Marie Sexton - Promises

He was tense at first, but as I worked, he started to relax. His head fell forward, and he made a low rumbling sound almost like purring as I worked at the knot, carefully avoiding the huge bruise on the other side from our last bike ride. There was an old scar midway down his back, from his left side to just past his backbone. I had seen it before but never asked him about it. I brushed one finger over it and felt him shudder a little.

“What happened?”

“I was climbing through a barbed wire fence on my grandpa’s ranch.” He stopped short, and I thought he was done, but a minute later he started talking again. “I was just a kid. It was Easter, and my mom had me dressed up in my nice clothes. I wasn’t supposed to go into the pasture, but I wanted to see the horses. I figured she wouldn’t ever know, but I kind of tripped going through the fence and got caught on the wire. Ripped a huge hole in my new shirt and got blood all over my pants. I thought for sure my dad was going to tan my ass for that one.”

“He didn’t?”

“No. My mom sure was mad, but for some reason, my dad just laughed.”

“Really?” That was surprising.

“Yeah.” He was quiet for a second and then said quietly, “It was a long time ago.” And I knew by the way he said it that he didn’t want to talk about his dad anymore.

“Brian and I once managed to knock over the entire rack of bulk nails at the shop. Hundreds of loose nails, all different sizes, all over the floor. Maybe thousands, I don’t know. A fucking lot of nails, I know that much.”

“Did you get in trouble?”

“Dad was pissed as hell, but my parents were always big on the idea of punishment fitting the crime.”

“So what happened?”

“We spent the next five hours picking them all up and sorting them back into the correct boxes. Customers would come in and see us and start to help, and my dad would say, ‘they made that bed of nails themselves, they can clean it up themselves too!’”

Matt laughed a little, and I kept rubbing. His skin was darker than mine and, except for the scar, completely flawless.

“Your grandpa has a ranch?”

“Had, past tense. It belonged to my mom’s parents, but they’re gone now, and the ranch went to my uncle, and he sold it. I had so much fun there as a kid with my cousins. But we didn’t go there often. My mom’s family never liked my dad much.” It seemed we kept coming back to his dad tonight without really meaning to. “For two years, we lived less than thirty miles away from them, and I got to see them almost every weekend. But then we moved again. We never stayed anywhere very long. The longest we stayed in one place was three years, ninth grade through my junior year. And then we moved again two weeks into my senior year. I hated it.”

“Is that why you didn’t join the military?”

There was a brief hesitation and then, “Part of it.” But I knew from his voice that topic wasn’t going any further either. “It must have been nice living in the same place your whole life.”

“In some ways. But coming back here after college felt a little bit like failure. Like everybody else was moving away, and I was just coming back to my parents. It seemed like only the losers were still stuck here. Like Dan and Cherie.” I stopped short, realizing maybe I shouldn’t have said that, but he didn’t seem to notice, so I went on. “I guess I got used to it. I love it. I love Colorado. I don’t think I could ever live away from the mountains. Whenever I get far enough east that I can’t see them, it just feels wrong. I can’t explain it. It’s like losing sight of home base. Like I have a compass inside, but it points west instead of north.” I stopped short and wished I hadn’t said all that. “There. Is that better?”

He leaned back with a sigh, his head on my thigh, and looked up at me. “Yes. That did help. You were right.”

“Told you.”

“Thanks.”

But he didn’t move. His eyes had closed, and he seemed to be half asleep.

His head was practically in my lap. It didn’t seem to faze him, but it felt incredibly intimate to me. Suddenly, my heart was racing and my mouth was dry. I couldn’t take my eyes off of him. Nothing else existed at that moment. I had never seen anything as ruggedly beautiful as him. His jaw was strong and square, and at least a day’s worth of dark stubble covered his cheeks. His lips were soft and full. He never wore sunglasses, and there were small squint lines around his eyes, slightly pale against his tan face. His lashes weren’t long, but they were thick and jet black.

