The Vow (21 page)

He looks so earnest, I can’t even be mad at him. I’m not sure whether he’s being ridiculous or whether I really should’ve consulted him. Normal married people actually would consult each other before quitting a job. I think. Maybe if my parents ever talked to each other I’d have a clue. “I had to,” I repeat lamely.

Mo looks at me and smiles, but it’s so sad and crooked that I wish he hadn’t. I guess I forgot he’s just as alone as I am.

“You remember that guy at work?”

“Weed.”

“Reed.”

“Right, Reed.”

I stare at the black TV screen and push ahead. “Well, obviously I can’t be married to you and seeing him, so after we left Sam’s on Monday, I went and broke up with him. It was awkward. I don’t want to see him at work anymore.” I could not sound more nonchalant. No big deal. It didn’t matter. Reed meant nothing. And as long as I don’t look at Mo, the tone of my voice can keep saying that.

“Oh.” He sits back and folds his arms over his chest.

“I didn’t tell you because I just wanted to get it over with and I didn’t want you to worry about it.” I don’t say worry about me. That would mean something different. “It’s over. I’d rather not see him.”

“Sure. I get it. Are you okay?”

I stand up and turn around. I didn’t notice earlier, but Mo put my boxes of art supplies in the corner with the window. The one that housed his boxed clutter the last time I was here. And he’s pulled one of the chairs from the kitchen over. I walk over, kneel on it, and pull the gauzy cream curtain back to see the view: a running path and the deep green woods beyond it.

“Annie?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. I’m just nervous about talking to my parents. I’ll feel better after it’s done.”

“Do you want me there for it?”

I twist around, off my knees and onto my butt, and stare at Mo. Do I? I hadn’t even imagined that he would be there, that he would
want
to be there. I don’t know what my dad is going to do to him. But I guess if we really were married, we’d tell them together. “I don’t know. Do you want to be there?”

“Like I want to chew broken glass. But I’ll do it if you want me to.”

“Can I think about it?”

“Yeah. Just let me know so I can get my gear together.”

“Gear?”

“A helmet. A cup. Maybe a bulletproof vest.”

“I want to do it tonight after my dad gets home from work,” I say. I leave the window and head back to the bedroom. “Are you really sure I can have the bed? You’re going to get a sore back sleeping on the—”

The smell of cat feces stops me midsentence. I’m standing in the doorway, but I can see the curl of grayish brown centered neatly on the pile of folded bedding in the corner. “Uh, Mo?”

“Yup?” he calls from the kitchen.

“You know the pile of blankets in the corner?”

“Yeah.”

“Yours or mine?”

“Mine. I put clean sheets on the bed for you. Hey, can you show me how to fry an egg?”

“Yeah, but first I have some bad news.”

Chapter 22

Mo

S
o, we have good news,” I rehearse over Annie’s shoulder, following her up the driveway. “You’re going to have brown grandbabies who pray to Allah.”

She doesn’t even turn around. She’s leaning in to each step like she’s pushing into tornado winds. “I know you’re trying to help me relax, but really not funny.”

“I’m trying to help myself relax. And it is kind of funny.”

She’s too distracted to glare at me, which is terrifying. I need to be glared at, scolded, kicked in the shins,
something
to stop the buzzing and bring things back into focus. But the world is vibrating, and I feel like I’m on the verge of breaking into hysterical laughter or screaming obscenities.

I’m not actually wearing a cup. That would be silly. Mr. Bernier is no crotch kicker; he’s a man’s man, and if he feels the need to injure me, I’m fairly certain it’ll be a punch in the face. Anything else would be sneaky and juvenile, and as pissed off as he’s going to be when he’s led to believe I’ve been sleeping with his daughter for a while now, I don’t think he’s going to cause my testicles any real harm. Hopefully.

“Suppose I could ask him to not break the moneymaker?” I say, rubbing my nose. “I’m thinking about my modeling career.”

“Look, I know you have to say stupid things to calm yourself down, but I need you to stop talking. And as soon as we’re in there, I’m definitely the only one doing any talking. Got it?”

I nod as we come to a stop in front of the door.

“This is going to go better for both of us if you keep your eyes on the floor and your mouth closed.”

I scratch the back of my head. Why does my scalp feel so itchy? I want to tear it off. Is it because I’m sweating like a hog, or do I have fleas? Wisper Pines seems nice enough, but maybe there’s a bedbug infestation issue I’m not even aware of yet. “But what if he asks me a question?”

“Trust me. He’s not going to want to hear anything you have to say unless it’s
Yes, sir, we’ll go get an annulment
.”

She opens the door.

“Hold me,” I whisper. “I’m scared.”

She closes the door gently behind us, her face strangely serene. I recognize it. Warrior mode. This is Annie with a sword raised, ready to plunge it into someone’s heart.

“Mom?” she calls.

