Jessica Martinez - The Vow

“You didn’t screw up,” I say.

“Unless Oxmoor Ford is selling armoires, yes, I did.”

“Look.” I point across the parking lot to where the Mr. Bernier is standing with his hand on the hood of a ribbon-tied Ford Explorer.

It’s a mirage. Or it’s not, it’s real, but it’s got the sparkle of an illusion, like it might twinkle and disappear at any second. The body of the car is obsidian black, and the grille glistens like bared teeth, muzzled with a fat red bow. Mr. Bernier looks, as always, like a professional wrestler. He’s as shiny as the truck with his Hollywood grin and glossy bald head. And in front of the Explorer, he’s never looked scarier, which is saying something.

Annie says nothing.

I drive the truck across the lot, bouncing over potholes, unprepared for the pangs of nostalgia that ring through me with each lurch. Poor truck. It’s about to be abandoned and doesn’t even know it. I should’ve whined way less about the AC.

Beside me, Annie looks like a compressed spring ready to release, practically vibrating with happiness and hysteria as she leans forward, both hands on the windshield. “Can you believe this?” she finally yells in my face.

“No. Maybe you should get off the dashboard, though.”

She’s out of the old truck before we’ve even rolled to a stop. Running, jumping, hugging her dad, jumping again. Squealing.

So I guess she does squeal.

Mr. Bernier chuckles and hands her keys. “Don’t go anywhere yet,” he says.

I watch as she opens the door and hops in.

“Mo,” Mr. Bernier says, and motions for me to get out.

I turn off the truck and climb out the window, probably for the last time.

“I didn’t realize you’d be coming along,” he says, holding out his hand for me to shake. The gesture is polite; the smile is huge. He hates me.

I shake his hand. He doesn’t know it has the dried remnants of his daughter’s spit mixed with mine on it. “Nice to see you, sir,” I say.

“Likewise.”

The after-rain sun is blazing orange behind him, so I use my hand as a shield and squint, and together we watch Annie freak out over the size of the cup holders and the dual-side seat warmers. We’re both thinking it. I’m horning in on his big family moment, the All-American I love you so much; here’s a brand new truck surprise. He’s the hero. I’m the intruder.

“So, nice day,” he says.

“Yeah. It was raining before, though.” When all else fails, go with the weather and state the obvious.

He nods.

I take a small step away from him, which he mistakes for a step toward his daughter and the Explorer.

“Let’s give her a minute,” he says. “How’s basketball going? Are you doing the summer session at U of L again?”

“Not sure.”

“Oh, that’s right. I forgot. Annie told me your family is moving back to Jordan.” His voice is soaked with just the right amount of sympathy. It’s both nearly believable and insulting.

I nod, my mind whirling through lies that will still make sense in ten days, when my family is gone and I’m still here. Here. Here. I’m staying, but I don’t even know where here is—where I’ll live. Why didn’t I think about that? Maybe Bryce’s? I can’t imagine eating my Frosted Flakes with Mr. Bernier every morning, so definitely not Annie’s.

“Are y’all looking forward to that?” he asks.

“I may be staying, actually. My dad’s attorney is working on getting me some kind of student visa or something.”

He folds his arms over his tanklike body. The Hollywood smile widens. “Well, that’s good news, isn’t it?”

“Yes, sir.” The glare from the sun is too much, so I turn away.

“Mo, did you know about this?” Annie calls from the driver’s seat, where she’s adjusting mirrors.

“No,” Mr. Bernier says before I can answer, and looks at me. For a brief moment he lets his guard down and gives me a hard look—the I know you want to screw my daughter look—then it’s back to the chummy grin. It doesn’t even matter that I don’t actually want to screw his daughter. I still shrivel. No wonder Annie would rather have anesthetic-free root canals than introduce guys to her dad.

He walks over to her and I look at my feet. If he knew what Annie and I are planning, he’d kill me.

“Do you want to hop in?” Mr. Bernier asks me, motioning to the backseat. He’s walking around the front to ride shotgun.

“Sure.”

I climb in and sink into the seat. It’s like my dad’s car on the inside—sexy console, smooth leather seats, and the sweet artificial smell is so heavy I might choke on it.

“This is awesome,” Annie whispers.

“Start it,” Mr. Bernier instructs.

The Explorer’s engine roars to life, and Annie lets out another squeal.

