Page 61 of The Promises We Were Never Meant To Keep

The fantasy shatters like glass, its shards cutting into my tender heart.

“Yeah.” I try to smile, to sound like I agree. I’m terrified of what our future holds. Of the woman I’ll become. Of what I’ll do.

“I wish you could have been with me this summer, Faye. You’d have loved it.” He twists to face me, his hand rubbing my ankle absently. “We’re going to have the best time next summer when we move. It’s going to be great.”

My smile feels like it quivers as I say, “I can’t wait.”

Holt’s eyes shift between mine and my fragile smile. “What’s wrong?”

Emotion flushes my face, because of course he sees through me. “I’m afraid, Holt. I’m just afraid of the future.”

“Hey.” He slides closer. “It’s going to all work out. Everything will happen as it’s meant to happen.”

How can he be so confident?

“Do you promise?”

“Yeah, peach. I promise.”

27

JUST LIKE YOU

AUGUST 2008 – 16 YEARS OLD

“Idon’t know how I feel about this being the first birthday we don’t go fishing.” Dad scrunches his face into a troubled look that has Mom laughing sympathetically.

“We’ll go next weekend, Doug.”

Dad shakes his head. “I don’t know. This isn’t right.”

“She’s growing up.” I’ve never had a cheerleader like Mom, and I’ll never have one like her again. She’s the best of the best.

“We’re growing up, too.” Dad sips from his coffee cup with a man-pout. “Soon we’re going to be too old to fish.”

“You’re being dramatic,” Mom accuses, side-eyeing Dad before she slides those eyes to me so that she can roll them.

“I’ve earned the right to be dramatic. I’ve donated years of my life to the little leach and now she won’t even fish with me on our birthday.”

Biting back the urge to laugh, I move across the kitchen to where Dad sits at the table. He’s making a show of hunting for the next piece of Mom’s puzzle. This one is a mountainous landscape that makes me think of Rubble Ridge. Of home.

Draping my arm across his shoulders, I hug Dad tightly. He mock-wheezes, like he doesn’t love the attention. I press a kiss to his head and promise, “We’ll go fishing next Saturday for the whole Saturday.”

He murmurs something that sounds like agreement.

I press, “Deal?”

“Throw in a box of them glazed croissants and you’ve got yourself a deal.”

I look over my shoulder at the tap on my door to see Mom leaning against the frame. “Hey.” I toss a second swimsuit in my bag, because I can’t decide which is better. Then I throw in a stack of shorts.

“You’ve got your toothbrush?” Mom asks.

“Yep.” I pat the side of my bag where my toiletries are tucked.

Mom moves to sit on my bed, watching as I pile the rest of my clothes into my bag. We’re only going for three nights, but I want to be prepared for anything. I don’t want to ruin the weekend by forgetting something like underwear.

Oh, underwear! I palm my forehead. “I forgot underwear.”