Page 10 of The Promises We Were Never Meant To Keep

A wash of something cool moves through me. More serious, I ask, “Where do you want to go?”

“Vancouver.” There is no hesitation in his reply. “I want to play for the Vancouver Vikings.”

I’m surprised. “The Hockey Team?”

He nods with confidence. “Yep.”

I feel my brows inch up my face as a tiny fracture nicks my heart. Disappointment, I do my best to hide, leaks inside. “Well, that’s a big dream.”

“I’m going to do it, Faye.”

Suddenly, I believe that he will. My smile isn’t exactly forced. “I believe you.”

He relaxes a little, like he needed that. “You’ll come with me, right?”

“Me?” I’m surprised. I can’t help it, I laugh. “We’re fourteen.”

“I’m fifteen.” He’s offended I would state anything less. “And you’re almost fifteen. Your birthday is this weekend.”

“We’re kids.”

He sniffs. “We’re not kids. We’re young.”

I laugh again. “Holt.”

He presses, “You’ll come with me, right, Faye?”

I’d never given much thought to how my life would go. I don’t have a passion for anything quite like Holt seems to love hockey. There is no burning ember fueling me to move in any which direction. I know I want a family of my own one day. A marriage like Mom and Dad have. Maybe a hobby-career.

I’ve always imagined that my life would be a quiet life. Sure, it would be meaningful, but in a quiet way. I don’t dream of riches or things, but rather love and laughter. Of all the small moments that craft a collage of dreams someone, someday will call my life.

This life Holt dreams of isn’t quiet at all. It’s loud. It’s a life that shouts, always. A life that burns bright and constant. A life of abundance.

He’s a star on fire in a black, black sky. You can’t miss him. Where I’m more the pebble of sand on the beach. I blend into life’s dips and move gently with the tides.

Still, I hear myself agree, “If you want me to come with you, I’ll come.”

Holt sighs, like he needed those words more than he needs the air in his lungs. “Promise?”

As is becoming our way, I give him a promise with the confidence only youth can offer. “I promise, Holt.”

4

WHEN I GROW UP

AUGUST 26, 2006 – 15 YEARS OLD

My bedroom door opens, pulling me from sleep as Mom pokes her head into my room. “Happy birthday, baby girl!” she whisper-shouts, and from behind her, I hear Dad, “Is it awake?”

There’s a scuffle at the door before it’s swung wide and Dad steps inside, boasting the geekiest of outdoorsmen gear. His shorts are pulled up to there, belted in place over the shirt he’s tucked into his shorts, and his socks stretch for his knees. He’s wearing the tackle hat I made for him when I was eight, adorned with fishing hooks sans hook, making the top of his head look like something the Lucky Charms box vomited.

“Up and at ‘em, kiddo.”

Dropping my head back into my pillow, I bury my face as I groan loudly. “Dad, you can’t wear that.”

“I can and do. Every year.” It gets more and more embarrassing every year. “Chop, chop. I hear Cherry’s has fresh cinnamon buns, long as a man gets there before nine.”

“It’s my birthday.” I grump, but I’m already throwing back the covers, resigned to a day of fishing. It is, after all, tradition. “Shouldn’t I be allowed to sleep in on my birthday?”