Page 15 of Every Promise Broken

“Yeah, well, it did happen,” I yell to him before I start walking behind him again.

“Way to go, Captain Obvious!”

“Someone’s feisty this morning,” I grumble, quiet enough that I’m not sure he hears me. That is, until he stops dead in his tracks and spins around, fury plastered on his face as he points his index finger up at me.

“You think this is funny?” he spits out. “I have a boyfriend, Conrad! Reggie is a nice guy, and he doesn’t deserve what I did to him. This isnotfunny!”

“He’s not good enough for you.”

Eyes narrowing into thin slits, he asks, “Excuse me?”

“You damn well heard me, Whit,” I growl, taking a step closer. “If he is such a nice guy, where the hell was he when you were having a breakdown? If he’s so fucking great, why wasn’t he the one you sought comfort from?”

Whit rears back like I physically slapped him. “Screw you, Conrad. You have no right to give your opinion onmyrelationship. Nor do you have the right to throw what I confided in you that night back in my face.”

“That’s not what I was?—”

“Save it,” he cuts me off with a hand raised in front of him. “I don’t want to hear it. That night was a mistake, and it’s not happening again. Unless it pertains to the animals, we have nothing to talk about.”

I bite down on my molars as I watch him storm away, but this time, I don’t follow. Instead, I stand in this field, muscles coiled tight, as I replay everything he just said to me about half a dozen times before I finally head back toward the house. By the time I reach the front lawn, his truck is long gone. There’s a gnawing ache in the center of my chest that, no matter how much I rub at it, won’t go away. I knew good and well going down that road with Whit again, getting to feel him in my arms, would break my heart, but Christ, this feels worse than I could’ve imagined.

Over the years, I’ve done a pretty good job of keeping my feelings at bay, but now, after that night and the way he’s so easily dismissing it, it’s like I’m starting from scratch. Like the Whit-shaped wound that he left when he moved out has been shredded open again.

Back in the house, I grab a glass out of the cabinet, filling it with water. After I chug the whole thing in one go, I proceed to pace the length of my house, frustration bubbling inside of me. On my fifth or sixth lap of the house—truthfully, I’ve lost count—I notice the red light flashing from the answering machine on the desk in the corner. I’m one of the few people I know who still has a landline phone and an answering machine. It’s typically only used in case of an emergency or for my nana, who lives in Greece.

Pressing a finger down on the button, my nana’s voice fills the room. Warmth spreads in my chest as I listen to her. She spends much of her time traveling, and between that and the time difference between us, we don’t talk as much as we used to. Growing up, she was a huge part of my life. For many years, she and my grandfather lived just down the road. After he died, she moved to Greece, where he was from. She said it made her feel closer to him.

It’s not until she’s nearly done that I realize what she’s rambling on about, and my heart stutters.

“…I’ll fly in to the Cheyenne airport on the twelfth. It’s a one-way ticket. I’ll book my return trip while I’m there, but I imagine I’ll be staying for a couple of weeks, at least. Can’t wait to hug and kiss you both! Love you.”

The message ends, and I can do nothing but stare at the machine like maybe if I look hard enough, it’ll make the message less true. She always ends her voicemails like you would a letter or an email, and most times I find it endearing, but right now I’m too panicked to even think twice about it.

Nana is coming here…in a month.

And she can’t wait to seeus.

Fuck.

8

Whit Bowman

My palms sweat as I stare at my laptop. At the blank screen telling me the organizer will be joining soon. Heart in my throat, I consider slamming the screen shut and calling it a day, but in the end, I don’t do that. I’ve canceled my last few appointments with her from sheer cowardice. I haven’t been able to face her after what I’ve done, but the more time that passes, the more Ineedto get it off my chest. The secret is eating me alive, and if there’s anybody who I can tell, who won’t judge me—at least to my face—it’s her.

My therapist.

The video chat finally connects, and I’m met with the smiling, cheerful face of Dr. Smizor, the woman who I’ve seen on a bi-monthly basis since I was in my early twenties. Guilt racks my body as I force a smile onto my face, fighting back the nausea churning in my gut.

“Good afternoon, Whit,” she says softly. “It’s so nice to see you. How have you been?”

“I’ve been well, thank you.” I wonder if she knows that I’m full of shit. If she knows I’m, in fact, notwell. “How are you?”

“I’m wonderful,” she replies like she always does when I ask. “It’s been a little bit since we’ve seen each other. What’s been going on? I assume you’ve been busy. Why don’t you catch me up to speed, and we can start there.”

I knew she was going to ask me about this, and I still feel entirely unprepared. In all the years I’ve been coming to her as a patient, I’ve never canceled on her without reason. Especially not twice in a row like I did this time.

“Yeah, I’m sorry about that.” I breathe out a sound that’s supposed to be a laugh, but it ends up coming out more like a grunt, and I wince at hearing it. “I have had a lot going on in my personal life, and I just wasn’t ready to talk about it yet, which is why I canceled my appointments.”

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