The Vow

Chapter 27

Annie

It isn’t betrayal. Or if it is, I don’t know who I’m even betraying anymore. I just know that when I finally get home and find Mo in my bed, crying like I have never seen him cry before, I don’t think about it. I climb in, wrap my arms around his torso, and press my cheek into his back.

We’re ten again. He’s broken.

I don’t think about the fact that I just had my hands on Reed’s chest, held my body against a different kind of desperation. I shhh Mo until he stops shaking and finally sleeps. And I fall asleep too.

Waking up in the same bed, fully clothed and sour-mouthed, is different. No, not different. Awkward. More for him than me, I think, based on the way he rolls away from me and stares at the wall while I stretch and stare at the ceiling. Maybe it’s the memory of spooning and sobbing more than the actual cosleeping that makes eye contact so impossible. So I do the only thing I can think of doing to make it less weird. As quietly as I can, I roll onto my side, reach over my head and brace myself with both hands on the headboard, place both feet flat on his lower back, and I shove him out of bed.

The thump of his body on the hardwood is a little louder than I expected, but he’s laughing. Thank goodness. He already got beat up once in this apartment.

“You are so going to regret that,” he says, hobbling around the bed and out of the room. “I think I twisted my ankle, so I probably won’t be able to do my half of the job chart.”

“Nice try.” I’m still considering what form of revenge I should be bracing myself for when he returns with strawberry Pop-Tarts and chocolate milk for both of us. “Did you spit in this?” I ask, lifting the glass to inspect it.

“I’m way more subtle than that. I’ll wait until you’ve forgotten it’s coming.”

“Great.” I take a sip and a bite before I ask him, “You want to talk to me about anything?”

“Not really.”

“Are you sure?”

“Are you asking why I had some kind of mental/emotional breakdown in your bed last night?”

“Maybe that. If you want.”

He leans back into the stack of pillows. “I don’t know. I mean I know, but I don’t know why I lost it like that. I talked to Sarina and she wasn’t herself, and it sort of annoyed me.”

“What do you mean, not herself ?”

He breaks the Pop-Tart in half and stares at the jam filling. “Not happy. Not stupidly optimistic, which is unfair to say or even think, since if I was her I wouldn’t be any kind of optimistic.”

“Did she say why?”

“No. But then I talked to my mom and found out Sarina got hit by a rock outside of her school a couple of days ago.”

“What?”

“On her cheek, I guess. She had to get stitches, so it must have been a good-sized cut.” He pieces the two Pop-Tart halves back together, examining the fault line he created. “A good-sized rock.”

I put my Pop-Tart on the bedside table. It tastes like sweet, chalky cardboard. “Is she being bullied, or was it just some random thing?”

“How can a flying rock be some random thing? Rocks don’t just fall from the sky—not even in the Middle East. Or are you asking if in Jordan people throw rocks all the time because they’re all just a bunch of violent barbarians and Sarina got caught in the crossfire?”

“Don’t be mad at me, Mo. I’m just trying to understand.”

“Sorry.” Mo separates the Pop-Tart halves again, dips one in the chocolate milk, and takes a bite. Since we’re having a serious conversation, I don’t tell him how disgusting that is.

“Your mom must be freaking out.”

Mo snorts. “If only. She was all denial and excuses. She made it sound like it would work itself out. Something about the way she said it, though, it’s like she thinks Sarina just needs to work at fitting in and everything will be fine.”

“So you don’t think she’ll adjust?” I ask. “Like you did here? I mean you said before that she is wearing a hijab and going to mosque and stuff.”

Mo doesn’t move or say anything for a while, and I know I’ve said the wrong thing. And stuff. Why did I say that and make it sound like a grocery list? And why am I always on the verge of insulting his nationality or his religion or his cultural whatever when I’m only trying to be nice? He’s too sensitive or I’m too clumsy. It has to be one or the other. Or maybe it’s just impossible to talk about—so neither of our faults.