Mrs. Bernier appears in the entrance to the kitchen, paring knife in hand. “I thought you were working. Oh hi, Mo. We haven’t seen you in a while. How are you doing? I heard your family has moved already.”

“Fine, thank you, ma’am,” I say. “And yeah, they did.”

“So where are you staying now?” she asks.

“Uh, Wisper Pines.”

“Oh, those new apartments on the north side? I hear those are nice.”

“Is Dad home?” Annie asks, and I have to love her and hate her for her inability to procrastinate pain. I wonder if it’s too late to bail on this. Annie said I didn’t have to come, but not coming seemed cowardly, and the thought of knowing that they knew and then having to wait for them to come to me seemed like worse torture. Still. I could fake a stomach cramp.

“I’m in here,” his voice calls over the sound of sports commentary and angry cheering.

“So, you don’t have to work tonight?” Mrs. Bernier asks Annie again. “I thought you said you did.”

“I did, but I don’t. I need to talk to you and Dad. Together.”

Mrs. Bernier’s eyes are swimming-pool-blue like Annie’s, but the skin around them is crinkled from sun and worry. She’s got her warrior face on too now. Luckily it’s directed at Annie.

Mr. Bernier appears, hands in his pockets, glaring first at Annie, then at me, and I’m filled with awkward dread like I’ve never experienced before. I could drown in this. Or more likely, spontaneously combust.

“Should we sit down?” I ask.

Annie shoots death beams from her pupils directly at my head. Right. Not allowed to talk. But I’m not sure I can survive this kind of nervousness in silence.

“No,” Mr. Bernier says. His voice is terse, and unlike his wife, his eyes, his face, his whole body is aimed at me. “I’ll sit if I need to sit.”

I stare at the floor, shut my mouth, and vow never to disobey Annie again.

“Mo and I have some news, and we hope you’ll be happy for us even if it seems a little hard to understand at first,” Annie starts. It sounds vaguely rehearsed, but I’m pretty sure my jittery rambling would not be any better, so I continue on with my job of keeping my eyes on the floor and my mouth shut. “We’ve sort of been together as more than just friends for a little while now, but we’ve kept it a secret. We didn’t think you would approve.”

I hazard a glance at Mr. Bernier, but I’m so disturbed by the symmetrical blue veins running up either side of his forehead and over the shiny skin-wrapped cranium, that I have to look back down.

“Anyway, so a couple of weeks ago we decided we wanted to get married.”

A sharp intake of air sucks in the sound all around us as Mrs. Bernier’s hand flies to her mouth. It’s the nuclear bomb, the mushroom-cloud moment, when everyone is watching in horror, but the horror hasn’t actually set in yet.

Like she doesn’t notice, Annie soldiers on. “So we did.”

“Did what?” her mother whispers.

“Got married. We got married.”

“You
didn’t
.”

“We did.”

It’s Mr. Bernier’s turn to join in the fun, but he isn’t whispering.
“No. You. Didn’t.”
Not whispering at all. He’s somehow shouting without raising his voice from his normal speaking volume. We’re too far away to have felt the spit, but I heard the splatter with each word. I’m dying to see if the veins are still running underneath the skin or if they’ve somehow broken through, but I’m too scared to look at him. And I’m suddenly unsure about the future of my testicles. Should’ve worn the cup.

“We did,” Annie says again. “Two weeks ago. But I just moved my stuff into his apartment today.”

“You
what
?” her mother gasps.

I brace for the explosion of tears, but they don’t come. I’ve made the mistake of expecting my mother’s reaction when clearly Annie’s warrior mask is a genetic trait. Mrs. Bernier has gone whiter than her walls, but she looks more likely to slap Annie than faint.

Annie doesn’t repeat what they’ve already heard. She turns to her dad and says, “Don’t be mad.”

“I’ll be mad if I want to be mad. Don’t tell me not to be mad!”
This time I actually feel the spit. One speck on my forearm and one on my cheek. I don’t wipe it on the off chance that he’s one of those predators who can’t see you if you don’t move, but when you do he disembowels you and eats your intestines like spaghetti.

“It was something I needed to do,” she says.

“What?”
Mrs. Bernier says, her voice incredulous. “So Mo could stay?”

Maybe I’ll be the one who faints. I’d lean on something, but the nearest couch is halfway across the room and closer to Mr. Bernier.

I’m about to break my no-talking rule with some vehement denial when Annie says, “Partly.”

I take a step back and lean against the door. Holy hell, we should have talked about this before so at least we had a game plan when they guessed—as any half-thinking idiots would do—exactly why their daughter just married her soon-to-be-deported best friend. This is definitely not my most intelligent moment. Or set of moments.

“But I love him,” Annie says. “I really love him. And I couldn’t imagine my life without him, so yeah, maybe we would’ve waited a few years if things were different, but we didn’t have a few years.”

