Page 25 of The Promises We Were Never Meant To Keep

He smirks. “You like dancing?”

“I don’t know.”

“You’ll like it with me,” he promises.

I like everything with Holt, but I don’t tell him that as he pulls me from the room into the hall. The lights have been dimmed, and there’s a red strobe-ish light beaming onto the floor below, where the party has begun. Halloween costumes of all kinds move, clustered together. The furniture has all been pushed to the side, making way for the dance floor where girls in flashy costumes spin and grind on the boys who appreciate every stitch of fabric they wear.

I suddenly feel overdressed and hesitant. It doesn’t last as Holt pulls me into the crowd of bodies, spinning me until my back is in his chest and his hands are on my hips. And then he starts to move.

I feel the same feelings I felt when we were in the bathroom. It’s like we’re making out all over again, but this time, with dance.

I love getting older, I decide. Getting older is fun.

10

YOUNG LOVE

FEBRUARY 2007 – 15 YEARS OLD

“You’d think with the dump we got last night, it would be finished,” Mom says, mostly to herself. “But nope.”

“Only a couple more months.” Dad soothes as he pulls another plastic wrapped jacket from the box.

“I hate this snow, Douglas.”

I wince, because if Mom is calling Dad Douglas, she’s feeling especially prickly.

“I know, honey.” Dad makes big eyes at me, where I sit at the register counter on a stool with my biology textbook and notes spread out. I have an exam at the end of the week, and I’m stressing about it.

Still, I’ve been at this for the last couple hours. I’m officially bio-ed out, so I slide off the stool. Dad raises bushy brows at me when I reach into the box for a jacket. I start stripping the plastic, snuffing a giggle at Mom when she curses at the thickening flakes outside the shop window.

Dad leans in close. “Your mom doesn’t do well without the sun, kiddo. Best steer clear of her.”

Mom pulls a strip of tape from a box, the sound loud and a little menacing, what with the angry way she does it.

Leaning closer to Dad, I say under my breath, “Holt is coming to pick me up soon.”

His eyes focus on the jacket, but he points out. “You sure have been spending a lot of time with that boy.”

Not as much as I’d like. “He is my boyfriend.”

It still feels weird saying this to Dad. I think it feels weird to him, too, if the way he shifts is anything to go by.

Clearing his throat, he puffs his chest and asks, “Is it serious?”

Now my cheeks are beginning to redden. “I like him.”

His eyes lift from the plastic wrapped jacket he’s fumbling with. Then the Dad I know comes out as he asks conspiratorially, “But do you love him?”

“Dad.” I toss an unwrapped jacket at him. He catches it with a barked laugh.

Mom huffs something about the weather, and then stomps into the back room. Dad lets his laugh linger just a moment before he asks seriously, “Do you, though? Love him, I mean.” When I say nothing, Dad presses. “Young love can be a beautiful and dangerous thing, Faye.”

“Dangerous?” I’m frowning now, because my rarely serious dad is being really serious right now. There isn’t even a hint of play glittering in his eyes. Nothing in his tone suggests he’s teasing.

“Young love is new and exciting. It feels—” He pauses, shakes his head and mutters, “Hell, kiddo.” Dad lowers the jacket he’s holding. “Young love is addictive.” His eyes come to mine. “Young love is a physical thing. It’s a time when a young girl and a young boy come together and⁠—”

“And what?” I ask when Dad pauses, looking a little nervous.