Page 1 of This I Promise

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ABBY

“Shit, shit, shit.” I mumble a string of expletives under my breath as I rush around the bedroom, searching for my missing shoe. I have to stop kicking them off so carelessly when I get home from work—this isn’t the first morning I’ve run late because I was searching for a wayward high heel. I get on my knees, peek under the bed, and finally spot it. Quickly snagging the shoe as I hop on one foot to slip it on and head for the door.

I dash down the short breezeway and out into the dewy air, but come to a dead stop as soon as I reach my car.

You’ve got to be kidding me.

Closing my eyes, I curse the sky before rummaging through my purse to find my phone. I hate bothering him, but I know without a doubt he’ll drop everything and come to my rescue.

“Hey, Sunshine.” My best friend answers on the first ring, and my shoulders slump on a relieved sigh.

“Hey, Scraggle. I need a favor.” I don’t know why I’m nervous when I already know he’s going to sayyes.

“Abigail Marie Brewer. We’re twenty-five years old. You can stop calling me that now.”

“Never. You’ll always beScraggleto me.” I laugh and instantly feel better. No matter what’s going on in my life, Evan has a way of putting me at ease.

“So, what’s up? Shouldn’t you be on your way to work by now?”

“That’s why I’m calling. I have a flat tire, and I need a ride. Can you pick me up?” I worry my bottom lip between my teeth.

“You should’ve let me change your tires last weekend like I wanted to,” he huffs, but I already hear the jangling of his keys in the background.

“I know. I know. But they’re expensive. I couldn’t let you do that.” Which is exactly why I haven’t bought new ones since I got my car, even though the wires were starting to show.

“We’ve been friends since middle school, Abby. We’re supposed to help each other.”

“Yeah, like with an occasional ride. Not with a new set of tires,” I counter while also knowing he won’t let this go. Evan’s looked out for me since day one, and I’m grateful because God knows I need it, but he shouldn’t have to spend his money on me. He’s done too much for me already over the past twenty years.

“I’ll be there in ten minutes. I was heading out to grab breakfast anyway.”

I decide to walk back inside my apartment to wait for him. “Ooh, going to see that pretty redhead at the diner?”

He chuckles. “What can I say? She’s just my type.”

Who isn’t?

The fact is, Evan Roberts is gorgeous. He’s tall with chocolate-brown hair and hazel eyes, long lashes that every girl is jealous of, and a spectacular physique that appears as though it’s sculpted out of marble. Girls used to pretend to be my friend just to get close to him, and everywhere we go, heads turn in his direction.

So saying he’s dated his fair share of women is an understatement, because this man doesn’t discriminate. Every body type, skin tone, hair color… it doesn’t matter to him. Yet he’s never been serious about any of them and doesn’t keep them around for longer than a few months.

I thought maybe it was because of me—and I still think that—but he swears that’s not the case. And he assures me that if any girl had a problem with our friendship, then she’s not the girl for him. I can’t lie and say that’s not nice to hear. That doesn’t mean I don’t feel bad…

At least he dates, though. Ever since high school, guys seem to be afraid of me and most make sure to steer clear. I don’t know what it is about me that seems to repel the opposite sex, but finding a guy who makes it past a third or fourth date with me is a rarity. That’s about the time when I introduce them to Evan. They always seem to disappear after that. I’ve asked my best friend for his perspective, and he says he doesn’t get it either.

I guess it’s a good thing I met Davis then. We’ve been seeing each other for almost three months now, and our relationship seems promising. He’s fifteen years older than I am, but I’ve never cared about age and it doesn’t seem to bother him either. Evan is a different story, though, and I can’t seem to figure out why.

Thoughts of my boyfriend are lingering in my mind when I receive a text.

Scraggle

Your chauffeur is here.

I head back outside where Evan’s waiting for me at the passenger door of his truck. He helps me climb in beforebuckling my seat belt. No matter how many times I tell him I can do it myself, he always insists so I don’t bother arguing anymore.

“Thanks for putting off breakfast long enough to give me a ride,” I say as I settle into my seat and angle myself toward him.

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