Page 14 of Promise Me Not

Poor Payton never got to finish her senior year of high school.

Poor Payton is a teenage mom.

Poor Payton is asinglemom.

Poor poor pitiful me, right? That’s how the song goes?

It’s not as hard as you’d think to avoid your feelings, but how could it be when everyone around tells you how okay you’re going to be? It’s why I like it better when school is in session and everyone is back in their dorms at their respective colleges, leaving the house empty. There’s no one to hover, no one to pretend to be fine in front of when all you want to do is freak the fuck out every now and then—because it’s not like it’s all the time. Or it was, but then it wasn’t.

It is again, though, isn’t it?

Groaning, I rub my hands down my face. God, maybe I am this little lost soul everyone sees me as.

Well, noteveryone.

Hedoesn’t. He sees so much more than the broken girl with a battered heart. He—no.

I squeeze my eyes closed, pushing away the thought. I can’t think of him. It’s…wrong.

Sighing, I force myself to sit up, glancing back at the swing that sways slightly under the giant pergola thanks to the morning draft Oceanside has to offer, even in July. It’s an old, wooden two-seater with lights twining up the chain securing it to the thick beams above—a gift for Lolli from her man. It’s deep and meaningful and theirs, a tangible item of love.

Jealousy whirls through me like a tidal wave, knocking me in the chest and thieving the air from my lungs. She gets to share the most meaningful thing in her life.

I don’t.

I should be happy about that. I have one of the greatest gifts love could ever offer all to myself, a perfectly healthy baby boy, and in some twisted ways only a girl raised by a vicious mother could reason, I am. But that’s the scared, selfish part of me. The part that doesn’t want the cruel world to touch the innocence I can protect if it’s me and me alone, but the reality of it all is I don’t want to. My choice was taken from me in the blink of an eye, and I’m supposed to deal.

I have no choice but to deal.

My eyes fall to the screen of the monitor in my hand, and I smile at the little man who’s sound asleep in his crib, the little plush football tucked under his arm like he was born to hold it.

He wasn’t. His daddy was a wrestler, not a football player, but he’ll never get to tell him about that or teach him his favorite moves.

Deaton will never even get to hear his daddy’s voice.

Tears fill my eyes instantly, and I close them, letting the hot streaks warm my cheeks, the wind quickly turning the heat to a chill, but I don’t swipe them away.

I welcome the guilt that flows through me, the pain and anger and longing. The regret.

The love for the boy who isn’t here anymore is still there, heavy in my heart, as broken and bruised as it is.

A soft click sounds, and my eyes open, falling back on the monitor, and my pulse jumps into my throat in anticipation.

The door to my son’s bedroom opens ever so slowly, andheslips right inside.

I stare with trembling lips as Mason steps up to the edge of the old crib, peeking in on Deaton with an expression so tender it can’t be mistaken for anything but adoration, but when he reaches out, his hand so large it nearly hides all those dark curls as he gently glides his palm along them, his eyes close on a slow, painful blink. His head hangs the slightest bit, and a choked sob escapes me, the heaviness in my heart doubling in size, the weight of another hovering just above the gaping hole Deaton’s death left behind. It presses there like a needle to the skin, eager to slip right through. To break the surface and burrow deeper than it already has.

I can’t let it in.

I can’t lethimin.

As if you have a say.

As if it’s not too late…

Eyes locked on the video monitor, I try not to cry as he reaches into the crib, gently taking Deaton’s tiny hand in his large one. He stares down at my sleeping baby boy with the softest yet saddest of smiles written on his lips.

“Don’t tell anyone, but I’m scared, little man,” he whispers. “Your mama’s avoiding me, and I have no idea what to do about it.”

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