Page 20 of The Promises We Were Never Meant To Keep

“Liar,” he accuses, but there’s a softness to his tone that tells me he’s not holding it against me. “Don’t worry about her. She’ll come around.”

I glare up at him. “I hate the way you can read me like that.”

He smirks. “Like an open book?”

I grumble, “It’s not fair.”

“Well, I like it.”

“I don’t.”

He releases my hand to throw his arm around my shoulder. “Why is that?”

“Because I can’t read you.”

“You’re just not watching me closely enough, baby.”

I frown. “You’re not watching me any closer than I’m watching you.”

“That’s where you’re wrong.” The way he says that has my head tipping back, my eyes connecting with his. “I’m always watching you. I’m hypnotized by you, Faye. Totally caught up in you.”

He always says things like this to me, and yet I still blush every time he does it. Now is no different. My skin is on fire, and as we step into the chilly drizzle of a rainy September afternoon, I feel like every pebble that lands on my skin is at risk of boiling.

“You make me feel so unsteady sometimes,” I confess breathlessly.

“As long as you know, no matter how unsteady you get, I’ll catch you.” I’m about to ask if he promises, when he finishes, “I promise, Faye. I’ll always catch you.”

We’re close enough to Tate’s car for him to hear the end of Holt’s latest vow to me, and he groans. “You two are so corny.”

The girl that waits with him, her hood drawn up over long, poker straight caramel hair says, “Your brother is way sweeter than you, Tate.”

“I can be sweet,” Tate grunts as he opens the back driver’s side door for me, peering over the roof of the car at her. “See?”

“What about my door?” Caramel hair whines.

“You’re on the wrong side of the car, Charity. Get in.” Tate is already sliding into the driver’s seat, popping the trunk for Holt. He grabs his bag, tossing it over his shoulder before coming to my door and pulling it open again.

He bends and kisses me quickly before he says, “Thanks for getting my girl home, Tate.”

“Yeah,” Tate grunts, and I catch his eyes in the rearview mirror. Softer, and I think to me, he adds, “Anytime.”

As Holt let’s my door fall closed, and as Tate begins to drive away, I watch as Holt walks across the field between the high school and the arena where he’ll stay for Hockey practice. He stays at least twice a week, every week—and that’s not counting weekend games.

8

ANOTHER ONE BITES THE DUST

OCTOBER 2006 – 15 YEARS OLD

My back connects with the side of Tate’s car as Holt crowds me. His hand slides into the open front of my jacket to grip my waist over the thin material of my shirt. The heat from his hand is searing. I think it might even fry a couple of my brain cells, because when his mouth connects with mine, I can’t think of anything but this kiss.

Usually, I’m shy about public affection, and right now the parking lot is packed.

Still, I can’t seem to help myself. He’s so warm, and he smells like earth and Holt. And he’s kissing me, and I miss him. I miss him so much.

When his tongue slips in to touch mine, I meet his stroke with one of my own. He groans into my mouth, pulling back. Regret swims in his eyes as he drags a hand through thick, slightly too long, hair. “Damn, Faye.”

“I miss you,” I confess. “You’re always practicing. Or working with your dad and Tate.”