Page 5 of Every Promise Broken

Whit Bowman

My heartbeat is a rapid pounding in my ears as I follow Conrad into this room. His childhood bedroom turned guest room. White shiplap walls surround a queen-size bed and an empty desk in the corner. A wrought-iron sign hangs on the wall above the bed that says‘Be Our Guest,’and I don’t know who picked out that sign, but it certainly wasn’t Conrad.

Coming out of the bathroom and finding him standing in the living room was jarring, to say the least. It was about the last thing I would’ve expected. Now, as we stand in the middle of this room, I don’t quite know what to do. My stomach is clear in my throat, making it hard to breathe while Conrad’s deep brown gaze stays fixed on my face. Even though I can’t find it in me to meet it.

For as long as I can remember, eye contact has always been difficult for me. It doesn’t feel natural most of the time, even though it’s consideredpolite. I especially struggle with it in times like this, where I’m uncomfortable and more than a littleunsure. To say it took me by surprise when Conrad asked me if I was okay would be an understatement of the year. Clearly, he’s full of those tonight.

Not only does he hardly ever ask things like that, but I also felt like I was doing a pretty good job of hiding the stress I’m carrying. Tonight isn’t about me and my troubles. It’s about my friend and the celebration of his birthday. I’ve been here for a couple of hours now, and nobody else has asked me, aside from Shooter when I first got here, so I figured I was doing a tip-top job.

I guess not if somebody as unperceptive as Conrad could tell.

“Sit,” he grunts, ushering me toward the edge of the bed.

Everything about this moment feels odd. I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve been in this house in the last four years for anything other than using the restroom. But I do as he says anyway, perching my behind on the firm mattress, pressing my hands between my legs tightly. The pressure of my thighs squeezing against the backs of my hands grounds me, at least a little bit.

Conrad scans the room, a very clear look of discomfort on his face. Probably wondering where he should sit now that he ordered me onto the bed. After a few beats, he pulls the wheely chair out from the desk, dropping his large frame onto it. He’s entirely too big for that chair, and had I been in a better mood, I’d probably find it comical. I don’t think I’ve ever met somebody quite as large as Conrad. Not even his own father.

“What’s going on?”

There’s a gentleness to his voice that I’m not used to. Something like genuine concern laces every word. I don’t know how to handle it. My throat is tight and scratchy, and I’m vulnerable sitting here before him. The question seems impossible to answer because what’snotgoing on? Where do I even begin?

Before I even have a chance to open my mouth and try to formulate a response, pressure builds behind my eyes and the tip of my nose stings. I’m hit with a wave of emotion that chokes me, and I have to swallow a few times to get rid of it.

Finally, I just decide to blurt it all out because I don’t know of any other way to say it. I may as well just get it over with.

“My dad’s kidneys are failing, and he’s on dialysis three times a week now. On top of that, he nearly totaled his car trying to drive to his appointment a few months ago because he’s a stubborn old man who refused to admit he needed help. His vision has gotten so bad with age, and since the accident, they’ve taken his license from him. And I’m entirely too busy at the clinic to take him to these appointments multiple times a week, so I had to hire a nurse to come live with him, which is costing me a fortune.”

I can’t be sure if I even took a breath the entire time I word vomited. Conrad’s brows are near his hairline, clearly not expecting any of that, and his stunned silence does nothing but make my skin crawl. I shouldn’t have saidanyof that.

My problems are not his problems. Not anymore.

And now he’s awkwardly sitting in front of me, clearly not knowing what to say to placate me and my meltdown.

God, this is uncomfortable.

Of all the people I could’ve—and probably should’ve—confided in, Conrad Strauss is the absolute last on that list. In fact, he’s so far down on the list, he’s not even actually on it.

Rising from the bed, I start toward the door, my cheeks flaming. “I’m sorry,” I mutter. “I shouldn’t have?—”

In a flash, Conrad’s hand darts out, wrapping around my forearm, stopping me from taking another step. His grip is firm, but not painful. My head snaps in his direction, our eyes locking, and as if realizing for the first time what he did, he drops my arm like it’s a hot potato.

“Sit,” he grunts again, tipping his head toward the bed. “And you have nothing to apologize for.” He continues as I sit back down, my mind a mess, the spot on my arm where he touched me tingling, and it’s making my heart want to beat right out of my chest. We don’t touch each other. No matter how innocent. Thinking back, I can’t recall a single time when his arm has brushed mine or his hand has even landed on my shoulder oranythingin the last four years.

Silence falls over us. I don’t know where to go from here, or what to say. I’ve already said entirely too much as it is. This feels wrong…but in the same breath, I can’t deny howgoodit feels to get that off my chest. It’s a lead weight I’ve been carrying around on my shoulders. It’s exhausting and it’s taking its toll on me.

Conrad is the first to break the silence. “I had no idea you were dealing with all of that.”

I snort. “How would you? It’s not like we’re old friends who have coffee and catch up.”

“We could be,” he offers, causing my eyes to snap up to meet his again, heart beating faster in my chest.

“What?”

Conrad exhales a sigh, and I watch the column of his throat work as he swallows. “I just mean, if you need somebody to talk to, I’m here, Whit. We don’t have to be strangers.”

This moment is surreal. Like I’m watching it from outside of my body. It’s been nearly four years since Conrad and I got a divorce, and even longer than that since he’s presented himself as somebody I could talk to.

Where is this coming from?

---