Page 48 of Reckless Vow

It anchors me somehow, in this strange bond we are forging and fighting at the same time.

“There were times I imagined seeing you again, but I never thought it would be under these circumstances. Your grandmother had a sick way of showing love.”

There were times I imagined seeing you again.So many times. And here we are acting like we never wished for it.

“She messed with our lives, did I tell you that?”

He shakes his head, and I recount what we learned from Rupert about Roberta’s meddling.

“Wow, I guess buying you a Christmas present was too ordinary for the old lady.”

“Right?” I chuckle. “But she got me thinking about my life. Like if I didn’t get into the writing program on my own merit—”

“Stop it right now. Doubting your achievements is counterproductive.”

“Oh, but I’m the queen of self-doubt.”

“That’s not the crown you should wear.”

“You never doubt yourself?”

“Not really.”

“That must be nice.”

“I’m not saying I have no irrational blocks driving my life. I guess I’ve just accepted them, and I’ve learned to dance with my limitations.”

Unlike me. I dance to outrun mine.

“Don’t overthink it. Roberta might have influenced your admission, but she didn’t write your assignments. If you were a mediocre writer, you wouldn’t have finished with honors.”

That startles me. “How do you know that I finished with honors?”

Something passes through his face, but it’s gone before I can recognize it. He shrugs. “I just assumed. Of course you were one of the best in your class.”

A part of me wants to push him, to understand what felt like a slip on his part, but I’m too weak and tired to fight him. Besides, I’m enjoying this fluid coexistence that reminds me of the times we were truly close.

“You’re full of compliments tonight. I should get sick more often.”

“God, no.”

“Can you give me another sip? I think I can keep it in.”

He moves up the bed and holds the straw to my lips. After he places the glass back, he brushes my hair from my forehead. His fingers linger, and neither of us moves.

I wish I could tell him more about me, ask him more about him.

Tell him about that night.

Ask him about that night.

Fill in the blanks and find some sort of liberation from the past wounds.

His feather-like touch melts my insides, making my pulse spike. How is it that even in my depleted state, he can still ignite a spark?

But the fear that the truth would break us apart prevails, pushing me toward my typical MO—avoid at all costs.

“Would you stay with me?”

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