“It’s beautiful! Thank you!” More hugs for Mr. Bernier. More squeals.

“We should’ve bought it sooner,” he says. “It took a while to get your mom on board, but we both knew you needed something safer than that old thing.” He doesn’t even look back at the truck (that is not unsafe or even that old) that Annie and I have practically lived in for the past two years. I wonder if he’s leaving it here to be sold, but I don’t want to ask. I don’t want to know.

I need to chill out. I feel like throwing up or possibly even punching something, but leaving the truck shouldn’t be such a big deal. Why won’t Annie even look at it, though? It’s like she’s completely forgotten how she got here or that it exists.

I need her to look at me so my eyes can ask her all the questions tearing around inside of me. Are we still getting married? If he finds out, will he take this away? What then? Would you rather have this car than me?

But she doesn’t look at me.

Annie

He’s looking at me. I can feel his eyes from across the yard, where he’s losing a game of croquet to his niece, Piper. He’s only pretending to try, I think, but it’s hard to tell because I’m definitely not looking at him.

“You meant to do that!” Piper insists. Her voice is unusually husky for a five-year-old’s. “Hit it again.”

I glance over to see Reed reach down, pick up the red ball, and pull it back a few feet.

“This time try,” she orders.

“Yes, ma’am,” Reed says.

I take a sip of my virgin piña colada—pushed on me by Flora, who is now mixing more exciting drinks for the college girls—and eye the scene casually. I feel light, like I could drift away, but the icy glass under my fingertips somehow anchors me to the party and to these people I don’t know.

It’s odd to be at a party of older strangers. Of course, I know the people from work, but Vicky and Soup haven’t lived here all that long, so the rest of the guests are friends from their old neighborhood in Louisville.

“So are you going to hit it or what?” Piper demands.

I have to look over. Reed obeys and hits the ball through the wicket. Piper growls and hurls her mallet into a nearby bush, then growls even louder when she realizes what she’s done and goes in after it. Reed stifles a laugh while she wrestles it out; then he turns to the grill, where Soup is stationed. “Any advice here?”

Soup takes a sip of beer without looking up from his spread of meat. “Nope. But you think she’s mad now, just wait till you win.”

“Oh, I don’t think I’m going to win,” Reed says loudly as Piper disentangles herself from the bush and brushes the dirt off her mallet. “Piper’s got mad croquet skills.”

“I know,” Piper says, and whacks her ball into Reed’s red ball, sending it down the sloped side of the yard and into the creek.

I forget I’m not supposed to be watching Reed, and I don’t look away when he glances up at me with a wry but amused look, his hair falling over his glasses.

He looks different. The twilight and the lawn torches may be to blame. His features are less angular and the edges of his profile are blurring into the night air—no blanching glare of fluorescent bulbs. I hadn’t noticed how much red there is in his hair, but it’s glowing with all the colors of the sunset right now. No peach apron, either. His navy T-shirt looks like that brushed cotton that’s soft like skin.

“Annie, are you hungry?” Soup calls.

I pull my eyes away from Reed’s and make my way over to the grill. “Starving. Aside from this piña colada, I haven’t eaten all day.”

“Burger or brat?”

“Burger.”

Soup scrapes a patty off the grate for me and deposits it onto the open bun. “Extra juicy just for you.”

“Thanks.”

“Eat up. Then you should go take over for Piper before she gets really pissed off and starts swinging her mallet at Reed.”

“Oh,” I say, searching for the right words. Soup is her father, after all. “She’s such a cute little girl.”

“Yeah. Cutest dictator in the world.”

“She’ll be a great big sister, though,” I try, but it comes out with minimal feeling.

Soup shakes his head and glances at his wife. “Good luck, my unborn child.”

Vicky is sitting on a couch on the veranda, surrounded by piles of torn tissue paper and shredded ribbon. Somewhere beneath it all there are stacks of hot-pink onesies and breast pumps and other things that make me vaguely nauseous, but all I can see is wrapping carnage. I didn’t think you got all those things for your second baby. Vicky might be the type of woman who makes her own rules, though. She’s got her grandmother on one side, a frail-looking woman who’s almost asleep or possibly pretending, and someone I don’t know on the other. I’m clear across the yard, but I can hear scraps of the story Vicky’s telling. Something about her mother-in-law and baby-quilt swatches and getting kicked out of a fabric store.