Page 98 of Promised Love

My mother’s words ring in my ear.

“Someday you’ll meet a girl who’ll become the center of your whole world. Everything you do in life will be for her happiness.”

“I’ve found her, Mom. I just need to remember that her happiness comes above everything.”

I close my eyes and my mind takes me to a few years back.

From: autumnthefallqueen

To: lukasspencer

I couldn’t sleep last night wondering how you got this nickname—daredevil. Will you really not tell me? I’ve been asking for so many months now.

~ Autumn

I place the whiskey bottle onto the nightstand. I don’t indulge in anything, except this day. This fucking day. Whatever I do, wherever I hide, the day of my mother’s death finds me and brings me to my knees.

From: lukasspencer

To: autumnthefallqueen

Usually it’s more serious things that make people lose sleep. Your problems surprise me, Autumn.

But because I’m in a real shitty mood tonight, heck, why don’t I blurt all my life’s sorrows? Here it comes.

When I started in the Navy, my buddies thought I was scared of nothing because I was the first to volunteer for every mission, especially the risky ones.

They didn’t know I just wanted to stop being a man who was fucking pissed at life. A man who wanted to prove to the universe and himself why he deserves to live, when his mother didn’t.

From: autumnthefallqueen

To: lukasspencer

Are you okay?

From: lukasspencer

To: autumnthefallqueen

No, but I will be. Don’t worry about me, Autumn.

Sleep tight and I’ll talk to you in a few days. I promise to not be this sappy.

I knew Autumn wouldn’t probe further. She wasn’t someone who fought back. As far as I know, her sneaking out at night for the concert at the age of sixteen was the first and last time she went against her family’s wishes. Her immediate reply proved me right.

From: autumnthefallqueen

To: lukasspencer

Okay. But don’t forget I’m here for you.

I jolt out of sleep, sweaty and clammy. I don’t look at Autumn sleeping next to me until I’m out of bed and dressed. After putting on my leather jacket and shoes, I glance at her peaceful, sleepy frame and stride out of the room.

I ride my bike for a few hours until I reach the town where my grandparents used to live. I go straight to the florist. The old lady who owns the shop smiles. She never speaks much, as if she knows somehow that I’m not here to talk. As always, she wraps three bouquets with green paper.

Two pink carnations, the symbol of gratitude. One orchid because that was my mom’s favorite flower.

I pay her for the flowers and put a fifty in the tip jar.

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