I could have looked at him all night. I was aware of some strange feeling which seemed to suffuse my entire being. It was overwhelming—almost painful yet not unpleasant. I felt that I must certainly be glowing with it. This current that was flowing through me felt like a fever through my skin. Surely he could feel it where his head was touching my thigh. How could he be so close to me, touching me, and not sense what I was feeling? I had always been attracted to him. I had always enjoyed spending time with him. But I realized at that moment that at some point over the past few weeks, it had become something more.

I loved him.

It was a painful realization—so painful that it took my breath away—discovering that I was totally in love with this man who would never love me back.

I wanted nothing more than to kiss him and was both annoyed and relieved that I could not possibly do it from where I sat. I knew I would not have been able to stop myself otherwise. My hand moved of its own volition and came to rest along his cheek, my fingertips just touching his jaw. His eyes drifted open, and he looked up at me, his green-in-gray eyes looking into mine, and I knew he could see it in my eyes. There was no way he could look at me at that moment and not know what I was feeling.

He slowly put his hand up, grabbed my fingers, and pulled them away from his cheek. He didn’t let go of my hand. His voice was very quiet but very gentle when he asked, “Are you sure you’re not making a pass at me?”

I couldn’t even answer at first. It certainly had not been my intention at the beginning, but at that moment, I didn’t think I could bear to not have him.

“Would it work?” My voice was barely more than a whisper.

He hesitated for a second, but whether it was because he was unsure of the answer or because he knew I wasn’t going to like his answer, I didn’t know. But then, just slightly, he shook his head. “No.”

It was the answer I expected, and yet I couldn’t believe how much it hurt. I couldn’t look at him anymore. I had to close my eyes, had to remind myself to take a single, shaking breath. I could barely speak around the sudden lump in my throat. “I guess it doesn’t matter then, does it?”

I started to pull away, but his hand, still holding my fingers, suddenly gripped tight. “Jared?” When I looked back down at him, he said, “Do you want me to leave?”

The question surprised me, and I answered honestly. “No. Not at all.” I pulled my hand away from his and stood up, not facing him, one hand over my eyes. “Matt, I….” I wasn’t sure what I was going to say, but what came out was, “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” He said it with such gentle honesty, and it made me feel a little better. It was a relief to know that at least my desire for him would not cost me his friendship. But I still couldn’t look at him. Out of the corner of my eyes, I saw him get up and put his shirt back on. He came over and put his hand on my shoulder, waiting until I finally looked up at his face. He gave me an almost-smile and said, “Come on. Let’s go make those nachos.”

WE SPENT the last Sunday of August on my couch watching football. We were as excited as kids on Christmas to have the season under way. For the morning game we cheered for the same team, but for the afternoon game we were cheering against each other. I had never experienced such a perfect feeling of camaraderie. We laughed at each other and insulted each other and occasionally threw things at one another and drank too much beer. And near the end, he sighed happily, leaned back next to me on the couch, and said, “I’m definitely coming here every Sunday.”

“Don’t forget there’s football on Mondays too.”

I RIDE my bike to and from work year ’round, resorting to my car only when there’s snow on the ground. I don’t know for sure, but I’ve always suspected that it’s the only reason I’ve managed to stay thin. Most of the time I enjoy it but not today. We were having one of our late afternoon thunderstorms, very common for Colorado in early September. The rain was chilly, and visibility was limited. The worst part was that I had originally planned to stop at the store on the way home since there was nothing edible in my house. But with the rain, I found all I really wanted to do was get home and get dry.

Maybe Matt would come by tonight, and we could order a pizza.

I had my head down and was pedaling down the sidewalk as fast as I could when a car hit me. It was coming out of a driveway, moving slow, which is probably what saved me. The driver was talking on his cell phone, not paying attention—just like Lizzy always predicted. I hoped she would be happy.

He hit me on my left side. I felt the front of the hood hit my head, and then I flew out into the street. Later, I would realize how lucky I was that no cars were coming. I slid a few feet across the asphalt on my right side before coming to a stop in the middle of the street.

“Oh shit, I’m so sorry! I wasn’t looking! Are you hurt?” The driver was already out of his car and leaning over me. I recognized him from around town. His name was Jason. Other than that I didn’t know anything about him.