Jessica Martinez - The Vow

I wonder what Reed thinks when he looks at me. I know I look unusual. I’ve heard it all—ghostly, doll-like, eerie, pixieish, cute—and I have no idea which is right, because sometimes I see myself in the mirror and know that I’m beautiful, and other times my reflection is too creepy to stare into for more than a second. My eyes are lighter blue than anyone else’s I know, which I like, but my elf-shaped ears border on freakish. Has he noticed them? The pointy chin and skin the color of paper, well, they are what they are. They can go either way—weird or interesting.

Today, though, I’m gorgeous. It doesn’t make sense, rushing around like a psycho, no mirror in sight, but I know it. I think I’ve been beautiful since the moment Reed kissed me.

I grab lip gloss and a hair clip to mess with in the car and slam the front door shut hard behind me. I never do that. It drives my dad nuts, but he’s tripped out on DayQuil, and today I am all-powerful. I am defiant. I am beautiful. I am myself and someone completely different at the same time. So this is love.

* * *

“You’re late,” Flora says. “Not that I’m keeping track, but I might have to leave a half hour early as payback.”

I finish tying my apron and glance at the clock. 12:06. “Thirty minutes?”

Flora does this one-eye-half-closed look she uses to call people on crap. “You’re saying you don’t want an extra half hour alone with Reed?”

I shake my head at her, even though I know he can’t hear us from the front window where he’s adjusting the blinds to let the sunlight in. He glances up, but in the other direction, out the window at the customers approaching. He hasn’t noticed I’m here yet.

“Where did you two disappear to last night, anyway?”

I can feel my cheeks turning red as I stammer around an answer. “What . . . I don’t . . . nowhere.”

“Sure. Nowhere doing nothing, right?”

“Whatever.”

“So that’s what the kids are calling it these days. Whatever. I like that.”

“Did you have fun at the party last night?” I ask, hopeful she’ll latch on to something else.

“The part that I recall, yeah. It reminded me of why I made such a bad bartender all those years ago. You aren’t supposed to make yourself a drink every time you make one for someone else.”

“I didn’t know you used to bartend,” I say. “I thought you’ve worked here since—”

“Since dinosaurs roamed the earth?” she interrupts. “Not quite. Remember that bar that used be on the corner of Main and Perry? Never mind. You’re too young, but there used to be this little bar called Ranchers, right where Payson’s Sporting Goods is. You know, across from the post office.”

Flora prattles on, but my mind is already at the corner table where Reed is bent over a mound of pink, yellow, blue, and white sweetener packets. He looks adorably awkward, his hands too big to be sorting pastel confetti one piece at a time.

At the end of yesterday’s shift, Flora discovered that someone (probably Soup) mixed them all in a huge container instead of keeping them in their separate bulk boxes. It didn’t seem like the end of the world to me, but Flora insisted the fake sugars and the real sugars be separated first thing in the morning. Reed and I did not disagree, as this seems to be how Mr. Twister operates best: Soup is the boss, but Flora runs the show.

Maybe I should go help him.

Except with his head bent and his hair falling over his glasses, he looks like he did when I first met him, and I’m suddenly sure he’s reverted back to that same shy Reed who could barely look me in the eye.

Like Chris Dorsey. I can’t not remember, and my cheeks are suddenly on fire. He’d wanted nothing to do with me after. Reed and I only kissed, but if he’s embarrassed around me now, or if he acts like nothing happened at all, I may have to lie down and die. Or at least quit my job.

He looks like he’s focusing on the sweetener, but he could very well be wondering what the hell he was thinking last night and trying to figure out how he’s going to brush me off now.

Without warning, he lifts his head. His hair falls back, and our eyes connect. I’m dying to look away or smile or turn around and go home, but I don’t do any of those things. I hold his gaze, even though I feel like my heart is being emptied.

Until he smiles. Then it’s like a tidal wave of color in my brain.

“Great,” Flora mutters, and I remember she’s talking, but not what she’s talking about. “You kids are going to be annoying, aren’t you?”

“Uh, we’re almost out of butter pecan,” I say, finally pulling my eyes away, as if I’m not so flustered my knees may give out. “I’m going to get another bucket.”

I pretend not to see her smirk as I spin around and escape to the safety of the walk-in freezer. The door swings shut behind me with a soft thud and a sweet chill runs through me. I can breathe. I’m not sure how long I’ve been holding the shiver in, but long enough to make me shaky.