Mrs. Bernier is shaking her head, unblinking eyes on Annie.
“Stupid!”
she whispers. “Annie, look at what you’re doing to your life! You’re throwing everything away. You could do anything.”

“But I don’t want to do anything,” Annie says, and I see a momentary break in the mask, a single lower-lip quiver. “I want to be with Mo.”

“How the hell did you pull this off ?” Mr. Bernier shouts, jabbing a finger at my chest. He’s got Sasquatch-sized hands, huge and covered in blond hair. “You aren’t even eighteen, are you?”

I open my mouth but turn to Annie before I can perjure myself. Again, more lies we should have discussed—am I telling them I’m eighteen? Or do they know when my birthday is?

Annie’s not looking at me. “He had consent.”

He squints. “Consent? Whose consent? Your parents are in Jordan, aren’t they?”

“We got married before they left.”

Mrs. Bernier shudders. Finally a chip in the porcelain. “His family was there?” She closes her eyes and puts her palm to her forehead, letting her finger curl up over her hairline, and I’m temporarily distracted because I’ve seen Annie do that before. I’m not used to thinking of her as a product of these people.

“I am going to kill your father!”
Mr. Bernier shouts, jabbing the finger in my direction again, and I’ve got panic and relief, hot and cold, coursing through me. My father. He’s not going to kill me. He’s going to kill my father. This is excellent news—for me and my testicles—and probably not the worst news for my father either, being in Jordan and all. And yet even from six feet away, I can see the violently stabbing finger is unmistakably aimed at my jugular.

“Um, he’s in the Middle East, sir.”

Annie glares at me, and I realize that was unnecessary talking on my part.

“Don’t you dare
sir
me like you’re some polite little bugger. I’ve always known you were a lying little snake. You’ve been planning this for years, haven’t you? I thought you guys believed you had to commit suicide to earn your virgins in heaven. Lucky you—two for one, right? Citizenship
and
your very own virgin that you don’t even have to blow yourself up for!”

My mouth is dry; my tongue is sandpaper. I’m too shocked to say a word, which is good, because I’m just thinking of the triple irony—Annie’s not a virgin, I’m not sleeping with her, and the only time I’ve wanted to kill myself is right now.

Somehow Annie is blocking all of this out and talking to her mother. Her voice is almost pleading. “Only his mom.”

“But why would you shut us out of your life like that?”

Annie is silent for a moment, and I wish she would say what I can tell she’s thinking. They shut her out first. Instead she says, “You know I couldn’t tell you. Look at Dad.”

All three of us turn and look at Mr. Bernier, who is pacing, sweat pouring down his face and neck, morphing into the Hulk. Any moment now he’ll tear his clothes off and turn green.

Mrs. Bernier shakes her head and lets her shoulders slump forward. It’s small, but maybe it’s evidence of understanding.

“We had to,” Annie repeats.

“Oh, Annie.” Her eyes become glassy. Finally. She blinks, and a line of tears rolls down each side of her face. “You didn’t have to. Maybe you think you’re in love, but you don’t even know what love is.”

“Don’t you have anything to say for yourself ?”
Mr. Bernier roars at me. He’s not jabbing the finger anymore, but he’s flexing his fists and then shaking them out, flexing, shaking, flexing, shaking. “Do you even love her?”

“Yes.” I risk the unauthorized speaking, because if I need Annie’s permission to answer that, they aren’t going to believe anything I say. Besides, it’s true. “I’ve always loved Annie.”

“If you loved her,” he spits, “you wouldn’t have married her without her family’s permission. You wouldn’t want to take her away from the people who love her most. You wouldn’t want her all for yourself. Maybe that’s what you Muslims do, but here in America we don’t need to isolate our women just to force them into loving us.”

“No, of course not. You just isolate them from yourself and from everyone else so they don’t feel any love at all. So they’re looking for the first opportunity to escape and find someone who won’t hold them at arm’s length, someone who’ll actually love them.” I look at Mrs. Bernier. Then Annie. “Isn’t that right?”

The roar of drama is suddenly gone. The silence is cold and smells like lemon Lysol. The Hulk’s veins are still throbbing, but his face has gone from red to white. I wonder if he’s having a heart attack. This is why I’m not allowed to talk.

“Get out,” he says.

I turn, not feeling anything but the shrillness of that silence, and Annie turns with me.

“Not you,” he says. “I’m talking to him.”

She doesn’t turn around but puts her hand over mine on the doorknob. “I’m going with him.”

“Annie, no,” pleads Mrs. Bernier, and the sudden panicky shake in her voice makes me think of my mother. Against all odds, at this moment of all moments, I miss her. I feel like I’m little, and I’ve been unfairly picked on, and I just want to curl up in her lap and cry.

“I almost forgot,” Annie says softly, reaching into her purse and pulling out her car keys. She puts them on the glass table with a
clunk
that rings like chimes. “I don’t want these.”

And we leave.