Page 37 of Every Promise Broken

Flicking my gaze up to her again, I nod. “I’ll take it into consideration,” I deadpan. “Is there anything else you need?”

“Actually, yes, there is.” I lift a brow questioningly, waiting for her to continue. “Can I borrow your truck to run up to the store? I want to make Whit’s favorite for dinner tonight. Poor boy, he looked haggard this morning when he left for work.”

“He didn’t sleep well last night,” I tell her. “And yes, go ahead and take the truck. The keys are hanging in the kitchen.”

“Is everything alright with him?”

I’m never going to finish this goddamn paperwork at this rate.

“He’s dealing with some stuff, but he’s fine.”

Lifting my gaze, I watch concern swim in her eyes. It warms my chest, knowing how much she loves him. How much she’s always loved him. It reminds me of the first time the two of them met. It was right before mine and Whit’s wedding, and he was so nervous about making a good impression. As if anybody could not love him.

It feels like just yesterday.

Twelve YearsAgo

“Does this look okay?” Whit runs his gaze over his own appearance in the mirror before turning to face me. Two nervous hands smooth down the front of his mustard-yellow cable-knit cardigan. It’s an absurd color, but somehow, looks ravishing on him.

“Yes, it looks great,” I murmur as I unbutton the wrist of my plaid shirt, rolling the sleeve up my forearm.

He turns back toward the mirror, cocking his head to one side as his eyes trail up and down his body once more, the nerves he’s feeling radiating off of him like the heat off of an asphalt road on a hot summer day. “I just want to make a good impression.”

“She’s going to love you,” I assure him, meaning every word.

As he brushes his fingers through his hair, I catch a glint from the ring on his finger. The one I presented to him five months ago when I got down on one knee and asked him to be my husband. Our wedding, which Whit has taken full control of planning, down to the very last detail, is one week from today. Love and something else entirely—anticipation, maybe, or excitement—warms my chest as I take in the man before me who will be my husband in seven days.

Huffing loudly, Whit rips the cardigan off his body, tossing it onto the bed to our right. “This is hideous,” he murmurs. “I can’t wear this.”

He grabs a hanger out of the closet, sliding the plastic through the arms of the sweater before placing it back in his color-coordinated side of the closet. On paper, Whit and I couldn’t be more different. He’s very particular about many things, while I’m particular about hardly anything.

Everything of his has a home. His clothes must be hung up in a special order, folded a certain way, and washed using a specific type of laundry soap. He despises dryer sheets. Before living with Whit, I had never seen a person get so angry with an inanimate object before the way he does with dryer sheets. In the bathroom, his toothbrush must sit on the left side of the sink, and the toothpaste must stand up. God forbid, it lie down on the counter.

He’s orderly. Most would probably find it annoying, but I find it endearing. Even if I don’t possess the same sense of orderthat he does. Although, that’s not to say I don’t have my own schedule that I must follow. I do; it’s just a bit more cut and dry, and less complex than his.

After flitting through the clothing hanging on the rack, he settles for on an army green cardigan, less cable knitty than the last one. “That color looks nice on you.”

Glancing up at me, his eyes wide underneath his glasses, cheeks flushed, he smiles. “Thank you.”

“Nana is going to love you,” I reiterate.

Pursing his lips, he gives himself one more last once-over in the mirror. “I hope so.”

Peering out the window from our loft apartment above the barn, I spot my dad’s truck driving down the gravel road. “They’re here.”

“I’m going to puke,” Whit mumbles as his arms dangle at his sides and he drops his head back onto his shoulder, making me chuckle.

I look at him through the mirror, placing my hands on his shoulders as I lean in and press a kiss to the top of his head. “Breathe. It’s going to be okay.”

Whit holds my gaze, shoulders rising as he drags in a lungful of air. He mentally counts to five before blowing it out.

We take the stairs down into the barn side by side, his nerves still rolling off him in waves. My dad’s closing the passenger side door of his truck as we get outside, and my eyes find my nana immediately, a smile curving my lips. Standing at barely five feet tall, she walks with a cane that’s fully bedazzled.

Nana is nothing if not eclectic and bold in her style. Bright, blinding colors, big, gaudy jewelry, and a mouth not afraid to say exactly what is on her mind. Like Whit is to me, Nana was always the opposite of my grandfather. Where he was stoic anda bit grumbly, she was loud and bubbly. She was the sunshine to his storm up until the day he died.

“Connie!” she shouts when she spots me. She and Whit are the only two people who call me that, and when I was a kid, I used to hate it. As I’ve gotten older, I’ve leaned into not only tolerating it, but loving it. Not that I’d ever tell either of them. “My gosh, boy, have you gotten taller since the last time I saw you?”

She pulls me in for a hug, and her small arms wrapped around my wide middle is almost comical.

---