I make my way down the length of the freezer slowly, soothed by the hum of the machinery. It’s a long, skinny room, lined with metal shelving from floor to ceiling. And thanks to Flora, it’s perfectly organized. Frozen fruit, blocks of juice concentrate, buckets of custard, all neat and labeled. I wasn’t lying—we actually are out of butter pecan in the case up front—so I scan the towers of pails for their brown-and-white labels as I walk.

It’s easy to find, but nearly impossible to retrieve. I have to move the peach, triple fudge, and mint chip buckets to get to it, then shove them all back in again. It’s heavy, so instead of carrying it by the skinny metal wire that digs into my palm, I hug the bucket and hook my fingers under the bottom edge.

When I turn around, chin resting on the lid, body thoroughly chilled, Reed is standing back by the door.

“Sorry,” he says. “I didn’t want to scare you.”

“Not scared. Maybe a little startled.” My heart is banging against the massive bucket between us. I wonder how long he’s been here watching me play custard Jenga. “Don’t tell me you’re here for the mint chip, because it’s no longer reachable.” I gesture with my chin to the rearranged shelf. Mint chip isn’t even visible.

“No, I just wanted to say hi.”

“Oh. Hi.” I wait. The thudding. Hard to believe he can’t hear it too, because it feels like my heart is about to pound its way out of my rib cage. “How are you?”

“Good,” he says. “Tired, actually. I spent the morning moving furniture from room to room. How about you?”

“Good.” I don’t volunteer any information about my morning. I got married can’t be good for things at this point in our relationship, or at any point in our relationship. I’m not even sure if relationship is the right word.

“I had fun last night,” he says.

I can see his breath, the sheerest glimmer of icy air escaping from between his lips. But I can’t look at his lips without remembering the moment they touched my neck. “Me too.”

“Good. I was thinking about it, and I hope you didn’t feel like I pushed you into showing me your mural. Hearing you talk about it just made me curious.”

Curious. Was that supposed to mean the itch had been scratched? I’m suddenly freezing and boiling at the same time. I reposition my grip on the bucket. I would put it down, but it feels like protection now—cold and solid enough to shield a blow.

“But afterward,” he continues, “I realized maybe it was really personal.”

“Yeah.” He’s staring at me, and I’m not sure what we’re talking about anymore. The mural or the kissing. I’m about to make it easy for him by saying it was no big deal, but then I remember what he looked like as he stood in the center of my room, spinning a slow circle.

“Anyway, thanks,” he says. “And I’m sorry if you felt—”

“I wouldn’t have showed it to you if I didn’t want to.”

A year ago I couldn’t have said that. The Annie that Chris Dorsey knew certainly couldn’t have said that. Not honestly.

His face relaxes. He’d been talking with his hands, but he lets them drop to his sides. It looks like surrender.

“Good,” he says, and I can feel his eyes trying to read me. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but you’re different.”

“Okay.” I try to smile. “How should I take it?”

“As a compliment.”

“I’ll take it as a compliment then. So, how long do you think we have until Flora—”

Right on cue, the door sweeps open, and Flora’s maroon curls pop into view. “Hate to break up the whatever, kids, but we’ve got customers out here.”

“Coming,” I say, but before I can leave, Reed takes a step forward and reaches across to take the bucket from me. Our faces come dangerously close over its rim. For a second we’re near enough that I feel a shade of the thrill from last night’s kiss.

He lifts the bucket, and my arms drop away. I try to straighten my fingers, but they feel permanently bent.

“You have plans for this Friday?” he asks, following me out the door.

“Just work.”

“I mean after. Can I make you dinner?”

I shrug, trying to offset the grin I can’t help. “Depends. What are you making?”

“Exactly what you want.”

“What if I don’t know what I want?”

“I told you last night, remember? That’s my specialty.”

Mo

It’s his specialty?” I ask, staring at the hand-written name and number on the scrap of yellow paper. Sam M. Cane. 502-241-3350.

Dad shrugs, licks his finger and turns the page of his magazine. The Economist.

Brutal. I’d rather slam my fingers in the door repeatedly than be here right now with him. I should’ve been the one to tell him. I wanted to, but Mom insisted on doing it, so instead I got to lie on my bed and listen to the first Jerry Springer–style shouting match this house has ever hosted. And now he’s treating me like I’m a traitor. No, like a disobedient child, like I’m not even man enough to own up to my own actions.