The Vow by Jessica Martinez Page A

don’t either. He noticed I wasn’t smiling. I wonder if he’s sensed how close to the edge I am, if he’s seen that this entire shift has been a string of microdistractions, every customer and conversation good for just a few seconds of relief. If he’s really been watching he has to think I’m crazy, because I’ve remembered at least a dozen times and felt the panic exploding inside of me all over again.
    He’s looking at me now. From this close I can see his Adam’s apple and the stubble on his jawline. His eyes too.
    “Actually, it’s this thing with a friend,” I hear myself say.
    Apparently his eyes are making me stupid. Reed isn’t my boyfriend, and if I cry on his shoulder right now, he never will be.
    “You want to talk about it?” he asks, looking vaguely nervous.
    “No, I’m good.”
    “Don’t take this the wrong way, but you don’t seem good.”
    “What do I seem?”
    His pause is uncomfortably long again. I push away from the counter, ready to go find some menial task to do, but then he says, “I don’t know. Scared.”
    I squint. He’s hard to read, not like Mo whose emotions float around him like fumes. “My best friend’s moving,” I say.
    “Oh. I’m sorry.”
    “His dad lost his job, and now they have to go back to Jordan.”
    “Back to Jordan?”
    “Yeah. He’s from there.”
    Reed nods and holds my gaze, so I keep talking.
    “He moved here when he was ten. It’s weird. He’s so American that I forget he used to be something else, or that he still is something else, I guess. I don’t know. Technically he’s not American at all, which is the problem. Sorry, I’m not making a lot of sense.”
    Reed folds his arms, and I have to notice how solid they are, muscle and power and confidence crossed over his chest. “No, I got it. This guy’s your boyfriend?”
    “No. He’s . . .” I swallow. I gave up on trying to define whatever Mo and I are ages ago, but now that he’s leaving, I’ve got this desperate need for someone to understand why it’s so terrible. Mo’s more than just some boyfriend. “It’s hard to explain. He’s my best friend. And he’s not my boyfriend, but . . .” I stop myself before I say but I love him.
    “I got it.”
    He doesn’t get it. I’m an idiot. Nobody gets it. “My parents, friends, boyfriends I’ve had—they all think we’ve got some secret thing going on.”
    “Are they right?”
    “No. But . . .” After the last week of dying for Reed to just look me in the eye, I’m suddenly wishing his gaze wasn’t so intense. The brown is warmer today, the amber flecks brighter. Like sparks. “Mo helped me get through a hard time. He’s like my brother. My really sarcastic, pissed-off brother.”
    Reed says nothing, but his eyes become so suddenly sympathetic I have to look away. Sympathy might kill me today.
    “So why is Vicky inviting me to her baby shower when we’ve never even met?” I ask.
    “She’s not. I am. Apparently you aren’t supposed to throw a baby shower for yourself, so Vicky put me in charge of the party.”
    Not what I was expecting. I frown at the yellow envelope still in my hand, then tap the ducky sticker. “Nice touch.”
    “Vicky took me off invitation duty when I suggested doing it by email, but the rest of the party is my baby.”
    “Yeah? What’re you planning?”
    “She nixed the keg and the strippers, so I don’t know. Maybe we’ll have a bonfire and torch some furniture.”
    I give an uneasy laugh. I don’t know him well enough to really tell, but he doesn’t sound like he’s kidding. Mo’s sarcasm is louder than a foghorn. This is dangerously dry.
    “Annie, I’m joking.”
    “I knew that.”
    He raises an eyebrow.
    “Okay, so I didn’t,” I admit. “You’re hard to read.”
    “Not once you get to know me. And it was worth it for the look on your face.”
    “I don’t think there was a look on my face,” I say.
    “There’s always a look on your face.”
    I’m not sure what