Promise Me

“I don’t know. Like you’d miss me if I walked away.”

“I will.”

Will. Not would. Because we both know my stay is temporary. I roll back onto my back, my head nicely cushioned thanks to him. “I’m sorry about the stupid story.”

“Thanks.”

“Did you go to college?” I ask out of the blue. I mean, I did just graduate, and I’m scheduled to start again in September so it’s a valid conversation topic.

“I enrolled for a semester, but I started getting more bookings around the same time. Between shoots and travel, it was impossible.”

“I imagine that’s a cool education itself.”

He’s still on his side, still staring at me. I hope he doesn’t notice the quick rise and fall of my chest as I continue to stare at the sky. “Yeah.”

We’re quiet once again. Out of my periphery, I notice him yawn. I’m about to tell him good night when he says, “Do you think if you could redo your bad days, it would make you a different person?”

His question makes me feel like I’ve been pushed out of an airplane without a parachute. I take a few freefalling seconds to contemplate what’s he’s asked. What I wouldn’t give to erase the worst day of my life. To have Mason back. But am I changed because of it? I’ve felt shame and regret, and on some days my feelings have shredded my insides. Yet who I am is the same, I think.

I roll my head to make eye contact, but his are closed. “I don’t know,” I whisper.

“Me either.”

“I should get Snowflake back.” At the sound of her name, she perks up.

“All right. See you later.”

“Should we walk you to your door first?”

The corner of his mouth lifts. “Nah. I’ll get up in a minute. I’m good to make it inside.”

“Thank you for the shirt.” I kiss his cheek.

That gets his eyes to open. And once again it’s like he can see right inside me. I hurry to my feet, picking up Snow’s leash. “Happy almost-birthday.”

I don’t wait for a reply. I speed-walk away, feeling his attention on my backside. When I get to my room, I change into my pajamas, crawl into bed, and fall asleep with flutters in my stomach.

…

Saturday afternoon I hurry downstairs to head to Vaughn’s party. Halfway down I realize I forgot his gift, and I turn to get it but find Amber at the top of the stairs. She takes in my white crocheted slip dress and shell-studded flip-flops and fiddles with one buckle of the vintage denim overalls she’s layered over a ribbed white tank top. They swim on her, so she’s rolled the legs to mid-calf. Well-loved white Chucks cover her feet. “I thought it was a barbecue,” she says.

I nod. “It is.”

She fingers the brim of her KU blue and crimson ball cap. “Maybe I’m underdressed for an L.A. barbecue?”

“You’re both overdressed.”

I twist to find Dixie standing at the foot of the stairs, wearing a tiny red bikini top—the kind held on by a tie around the neck and one at the back—and ripped cutoffs so short the front pocket linings hang past the frayed denim, and so baggy they show off matching red bikini bottoms. She’s holding a bottle of tequila and shaking her head like Amber and I are hopeless. “Get real, girls. Between the temperature and the drinks, everybody’ll be in the pool in an hour.”

With that pronouncement, she turns and strides to the door. The bikini is definitely a thong. I follow but glance back at Amber and murmur, “Don’t take fashion cues from a girl dressed like a Baywatch extra.” I glance down at my outfit and sincerely hope every other girl there isn’t in a bikini. “Or one who might be trying too hard. You nailed it. You look cute and casual. And besides,” I add as I pull the door closed behind us, “you’re a ten-second walk back here for your suit if you decide to swim.”

“You look great,” Amber offers. “The dress suits you. It’s summery and fun, but, you know”—she tips her head toward Dixie’s all-but-bare back and gives me a grin of pure mischief—“still leaves a little to the imagination.”

“Imagine this,” Dixie says, and flips us the middle finger over her shoulder. “You’re just jealous of my bikini.”

Amber laughs. “Dixie, I may, on occasion, be jealous of your perky B cups, but I promise I don’t envy the bikini.” In a not-so-subtle aside to me she says, “I couldn’t wear that thing even if I wanted to. I’d never get my boobs strapped into a triangle top.”

Though we have different maternal genes to thank for it, we’re in a similar situation in the boobage department. I give her a smile of commiseration. “Me, either.”