Promise Me We'll Be Okay

Chapter 1

Chapter 1

Three knocks on the door were all it took to demolish my carefully reconstructed world. Three raps, seemingly as innocent as rapid beats to a snare drum, but that turned out to be more like explosions.

It was Friday night and I lay sprawled on my couch after six long weeks of teaching the Rock Band Summer Program. I reveled in the blissful silence after forty-two days of constant noise. Enjoying a glass of red wine, I read a well-loved paperback about punk music one of my kids at summer school had given me. He’d promised it would change my aversion to the genre. I’d found it in my guitar case after classes were over and the kids had left. Tucked between the pages was a hand-written, nearly illegible note.

Thank you for everything, Mr. Kinney. I’ve had the best summer of my life. Take the book and don’t worry about me. I’ve read it so many times I know it all by heart. Michael.

The visitor knocked again, harder this time. I groaned, put the book down, and contemplated pretending I wasn’t home. Who visited at—I glanced at my watch—nine thirty on a Friday night anyway? I’d carefully trained everyone I knew to call or text before coming over.

Sighing, I ran my fingers through my hair and tucked the unruly strands behind my ears. If the lights hadn’t been on, I would have hid between the couch and the coffee table with my hands over my ears and ignored whoever was banging on my door. Instead, I got up, marched through my house, and yanked the door open more forcefully than strictly necessary.

And just like that, my world came to a halt.

Leaning a broad shoulder against the post on my porch, with one hand in his pants’ pocket and the other hanging carefree at his side, was Vee.

Fucking Vincent Wallace III.

I hadn’t seen him in almost two years.

Six hundred and ninety-five days, to be exact. But who was counting?

A couple days’ worth of sooty stubble covered his handsome face, surrounding his bubblegum pink lips. Making them more kissable than ever. His piano black hair was mussed-up as if he’d rubbed his palm back and forth on top of his head. That was new; he always used to be meticulously groomed. The epitome of perfection. No hair ever dared to stray from his Ivy League haircut. Not even when he’d bent me over the couch and f****d me until I’d screamed the walls down.

I clasped my wrist so I wouldn’t punch him in the face. Or worse: grab the lapels of his fancy suit coat and crush my lips against his. “What are you doing here?” I asked when I remembered how to speak.

“Hey, Jude,” he singsonged hesitantly as if he was unsure about how I would react to the old, familiar greeting borrowed from The Beatles.

“You don’t get to say that to me anymore.” My voice was anything but steady but I raised my chin and stared him right in the eyes. Those damn china blue eyes of his.

He cleared his throat. “You grew out your hair. It’s all…wavy.” He reached out as if he wanted to touch it, but changed his mind and dropped his hand back down. His gaze swept over my body, and he drank me in as if he’d spent four hours straight singing without a single break or a drop of water.

I wound my arms around my stomach and tried my hardest not to fidget under his intense stare. “I asked you a question.”

“What was that?” His gaze burned its way through flesh and bone, taking up residence in my stomach.

“What are you doing here?” All the moisture had evaporated from my mouth and my tongue had been replaced by a big slab of sandpaper.

“I came to see you.” A smile played on his lips. He acted as if he didn’t have a single care in the world, but the twitch in the corner of his eye betrayed him. It had always been his tell.

“Why?”

“I missed you.”

Three simple words that turned my world on end—like his knocks on my door—and I forgot how to breathe.

I didn’t want to believe him. I wanted to yell and scream and call him a liar, but the hand rubbing his thigh and picking at the expensive fabric of his pants was a persuasive argument in his favor.

“How did you find me?” I dug my claws into my anger, desperately trying to hold on and not let it slip away.

“I ran into your brother.”

My eyes grew so wide I feared they would fall out of their sockets. “Harrison told you where I live?”

He chuckled. “No, he read me the riot act and told me to f**k off.”

That I could believe. Harrison had been my protector ever since I was born when he was five. My mom liked telling stories about him sleeping on the floor next to my crib because he was afraid someone would steal the little brother he’d wanted so fiercely. There was no way he would have told Vee where to find me. After all, Harrison had been the one who’d picked up the pieces of my broken heart and glued them back together with his endless patience and love.

“But your sister-in-law caught up with me later and told me.”

I let out a loud sigh. “Of course she did.”

“Are you going to let me in?” He straightened and took a step closer to me. He had faint black circles under his eyes and his skin was almost translucent.

“No.” I had to force myself to decline.

“Why not, Juju?”

My heart stumbled as he used the silly old nickname. “Don’t…” The word came out as a pathetic squeak and I had to clear my throat and try again. “Don’t call me that.” I held up my hand to stop him and keep him at a safe distance. “And don’t come any closer.”

“I need to talk to you.” After a moment’s hesitation, he blurted out, “I made a mistake.”

I blinked. Fought to draw breath. “What?”

Another step closer. My trembling hand didn’t do a great job of keeping him away. “I made a mistake,” he repeated and his eyes looked like they would overflow any second.

Trapped in a surreal reality, I floated out of my body and looked at us both from the side. His tall, tense as a fiddle-string frame. My trembling chin. His twitching eye. My blank face trying to process his words.

Everything slowed down. My heart beat in slow motion and my blood trudged through my veins. He made a mistake?

I zapped back into my body. “I can’t do this now,” I whispered. “You have to go.”

“Please.” A tear spilled down his cheek.

I’d never heard him plead. I’d never experienced his uncertainty. I’d never seen him cry. I didn’t know what to do with all this new information.

“Not now.” I wished I could tell him not ever, but I wasn’t strong enough.

With a swipe to his cheek, he wiped away the evidence of his sadness. “Okay.” He deflated as if someone let all the air out of his body. “Call me when you’re ready.”

My heart raced, and I feared the glue holding it together would disintegrate and leave me with pieces rattling around inside my ribcage. My mind screamed at him, but I couldn’t force out the words.

I will never be ready. You left me.

Ba-bump. Ba-bump. Ba-bump. Blood roared in my ears.

“I still have the same number,” he said when I didn’t answer.

I must have made a gesture or sound of agreement because he nodded and started to walk away. He took a couple steps but turned back. After hesitating for a nanosecond, he got into my space, reached out, and rested his palm against my cheek. His fingers were ice cold, despite the lingering heat of the early August evening. After a moment, he snagged an errant strand of hair and tugged it lightly.

“Call me, Juju. Please, please, please.” He backed off, turned on his heel, and ran off.