Page 8 of Broken Promises
“Where are you, baby?” I whisper into thin air.
A heavy hand drops onto my shoulder, and five fingers squeeze me briefly as if only to grab my attention. I spin to find Spades, eyes narrowed, a vein on his neck throbbing. The look he’s pinning me down with is sharp enough to puncture a lung as it fluctuates between sincere compassion and the classicI told you so.
I had it coming.
Hands in pockets, he takes a wary step back, giving me much-needed space. “You good?” He weighs the words as if he expects me to lose my shit and start shooting any second.
He knows me well.
The only reason my gun is still safely tucked in the holster is that we’re in New York, not in Chicago.
CHAPTER FIVE
Layla
Awhite, fluffy blanket covers the left side of my body, my gaze fixed on the wall and ceiling adorned with hundreds of hand-painted, fluorescent stars. Jean has a knack for murals, but she has sure outdone herself with this one. When night falls over Ivanhoe, the painting looks like a window to a far-away galaxy. Like one of those projectors that you can buy online.
She had no idea when she spent a few days creating this masterpiece three years ago that one day, it’ll be the only thing keeping me sane at night. Insomnia might be the most sickening side-effect of a broken heart.
An old-fashioned clock on a dresser by the door ticks loudly, the rhythm of passing seconds a close match for the rhythm of my heart.
A creak in the hallway outside the bedroom breaks the comfortable silence I got myself used to. Aunt Amanda starts work at six in the evening, and Jean hardly spends time at home, always out with her friends. The creak is quickly followed by a light knock on the door. I turn to face the wall, tucking my knees close to my chest, and throw my arm over my face. Not that it’ll stop the unwanted guest...
Jean’s persistence is tiring.
Another knock. Louder this time. Five more seconds pass before she turns the knob and enters the guest bedroom, uninvited as always. “I know you’re not asleep.”
What gave me away?
With a sigh, I turn again, away from the wall this time to face the door, knowing she won’t leave without a fight. She’s relentless in the so-far futile attempts to drag me out of the comfort of the house and over to a nearby bar with her friends Tayler and Rick.
As expected, she stands in the doorway of the small bedroom, an unflattering scowl across her pale, freckled face. She stomps her foot, arms crossed over her chest. Looks like she’s resigned to trying a different approach today. I can’t keep up with her mood swings. From cheerful to annoyed in three seconds flat. From supportive at first to pleading the following day. Neither worked, so she worked her way through every emotional sabotage trick known to parents worldwide. Bargaining, bribery, pleading again, and more bargaining...
This is new, though. She looks positively aggravated, so I guess she’s ready to shout. Maybe throw around a few unsupported, idle threats.Clean your room, or I’ll take your toys!
“You’ve been crying again! And you’re not ready! Tayler will be here in half an hour, and you’re wearing...” she scrunches her nose, eyeing my top, “this monstrosity!”
“It’s pj’s, Jean. I’m not going. I told you yesterday, the day before, and all the other days since I came here. I can’t go. I don’t want to go. Iwon’tgo. I’m fine here.”
She scoffs, sizing me up, one eyebrow raised high enough to hit her hairline. “This is what you call fine? Ha! Don’t make me laugh. You’re a mess, girl. You’re pathetic. And because of a guy... c’mon! You’re a Harston, for fuck’s sake! Harston girls don’t mope over guys. Where’s your pride?”
I move my eyes from her enraged face back to the ceiling. “It won’t work, Jean. Say whatever you want. Scream, if you must. Throw a tantrum. I. Don’t.Care.” Neither about the way she sees me nor about anything, really.
Yanking my blanket away, she plops onto the bed, her lips in a slight pout. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to shout. I’m just running out of ideas on how to cheer you up, you know? You barely eat. You’re locked in here all the time. It’s not healthy.”
“I know. I’m sorry too, but I can’t go. Not even if I wanted to. If someone would see me—”
”Of course, someone will see you! It’s a bar; people attend, drink, and laugh. Remember? I’m sure you have bars in Chicago, right? You know the drill. And sure, everyone willstareat you because you’re new here, but they’ll get ove—”
“You said it. I can’t go.”
Jean waves her hand dismissively and rushes to the dresser. She opens the first one, makes a mess, and continues her journey, rummaging through my clothes.
“Here.” A pair of jeans lands on my face. A flannel shirt follows thirty seconds later. “Put it on, and don’t you dare say no.again. Erase that damn word from your dictionary while you live here. You’ve been crying for two weeks! Enough!”
“Twelve days.”
“Whatever. I tolerated your compulsive, obsessive...” she pulls her eyebrows together, searching for another adjective, “just plain stupid need to spend every evening here by yourself. Not tonight. You’re coming whether you like it or not. Either that or you’ll tell mewhyyou’ve cried two rivers so far.”