“I don’t know. She’s too American and not American enough. I mean, according to my dad, lots of Jordanians like Americans, but I can see how Sarina would seem like a poseur. A Jordanian who thinks she’s American. It was different for me moving here. I was supposed to be different from everyone else. She’s not. Plus I had you.”

I picture Sarina, with her dreamy look and soft voice, so much like Mo but with all the hard edges smudged.

“Wouldn’t have happened if I was there,” he says, so quietly I can barely hear him.

“Don’t think like that,” I say.

“Why not? It’s the truth.”

“You have no way of knowing that. Besides, it’ll drive you nuts.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Nuts as in curl into fetal position in someone else’s bed and sob like a baby?”

“Exactly. Nuts as in dunk your Pop-Tart in chocolate milk. That’s disgusting, by the way.”

“I knew you were thinking that. That’s why I kept doing it. Do you want to watch SpongeBob?”

“No, but I will.”

We watch two episodes before I turn it off and force Mo to go put on his suit and tie. “Stop whining and do it,” I say, lifting my foot threateningly. “I’d hate to have to kick you out of bed again.”

But there is no element of surprise this time, and he pushes my foot away and pins me before I can blink.

“You didn’t seriously think that was going to work twice, did you?”

“Um . . .” I’m trying to wriggle free, but getting nowhere. “Neither attempt was all that calculated, actually.”

“Say we can take pictures tomorrow and I’ll let you go.”

“I don’t want to do it either, but we have to do it today so I can get Kristen’s dress back to her. All you have to do is put a suit on. I’m the one who has to hassle with hair and makeup, and you don’t hear me complaining.”

He lets me go. “Fine. You shower first.” He flops back onto the pillows and picks up the remote.

Neither of us has a clue about wedding picture venues, so we end up in the woods behind the apartments like I suggested, Mo’s camera propped on a tree stump, me standing on a huge rock trying to look . . . I’m not sure. Romantic?

“Say cheese,” Mo says, pressing the button and taking off sprinting through the ten feet of scrub brush and fallen trees between us.

The camera light blinks . . . and blinks . . . and blinks . . .

“Hurry, hurry, hurry!” I shout for no reason but to stress him out as he’s scrambling up the rock. We still have three more blinks by the time he’s behind me, wrapping his arms around my waist, putting his chin on my shoulder.

The picture takes.

“We have got to be almost finished,” he says, taking a step away.

“We probably have at least ten good ones. That has to be enough. Help me down.”

He jumps off the rock, then turns around to reach up for me. “I swear, you put on that dress and turned into a bridezilla. Mo, do this, Mo, do that. Mo, get me off this rock. Mo, massage my bunions.”

I crouch. “Returning the dress a day late I can explain—moss and dirt stains, probably not. And I don’t even know what bunions are, so just help me down.”

“Fine.” He reaches up, but looks at me like I’m a porcupine—all quills, nowhere to grab.

“Oh, come on,” I say. “Just pretend you’re pulling luggage off a conveyer belt.”

He grabs me by the waist and plants me on the relatively clear footpath. “We should’ve taken pictures inside,” he mutters.

“Where? People don’t take wedding pictures in front of their refrigerators. Besides, it’s pretty out here in the morning.”

He walks over to the camera to examine the pictures. “That last one was actually pretty good. Seriously, when did I get so hot?”

“Uh, sometime next year? Let’s go change. I’ve got to go to work.”

“I thought you weren’t supposed to have to work weekends.”

“I’m not,” I hear myself say. My voice sounds casual, perfectly even. “I’m filling in for someone.”

“I’m surprised they’re even open on Sunday.”

“They’re not. We’re doing inventory or something.” It’s scary how easy the answers come to me. I hike the tulle skirt up and start making my way back up the footpath. “Tell me if it looks like I’m dragging this through dirt.”

“And if it looks like the chicken you’re wearing has been electrocuted—should I tell you that?”

I snort appreciatively. “I know. I’m dying to ask Kristen what she was thinking.”

We make our way back up the footpath to where it connects with the paved running path and eventually up the lawn to Wisper Pines.

“Do you need your phone this afternoon?” I ask once we get to the apartment.

