Forgotten Promises (The Promises Series Book 2) (16 page)

WE ARE TWO hours from home, and I could not be happier. My ass went numb hours ago and I’m starving. The candy I’ve OD’d on from the last gas station we stopped at must have hyped me up. I’m on a complete sugar rush; I haven’t been able to keep still this whole journey. My legs have bopped around so much, I’m sure they’ll ache like I’ve run a marathon tomorrow.

“Are there any Red Vines left?” Ethan asks rummaging around in the bag between us while keeping his focus on the road. It was overflowing with candy and chips a little way back; now, not so much.

“Um…nope, I ate them all. Sorry.”

“What, like all of them? There were three packs!”

“Yep, see?” I stick my tongue out like the seven year-old I seem to have reverted to and show him the evidence of my binge. My whole mouth is stained an unnatural cherry red color. “I was hungry.”

He regards me with a look of wonderment for a moment.

“Wow, you’re kind of a pig.”

“Oh my gosh! You can't say that to a girl, you’ll give me a complex,” I huff in a disgruntled tone; I can’t believe he just called me a pig!

“Chill, Winston.”

“Huh?” I scrunch my nose not understanding his saying.

“Chill, Winston…it’s a quote.”

I look at him blankly, and he laughs.

“From that Guy Richie movie. You know…the one where the guy turns up to some drug dealer’s loft with a girl that’s completely off her ass on weed. He’s carrying fertilizer, and one of them shouts at him for not looking like ‘your average horti-fucking-culturist’,” he says making air quotes. “The dude replies, ‘Chill, Winston’ in a spaced out voice.”

“Yeah, er, no. No clue what film you’re referring to,” I answer with a skeptical look. “I think you’re just making that up.”

“What? No way! It’s called
Snatch
. No wait, it’s the other one, er,
Lock Stock
or something.”

“Ooh,
Snatch
is the one with Brad Pitt as a boxer, isn’t it?” I must have made a dreamy face because he’s looking at me horrified.

“Are you crushing on Brad Pitt?”

“Yeah,” I answer wide-eyed. “It’s Brad Pitt. Who wouldn’t?”

“Seriously? Homeboy’s like fifty—that’s kinda gross.”

“You did not just say homeboy!” I hold my breath trying to contain the laughter.

“You know, you have an uncanny ability to make me feel like a complete douche. No one ever calls me out on what I say, or the way I say it. I normally make this shit sound good. I could make up a goddamn word and everyone at school would be using it inside a week!”

This time my laughter rips through the car like a sonic boom. I clutch at my side and hold my palm over my bandage, trying to ease the discomfort in my stomach that my outburst causes.

“Gretchen, stop trying to make fetch happen! It’s not going to happen!”

“What?”

“It’s a
Mean Girls'
quote,” I say, swiping at a tear my laughter is causing. I can tell I’ve lost him and he has no clue what I’m talking about. “Sorry, never mind.”

“Yeah, I think someone’s had way too much candy. I’m cutting you off.”

“No way!” I yell trying to grab at the bag he’s just snatched from the seat.

“Maybe you’re like, hyperglycemic or something…”

“You moron, if I was hyperglycemic I’d be completely strung out and tired.”

“Wow. Easy there, tiger, there’s no need for the name calling.”

I slump back down in my seat with a petulant scowl.

“Okay, well in that case, can we stop there?” I point to an IHOP we’re about to pass.

“I don’t know. Can I trust you to behave like a normal human if we do?”

I puff my lips and mutter how rude he is under my breath, and he rolls his eyes and pulls into the parking lot.

It turns out that I do actually have a limit to the amount of pancakes I can consume. I’d been determined to prove Ethan wrong and finish the absurdly high stack in front of me, but I’ve been defeated, and I’m the polar opposite of a gracious loser. If someone placed a pin near me at this very moment, it would only take the slightest prick and I’d burst.

“Told you you’d never finish them,” he grins triumphantly as his cocky ass smirk slides into place, the one that's usually reserved for school or when he’s performing. He moves his empty plate over to the side and slides my half-f one in front of him.

“Yeah, yeah whatever. No one likes a smart ass,” I chime, leaning back in my seat and feeling the undying urge pop the button on my jeans and lay out across the booth.

“I think I’m about to go into a diabetic coma. Seriously, you can’t really want to finish mine, too.”

“I do, and I will. Your problem, Ms. Thomas, is that you have no stamina,” he says dumping more maple syrup on top of the already sugar-coated sticky food.

“I want to argue that,” I say pressing my fist into my chest, trying to contain the burp that’s bubbling its way up my body.
Please lord, do not let me belch in front of him.
Nothing screams ‘she’s a keeper’ like passing wind in public. “But I’m in no position to do so at the moment, so let’s talk about something else, okay?”

“Sure. What do you want to talk about?”

The fizzing in my chest subsides and I breathe a little sigh of relief; the victory is small, but welcomed. I want to broach the subject of our discussion yesterday and ask him to go and see someone, get help, but I have no idea how to do it. He seems in such a good mood at the moment; I’m not sure I want to rock the boat just yet.

“Spit it out, Princess. You obviously want to say something, and it's written all over your face. What’s up?"

I swallow and take a deep breath. It’s better now than never, right?
Just do it, Blair.

“I was thinking about what you said to me, you know, about your dad…and the thing is, well, I…” His face has lost its playful edge; his eyes are narrowed and he drops his fork and sits back crossing his arms over his chest. I’m no body language expert, but it’s pretty clear that he’s pissed I’m mentioning it.

