Page 54 of Pretty Broken Promises

“Yeah, well he can get fucked.” Ford’s body is rigid next to mine, and I can feel the conflict pulling him in two different directions.

I turn to face him and put my hands on his forearms. “He is your best friend. I won’t get in the way of that.”

He grabs my waist and pulls me closer. “I want you to listen closely, nothing and no one is more important to me than you. My friendship with Shane is not your responsibility.”

Ford spins me back toward the door and guides me forward. “We should go if we’re going to do this.”

Mercifully, the restaurant Camille chose isn’t out in Ocean Bluff. It isn’t like there aren’t plenty of other places in Playa that don’t trigger panic attacks. Ocean Bluff is more insidious for me though. While I was living there I was numb to it, but now that I’ve been away the thought of stepping foot in my old neighborhood floods my body with adrenaline.

Ford holds my hand on his thigh, he doesn’t say anything, but the way he squeezes my hand every few minutes betrays his nerves. Otherwise, we're silent on the long trip down the hill from Sin and Raven's house.

It's almost poetic when he pulls his old, well-used truck into the parking lot of a fancy restaurant. He slides it in between two foreign cars, and it stands out as much as I feel like we do. I have a hard time remembering that this used to be my world. I'm not sure I fit in then either though.

The maître d’ seats us the moment we come in. Camille is just as lovely as I remember her, she stands and hugs her son, though Ford refuses to drop my hand. We sit and look at the menus and the same uncomfortable silence that existed between us in the truck falls between the three of us at the table. I know this isn't a problem between Ford and I which means this is an issue with his mom.

I squeeze his hand and hope I silently communicate my apology for pushing him to accept her dinner invitation when he so clearly doesn't want to be here.

The waiter comes back and Ford orders for both of us. That isn't something he habitually does, and I realize that the food he ordered can be prepared and brought out quickly. He does not plan to linger through this dinner long. Camille, having acclimated to this world, orders herself a Niçoise salad with the dressing on the side.

After the food comes, and our conversation stays mainly on surface issues, Ford is able to relax. There's no discussion of old memories, because they don't share any good ones. Camille and I don't talk about my dad because I don't talk to him. We all know that she is not going to become a big part of our lives, and I do feel silly for putting so much importance on her opinion of me.

I breathe a sigh of relief when the waiter comes around with the black envelope containing the check. We made it through the entire meal, and now we can go on to Seattle without any guilt that we didn't fill some kind of familial obligation.

There should be some kind of lesson in letting your guard down. Nothing good in my life ever comes from being at ease in public.

I sense him before he's even close. It's like a sixth sense I've developed over the years. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up and my stomach churns. Under the table, I reach for Ford's hand. I know he can feel my fear, because my nails dig into his skin.

He looks at me questioningly.

“Let's go,” I mouth.

I can feel that darkness descending on me again. Now is not a good time to lose it. I cannot show weakness, not now, not around him.

We're too late though. I hear the sound of his custom leather shoes as they strike against the tiles. Even his footsteps are pretentious. His hands fall on my shoulders and squeeze.

“So the prodigal daughter returns. You've been in town for a while. Were you ever going to get in touch with me?” my father asks.

I shake his hands off. “Wasn't planning on it. In fact, we have to be going right now.”

As usual, he doesn't listen to a word that I say. Instead, he pulls out a chair from a neighboring table, swings it around, and joins us. “Stay, have a drink,” he insists.

“We really can't. We've got finals coming up and a study group that we need to get to,” Ford lies.

We do have finals, they're pretty much a cakewalk so there's no study group needed. At least not for us. I know people like to throw around the stereotype of athletes being nothing but dumb jocks, but Ford is actually pretty brilliant. My father knows this, which makes a study group a believable excuse.

“You have time for one drink. I've been keeping track of you both, and your grades are fantastic,” he boasts as if he had anything to do with our success.

I clench my teeth so hard I'm afraid I might crack a molar. It doesn't matter how much time has gone by or how much distance I have put between us, I'm still conditioned to follow his orders when I am in his vicinity. I hate myself for it. It feels weak and pathetic.

Thankfully, Ford has no such problem. He pushes his chair back. It screeches against the tile drawing stares from the nearby diners. My father clenches his fist on top of the table. He dislikes negative attention. No, Wendell James has always needed to have a pristine reputation, even if he has not earned it.

Ford holds his hand out for me and mine shakes as I reach for his. I'm almost out of my seat when my father grabs my other hand and starts to pull me back down. Once again, I'm in the middle of a game of human tug-of-war, only this time Ford knows he's playing it.

“A moment of your time please, daughter,” my father says it as if it's a question, but it's really a command.

I smile the plastic smile I perfected over years of interactions with him, even as bile works its way up my throat.

“I see you have decided to defy my orders. Did you think there was a time limit?” my father hisses under his breath.

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