Mo puts the camera on the coffee table. “Maybe. Why?”

“If you don’t need it, I want to call home before I drop by for a couple of boxes. Just some shoes and stuff.”

“I thought your parents were on a cruise.”

I wander into my room, trying to reach the dress hook-and-eye, but it’s midback and I can’t quite get it. “They’re supposed to be,” I call. “But it’s been a few weeks, so . . . I don’t know. I assume they’re gone, but I want to call and make sure.” I don’t tell him I want to call Sam too. He’ll make a big deal about it—or he’ll worry, and he doesn’t need to worry. I just want to ask her some questions.

“But . . .” Mo pauses, the corners of his mouth turned down like they do when he’s thinking. “Just make sure you answer it if it rings. I’m expecting a call.”

I come back out of my room. “Okay. Can you unzip me?”

He sighs dramatically. “Bridezilla.”

“I’d like to see you try to get out of this on your own.”

“We should’ve arranged for a fake maid of honor too,” he says, fumbling with the closure at the top. “Who makes these things? This is insane.”

“So, who are you expecting a call from?”

I feel the zipper slide open and his fingers brush my spine.

“Mo?”

“What?”

“Who are you expecting a call from?”

“Oh. Bryce.”

“What?”

“Don’t freak out. I’m not going to tell him anything.”

“That’s not what I’m worried about. I’m worried because up until a few days ago the left side of your face still looked like a banana peel.”

“He probably won’t even call me back. I’m just saying if he does, answer it. Or wait. Maybe you shouldn’t. Never mind. I don’t know.”

I don’t turn around or walk away. I stand open-backed and stare at my easel. It looks like a skeleton gripping my canvas. I wish I could say the right thing, but I know before it leaves my lips it won’t be. It never is. “I get that you want him to forgive you, but I don’t think he’s going to, because you can’t really apologize. Or not honestly.” I wait for an answer, but he says nothing. “Mo?”

“Sorry, I’m having a hard time focusing. I’m being blinded by the whitest back in Kentucky. Have you ever considered getting some sun? It’s supposed to help with this glow-in-the-dark disease you seem to be suffering from.”

“It’s called being fair, moron. And mocking my skin color isn’t going to make you feel any better about Bryce being mad at you.”

“Exactly. But apologizing to him will.”

“You can’t apologize without explaining. Not really. And explaining is too dangerous. You know that.”

He pauses, and I feel something. Not quite his breath, but his gaze? It tickles my neck right before I feel him step away from me.

I swallow hard. I’m such a hypocrite. If Mo knew what happened with Reed last night, he’d be furious, and if he knew that Reed had guessed the truth, he’d completely freak out. And after the freak-out, he’d go and tell Bryce everything. I wouldn’t even be able to blame him. Why shouldn’t he get to unbreak one of the hearts he smashed too?

“I just want to feel a little less guilty about . . . everything,” Mo says.

I clutch the dress before it slips off my shoulders. “I know.”

Mr. Twister is dead, even for a Sunday afternoon. I pull in, my hands suddenly shaking, and drive around the front parking lot twice before circling around to the back. Flora’s car is in its usual spot, a rusted sedan—Rachel’s, I think—on one side and Reed’s car on the other.

I pull into a spot facing the oaks trees so I can watch the door from the rearview mirror, but I don’t put it in park. I sit there with my foot on the brake, my way of reserving the right to peel out at any moment. I’ve got no ideas. I can’t just walk in the front door and order custard, but if I sit here and wait for long enough, he might come out. Or Flora might come out, and then I’d have to have a reason for sitting here staring at the back door like some crazy ex-employee.

It’s not smart, being here like this. But I am here.

On the seat beside me, Mo’s cell is begging to be used. I should call Reed to tell him I’m here, but I can’t. It’s not even that I’m afraid of getting caught, since I can think of a thousand reasonable explanations for a single call to Reed. I just don’t want to have to make them to Mo. The lies I’m already telling are heavy enough.

