Page 72 of Promise and Punishment

“I didn’t know you liked cars,” I answered, casually looking in the rearview mirror, my eyes taking shifts between the road and Gemma in the back seat.

Unlike Mila, Gemma didn’t wear a sweater. She wasn't cold, she was hot; maybe even dewy with sweat. Her bright red single-piece bathing suit sat below a pair of loose denim shorts, that were ready to be pulled off at any sign of the beach. Everything about her was bright: her top, her yellow Birkenstocks, even the red framed sunglasses that covered her beautiful hazel eyes. Everything about her felt like summer, including the smell of coconut sunscreen on her long, gorgeous legs.

Mila smiled, but Gemma didn’t, her expression more distant than the space that laid between us, resistant to a pout I felt could appear at any moment. I never wanted to see her sad again, to see the jut of her full bottom lip begging to be sucked, to be comforted with a kiss that would make her smile, or rather, that would makemesmile. Fuck.

“My grandfather owns twelve dealerships up in Jersey,” Mila replied, returning my attention back to the road. “I’ve been around nice cars my whole life, but nothing like these. We had money, but not Hamptons money.”

“I don’t believe that,” I laughed. “I know a rich kid when I see one.” While I was being modest, I knew how spoiled Mila could be. We were still learning about each other, but I knew enough from experience to see when someone had expensive taste.

“Not like you! You haveParker Jonesmoney.”

“And what isParker Jonesmoney?” I asked, almost scoffing.

Mila waved around. “Hello? This!” She pointed to a gated mansion whose perimeter was shrouded in juniper trees and private ponds; its massive shiplap garage spacious enough for twenty plus cars.

Gemma followed the motion of Mila’s hand, then laughed out loud. Mila furrowed, unamused.

“I don’t have Hampton’s money. Not even close.”

“You’re totally rich.”

“I’m comfortable,” I admitted.

“Your parents are rich, that makes you rich too.”

“Not at all. That’s their money, not mine. Anything I have I’ve worked for on my own.”

“Parker used to deliver newspapers as a kid,” Gemma spoke up, offering a credential of sorts to show I was telling the truth. “He always made his own money. Mama Meg wanted him to be raised the same way she was.”

“Poor?” Mila asked, assuming the complete opposite of what Gemma was saying.

“No,” Gemma took offense. “Humbled by the worth of a hard-earned dollar.” She quoted Mom word-for-word, as if she was indoctrinated with not only her mantra, but her lesson.

This was no surprise to me, seeing how she knew Mom so well, her recital a telling sign of how close they were. Sometimes I wondered if it was Gemma and I that were the best friends, or more so her and Mom.

Mila ignored Gemma, as the tension between the two continued to fester. Mila never apologized for her behavior that night at the bar, and Gemma never apologized for tossing a half-filled martini into her face. It wasn’t just awkward; it was especially tense.

“Why would a kid like you need to deliver papers?” Mila asked, placing another banana taffy into the cup holder.

“For money,” I answered.

“Well, duh. But for what reason?”

“Many reasons. I always had my priorities straight back then. I knew what I wanted, and I worked for it.” My vague answer seemed to disappoint Mila, her face less than satisfied with my response. It was better than admitting the truth, how it all was secretly intended for Gemma’s birthday gift.

I looked back at Gemma, watching as her small fingers braided the end of her ponytail. Constantly she would check her phone, picking it up and placing it down. I hated that she was in the back seat—both physically and symbolically—displaced by Mila. Gemma should have been by my side. This was our trip, our time, our life, yet I clouded it up with some fucking promise that I was eager to erase from existence, and goddammit I would. I’d fix this, I’d fix us.

Gemma reached out, looking as if she wanted to pet my arm. But she didn’t. Instead, she grabbed a handful of peach gummy rings which acted like a barrier between her and Mila.

“It’s true, Parker always had his priorities straight,” Gemma continued, her sweet voice virtually grazing the hair along my neck. “He would always save money for wax-paper trading cards.”

I couldn’t help but smile at the semi-embarrassing admission.

“Wax paper what?” Camilla scrunched her nose.

“They were comic book trading cards that came with gum. Wax paper is what kept them fresh,” I responded.

“Gum?” Mila laughed, leaving me unsure if she was making fun of me, or if she found it endearing.

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