“Okay, I’m just going to say it. I think you should go and see a therapist.” I fix myself, ready for an outburst, for him to shout, get mad, annoyed and tell me no way. What I didn’t expect was for him to look like I’d just sucker punched him. I watch as the color drains from his face and his shoulders concave as he squirms in his seat, visibly shrinking before me.

“You think I need help?”

I’ve never heard Ethan’s voice sound so weak and exposed, like a child who’s just learned that Santa doesn’t exist and wants his momma to reassure him that he’s wrong. My heart breaks a little as I watch the confidence drain from him. His cockiness and swagger swirl around in an invisible vortex until the essence of what makes him Ethan Jamison—singer, musician, Mr. Popularity—is gone. Like it’s been sucked through some imperceptible plughole, leaving a shadow of the guy I know and love sitting before me. Broken.

“I think if you talked to someone it might make you feel better. I don’t know, I guess that when Em died I shut down for a little while, and wouldn’t talk to my mom about it. She made me an appointment with a grief counselor. Yeah, I only went like three times, but just voicing what was hurting inside helped me in ways I didn’t even realize I needed to be helped. I think you should at least explore the possibility.”

“It’s not that easy…I don’t think I can. It’s not like I have your regular run-of-the-mill daddy issues, Blair. I don’t want to talk about him with a stranger or anyone, for that matter. I definitely don’t want to tell them about my fucked up home life. I’m fine. I don’t need some overpaid asshole in a leather recliner and plaid button down telling me it’s okay to cry. Trying to drag up why it is that he beats me and why the fuck I let him.”

“Ethan, I…”

“I need some air,” he says balling his napkin and throwing it down on the table along with a few bills to cover the check.

He’s out of the exit before I can even process what he’s said. I sit in the booth and watch through the window as he steps out into the dirt parking lot and begins kicking at the ground with the toe of his boot. Red dust is swirling around him as he shoves his hands down into the pockets of his jeans, holding his arms rigid and tight by his side. I sigh as he stands and studies the ground like it’s the most interesting thing on the planet. I should give him a couple of minutes to himself, but I’ve never been good at realizing when to take a step back. Knowing what he’s told me he thinks about only fuels my need to get to him quicker. I can deal with him wishing Frank dead, but the thought of him wanting his own life cut short scares the shit out of me.

I’m already out of the booth. I step out into the muggy air and make my way over to him. He hasn’t moved from his stance. I don’t know what to say, so I step up behind him and practically bear hug him. Pushing my face into the back of his shirt. I can feel his breath hitch, but he doesn’t say anything. We stand in silence with nothing but the passing traffic humming in the background. Just as I’m about to drop my arms he turns and scoops me off the ground, letting my legs dangle loosely. His arms are so tight around me it feels like my chest has molded into his. I don’t think anyone can distinguish where he ends and I begin.

“I’m sorry.”

I crane my head back as much as his embrace will allow and look at the sadness he’s wearing.

“Why are you apologizing? It’s me that needs to say sorry, I should never have brought it up.”

“I’m sorry for making you worry about me. I should never have said anything to you.”

I wriggle out of his hold, dropping the few inches down to the ground with a thud.

“Yes you should have. I care about you. If you’re hurting, or confused or just pissed at life, I want to know about it, Ethan. I don’t care how big or small you think it is I want to know every little thing. Don’t shut me out. I love you, every part of you, not just the happy-go-lucky, cocky parts but the broken, shattered pieces and everything in between.”

My eyes are stinging as I fight back my tears. I can’t let them fall, though. I need to be strong for him, show him that I can take the weight of some of his burdens. The tension leaves my shoulders as he leans forward and cups my face, his callused fingers slide from my cheeks and into my hair. Slowly he draws my head to his lips and lands the softest kiss I’ve ever felt to my forehead.

“Let's go home Princess,” he whispers. I take a deep breath, drawing in the smell of his shirt and realize that I am home because I’m with him.

“Are you vibrating?”

“Um, what?” I ask looking perplexed at his question.

“I can hear vibrating—is your cell ringing?”

“Oh!” I rummage in my purse lying open at my feet and fish out my phone, careful not to bend too quickly. It’s lit up with Brie’s name blinking at me.

“It’s Brie. I’m gonna take this,” I say putting the phone on speaker.

“Oh my god, you answered!” she squeals. “I’ve tried calling you a bunch today and it kept going to voicemail.”

“Hey, Brie. What’s up?”

“I just wanted to know what time you and that sexy ass boy of yours will be getting back. Jackson and I thought we could come and visit with you if it’s early enough.”

There’s hope in her voice and I realize now that I’ve actually missed her quite a bit. Ethan chuckles faintly at her referring to him as my sexy ass boy, and I smile over at him.

“I don’t know…what time are we going to get back, Boy?” I ask and his voice lowers to a husky drawl.

“Ain’t no boy here, Princess, I’m all man.”

“Oh my god, Blair! Am I on speaker phone?” Brie shrieks as I laugh at the suggestive eyebrow dance he’s doing.

“Yeah,” I answer as Ethan shouts, “Hi, Brie!”

“Dude, that is not cool! You tell a girl before you put her on speakerphone! Jeez, I could have said anything!”

“When has that ever stopped you before?” I smile.

“Ugh, I’m wounded Blair!” She sighs theatrically. I’m sure if I were standing with her right now, she’d have her wrist to her brow; she has a real flair for the dramatic.

“So, seriously though, can we see you guys tonight or not? If you need time to get sorted, or freakeyyyy,” she sings. “We can come by some other time.”