But I do need to talk to Sam, and that call will be easier to make up an excuse for. I find her number in Mo’s phone and dial, noticing first that Mo changed his background photo from that picture of Bryce giving him the finger to one of Sarina.

It rings once. “Hello?” Sam says, twangy country music playing in the background.

“Hi. This is Annie. Annie Bernier.”

“Of course. How are you?” The music is suddenly softer, still twangy.

“Fine thanks. I hope I’m not bugging you.”

“I gave you my cell number so you could bug me.”

“Oh.”

“But I’m just cleaning,” she says, and I picture her wearing one of the kerchiefs my mom sometimes ties her hair with for chores. “I don’t mind an interruption. So, what’s up?”

“Um. I wanted to ask you about the two years part.”

“The two years part. You mean between your interview and conditions being removed on Mo’s permanent residency?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s like a learner’s permit.”

“Right, but what if something happens during that two years? Wait, do I have to start speaking hypothetically?”

“Please don’t. It hurt my head last time.”

“Okay. So, what if I want to go to art school in North Carolina, and Mo wants to go to Harvard next year?”

“Well, that would be why getting married in high school isn’t the best idea in the world.”

I pause, not sure what to say. Mo would thank her for the advice as sarcastically as possible, but Mo doesn’t care what Sam thinks of him. “You don’t know—”

“Sorry,” Sam interrupts before I can make some stupid excuse. “I shouldn’t have said that. A regular married couple could choose to live apart, but they don’t have to prove their marriage is legitimate. You guys do, so you two have to choose one place or the other.”

“One of us has to lose.”

“That’s pretty much what married people do—one person sacrifices for the other. Hopefully it isn’t the same person every time, though.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Your dreams shouldn’t always be less important than his.”

“But he’s going to get into Harvard.”

“Annie, you sound a little defensive. I’m on your side.”

I take a deep breath. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

I recline the seat and stare at the roof of Mo’s car. “I still don’t see why we can’t stay married and live in different places.”

“You can. But you’re taking a lot of risks if you do that. If immigration even suspects you’re scamming them, they’ll dig deep, and I’m guessing you don’t want that to happen.”

“No.”

There’s a long pause, long enough to wonder if the call has been dropped. But I can still hear music, still picture Sam in her kerchief polishing a mirror. “I think you need to know how to go about changing your mind,” she says.

“I don’t—”

“No, stop. Just listen. I know you think you don’t want to know, but I want you to know anyway. I did some more research, and you aren’t stuck in this. At any time, this can be over. Mo self-deports, you get the marriage annulled, and that’s it. Over.”

“Self-deports,” I repeat. The words don’t sound right together.

“Meaning he buys himself a ticket and gets on the plane.”

“Oh.” I lock and unlock the door. Then lock it again. Then unlock it. “But I could still get in trouble for marrying him in the first place. If he just got on a plane and left it would kind of be admitting that it wasn’t a real marriage.”

“That’s what I thought at first, but supposedly they don’t care about sticking it to you once Mo’s gone,” Sam says.

Gone. I hate how quickly she got there. From Harvard to gone in a few seconds. “It’s so unfair,” I mutter.

“Unfair? Come on, Annie.”

I stop, startled by her response but even more by myself. Unfair only exists if fair exists, and I’m too old to believe the universe owes me anything. “What?”

“Well, it’s unfortunate that Mo’s in this situation, but that doesn’t mean it’s the US government’s fault or responsibility to make his life all rosy again. And Mo has a great chance at getting a student visa and coming back to the States for college, but not if he stays here illegally. He has to go home.”

“I thought you were on our side,” I stammer.

“I am,” she says. “But there are laws for a reason. If everybody who wanted to live in America was allowed to do it without going through legal channels, it would be mayhem. It wouldn’t be America.”

I don’t have a smart response. I only have this sickly sweet sadness running through me. Sympathy and regret. “My brain gets it. The rest of me doesn’t.”

“That means you’re a good person.”

I close my eyes and see Reed’s face. “Not really.”

“Don’t be so hard on yourself.” There is a moment of heavy thinking between us before she says, “Do you have any other questions?”

