wrong direction.

“Three months was a long time to be apart,” I said. “He’s glad I’m home.” I didn’t know for certain that this was true, but it’s what I hoped. I needed some consistency when everything else in my life felt like it was spinning out of control, regardless if my actions were causing it.

Mom smiled at me. “I am, too, Emma. I am, too.”

FIVE

Sage handed me a drink and sat down next to me on the saggy, corduroy sofa. We were in her apartment, a one-bedroom just off Balboa. She’d moved in shortly before I left for Mexico.

She sat close to me, our knees touching. Her welcome-home hug had nearly strangled me. “Tell me everything,” she said.

I swallowed a mouthful of the cherry red liquid I was holding. And gagged. “What the hell is this?”

She grinned. “Dirty Shirley. Did I make it too strong?”

“A dirty what?” Neither of us were twenty-one but alcohol was easy to get, especially since Mitch was a year older and worked part-time at the liquor store.

She pushed at her bangs, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear. I spied a new piercing in the upper corner of her lobe. She was up to four. “Shirley. It’s a Shirley Temple
…with a little cherry vodka.”