I do. I would like to know how I can love two boys and have two boys love me but be so all alone. And I’d love to know why I’m imagining that I’m talking to my sister when I don’t even remember what talking to my sister is like. “No. Wait, yes.”

“Go ahead.”

“What would you do?”

I hear her breath escape, a slow sigh. “I’m not you, Annie.”

I pinch the skin on the back of my arm and wait. “But if you were . . .”

“But if I were . . . I think I’d stop and ask myself if I wanted to spend my whole life trying to fill a space meant for someone else.”

“What?”

“It just seems like you’re trying to be the right thing for Mo. And I don’t really know about your parents or the rest of your life, but I’m guessing you’re trying to be the right thing for a lot of people. You’re eighteen. It’s kind of now or never. You should do what’s right for you.”

Right for me. Mo is right for me. He’s always been what’s right for me. Sam is looking at a snapshot, the present, without understanding all the years of us being there for each other. She doesn’t know how right for me Mo has always been.

But if she isn’t wrong? The possibility makes me sick to my stomach. Just thinking it feels like betrayal.

Except there’s another kind of betrayal happening now. The kind where I pretend something isn’t happening. Like pretending I don’t notice the way Mo has started looking at me when he thinks I’m not paying attention, that I don’t see him thinking about things before he says them instead of just spouting whatever random crap comes to his brain like before, that I don’t sense him treating me just the slightest bit differently than he used to. Ignoring it is a kind of betrayal too.

And so is sitting here waiting for Reed.

“It doesn’t make you a bad person,” Sam says, and I wonder for a second if I said any of what I was thinking out loud. Or maybe she can read my thoughts. “You’re allowed to be yourself. It means being honest. Sorry. That sounds corny.”

“It’s okay.”

“I’m just worried about you. I guess you bring out the preachy big sister in me.”

My breath is gone, sucked out of me.

There is no god. Still. And I don’t believe in an afterlife or souls or reincarnation or that anyone I can’t see is looking out for me. At all. But for this moment only, it seems like it would be okay to pretend.

“It’s okay,” I stammer.

“Really think about it.”

“I will.”

“You know you can call me whenever, right?”

I try to swallow, but my throat feels dangerously dry. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

We hang up and I bring my seat back up. I didn’t notice what time it was when I pulled in, but it seems like I’ve been sitting here for an hour. Maybe more. My stomach growls, a reminder that I haven’t eaten since the Pop-Tart Mo brought me in bed, when I see the back door swing open in the rearview mirror. It’s Reed.

A thrill rushes through me, and I fight not to get out of the car. He doesn’t see me yet. A trash bag in each hand, he’s walking toward the Dumpster, body solid and tight even from this distance. That I can watch him without him knowing, even for a few seconds, seems dangerously sweet. I love his earnestness, how every piece of him is determined, how serious his expression is. It’s just trash, Reed. Except I know his mind is somewhere else. He could be thinking about the restaurant he’s going to open someday, or worrying about having his grandma’s house ready to sell by the end of the summer. He could be thinking about me.

He glances up and sees me. The seriousness in his face breaks for a smile, but only for a second, and in that second the thrill rushes through me again. He doesn’t change his speed, but keeps his movements smooth and deliberate as he tosses the bags into the Dumpster and starts toward the car. He glances around, and I do the same. There’s nobody here to see us. Still, I double-check as he opens the passenger door and slides in.

“Sorry to surprise you,” I say, almost breathless as the smell of the oaks and soil and dampness fills the car. The clouds are thickening, and I can smell the rain coming. “I didn’t want to call from Mo’s phone.”

“Don’t apologize.” He looks around the car, taking in the curled-over Taco Bell bags and half a dozen empty Gatorade bottles.

I shake my head. “None of it’s mine.”

“Sure it isn’t.”

“No, really.”

He grins. “I believe you.” He reaches out and slides his fingers around my wrist. “And I don’t care if his car is a mess,” he says, pulling me into the passenger seat, onto his lap, and my heart is thundering with the absolute rightness of being with him, what I’ve been waiting for, when my brain screams something else.

This is wrong.

“Actually,” he whispers into my ear and kisses me lightly where my jaw meets my neck, “I can’t believe you’re here.” His lips are so soft I’m aching when I have to pull away.

“Wait,” I say, feeling the car spin around me.

He lets go and leans back. “Okay.”

“This feels . . . I don’t know. Sneaky.”

“Okay,” he repeats. “But you came here, Annie. You came to me.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

He closes his eyes.

I fight the urge to reach out and hold his face, to feel his pulse beneath my fingers. “Can we talk?”

He opens his eyes. Blinks. Pushes his glasses up. “Of course. But we have about two minutes before Flora comes out to see if I’ve been attacked by coyotes.”

“You’re closing soon, though. Right?”

“Yeah, but I’m going to Soup and Vicky’s for dinner, and they’ll be waiting for me. Can I see you later? I’ll be home by eleven. You could come to my place and we wouldn’t have to hide in a car just to have a conversation.”

“But I can’t sneak out in the middle of the night.”

Disappointment flickers in his eyes for just a moment, and then he grins. “Well, then at least let me give you something good to think about tonight.”

He slips one hand behind my head, and I fall back into it and close my eyes. His mouth finds mine, and I’m melting between hands and lips when the terrible thought comes out of nowhere, clear and sharp as glass: This is how Mo wants me?

“No,” I whisper, pushing Reed gently back, my palms on his chest and my eyes down. I glance at his face, hating myself for what I see. Shock. Rejection. “I’m sorry,” I say. “Not like this. I need to talk to Mo first.”

I slide back into my seat. He leans forward, putting his head in his hands, and I know this time he’s not going to touch me again. Not today. “I misunderstood,” he says. “I thought you were here . . .” He trails off, and I let the silence fill with our awkwardness, because I can’t correct him. I thought I was here for this too. “I want to believe that there isn’t anything going on between you and Mo. I do believe it, but if that’s true, why can’t you be with me? Why do you need his permission?”

Why? I know why, but I can’t say it. I can barely even think it. Because I don’t know what kind of love Mo feels anymore.

“Unless that’s not what you want, in which case you’re sending one or two hundred mixed signals.” Reed sits up straight and stares at his hands, so I do too. He turns to me, but I’m too distracted by the memory of what his hands feel like to look up.

“I can’t keep doing this,” he says. “If you don’t want to be with me, you’ve gotta stop showing up and messing with me. If you—”

“I want you,” I interrupt, embarrassed by the force, the volume, the neediness. All of it. I’m embarrassed by everything I’ve done. “I really do,” I say softer. “I’m just doing things in the wrong order. There were things I didn’t realize until sitting here waiting for you, things about Mo and about myself and some of the mistakes I’ve made. I need to fix everything, including this with you, but I have to do it in the right order so I don’t have to hate myself when it’s all over. I’m sor—”

“No.” This time he interrupts me. “I don’t want your apology. I want you.” He leans over, tucks my hair behind my ear, and kisses me on the temple. “Come back when you’re ready to come back. But don’t . . .” He trails off.

I nod. I’m afraid to look at him, so I stare at the maze of oaks in front of me, so thick I can only see a few feet into them. When I’m ready to come back.

I wish someone would tell me which path means inflicting the least amount of pain, but even as I wish it, I know it’s the wrong wish. It’s what Sam was talking about, me doing what’s right for other people and not myself. She said now or never.

Reed gets out of the car, and I watch him walk away. After he’s gone, I call home—no, my old home. My parents’ house. No answer.

The mural is not different. I have to tell myself that several times as I turn circles in the center of the room, because it feels different. I’m not sure how that could be. After all, it’s my baby. It grew in my brain, came from my fingers, swirled around me while I slept, but it doesn’t feel the same. It used to be a cocoon to wrap myself in, a spell to disappear under. Now it’s just paint. Pretty, but not magical, not something to hide away in or disappear into.

I turn off the lights and leave the box of shoes and knickknacks I packed on the bed. This time I’m ready.