Page 9 of Broken Promises
A long time ago, Jean knew all my secrets. Her mother’s house was my home during the summer months every year until I turned twelve. Back then, we were inseparable. Then Frank killed Dino, and Aunt Amanda found out how her brother made a living. She refused to speak to him or his family ever again, and my friendship with Jean ended... but when I knocked on Amanda’s door twelve days ago, she took me in. Reluctantly, under merciless conditions, but she did.
“If anyone shows up here looking for you, I’ll lead them straight to your room, Layla.”
Neither Jean nor Amanda asked why I asked to stay here. I don’t think they had to. They might live in one of the most boring, remote places, but they have TV like everyone else. Frank’s death, and the Mafia War getting out of hand, was broadcasted all over the media when thirty bodies were discovered in Chicago. While Amanda doesn’t want any inside information as to what exactly happened that night, Jean asks too many questions trying to force the story out of me in private.
“Damn it, Layla!” she snatches the pillow from under my head. “Get dressed! Tayler won’t be pleased if he has to wait for you!” She waves a checkered, red, and black flannel shirt in front of my face. “Do you need an invitation? Should I draw you a map to the bathroom, or will you find your way?”
Enraged Jean resembles an enraged puppy—exasperated, energetic, loud, and utterly ineffective. A lot of yapping followed by a lot of nothing. Of the two of us, she was always fiercer, but it looks like she mellowed a touch since childhood. She used to be a true tomboy, climbing trees, getting dirty, and fighting with boys. On the other hand, I was a girly girl in pink dresses, weaving flower crowns. I guess Jean’s attitude back then left a mark on me. In part, I haveherto thank for the feisty bones in my body.
“You won’t drag me out of here no matter how creative your threats might get. You’re wasting your time. Go and enjoy, okay? I’m fine here.” I shoo her away.
A string of quiet curses flies past her lips. It sure doesn’t suit her to swear like a sailor. With a huff, she whirls on her heel, marching out of the room, each step louder than the last as she takes her frustration out on the old, wooden floorboards. The door slams hard, rattling the frame. Even the windows shake a bit.
Tayler’s pick-up truck pulls into the driveway. The engine splutters as the car grinds into a halt. I peek through the curtains, a tiny-bit sad that I won’t join them when Jean hops into the car, her signature frown on display.
They stay parked for a minute which doesn’t bode well for Tayler. I can only imagine the earful he’s getting on my behalf... Jean’s very vocal when she’s annoyed.
Once they back out of the driveway, disappearing out of view behind a row of maple trees, I make my way downstairs. With a thick blanket in one hand and a steaming cup of hot chocolate in the other, I head outside to the back garden, if the piece of unkempt land here can be deemed a garden. Other than a few trees dotting the perimeter and grass that, although dry and dead now, reaches my knees, there’s nothing I’d expect to see in a garden. No flowers, ornaments, grill, or sitting area. Obviously, no pool, either. A beaten-up tractor with half the engine missing is secluded by a wobbly, in-desperate-need-of-TLC picket fence. Jean said it’s here to keep wild animals off the property, but the boards are so far and few that even a bear would find his way in.
My big-city, upper-class upbringing or the summers spent on this very farm failed to prepare me for starting fires in the wild. The first time I tried this, I burned my fingers and a hole in my sweater. Now, I’m not as useless. Starting a small bonfire still takes effort, but after a few tries, it blazes in the middle of the small clearing while I sit on a wooden bench, surrounded by the addictive silence.
Back in Chicago, I thought nights were silent, but now that I’m here, in the middle of nowhere, a few miles away from interstates, cities, and at least three hundred yards from the nearest neighbor, I understand what silence is. Or natural silence, at least. No cars, no people, no factories humming in the distance. All I can hear here are the occasional animals howling in the distance, the flap of bird’s wings, and the rustling of leaves in the wind.
Flames dance before me, consuming more wood with every soft sigh of freezing wind. Large chunks of pine wood blacken, crack, and fall apart—almost like my heart that’s slowly turning to dust. Thousands of sparks take to the biting air, flickering out in a fraction of a second— just like Dante’s eyes when he realized I betrayed him.
They say love is a flower in constant need of nurturing, or it dies. They say love is a dream that arrives when we don’t need it, but when it comes, we want it to last. They say love is bitter-sweet like a fine wine. And like fine wine, it kicks your butt and makes you dizzy. We do stupid things while drunk, but no matter how much we convince ourselves we won’t ever touch wine again, we always do.
In my case, love is a drug that grabbed me by the throat, infested my mind, and spread through my bloodstream. Drug users forever remain addicts, even when they stop using. It’s not easy to stop. Not many people volunteer to sever the connection to something that, in their eyes, makes them feel good. Not many have that kind of willpower. I don’t. I won’t detox. I’ll stay in love, forever in limbo, hoping, dreaming,waitingfor a kiss to wake me up.
Unsolicited tears stain my cheeks. I promised myself I won’t cry because tears can’t change the past. Nothing can. Tears make me weak, and I need to be strong. I’m on my own, navigating a world in the dark, unequipped to deal with reality now that it’s diseased with regret.
Every day I wake up determined to climb out of the ditch. I tell myself that despite how bad things look, the world didn’t really collapse. Life isn’t over. I should thank God I came out alive, almost unscathed. The finale to Frank’s plan could’ve been much more sinister.
Every day I create a new scenario of what my life will look like going forward. A screenplay where Dante’s lead role has been cut. A movie sequel in which he has no part. Regardless of my efforts, I can’t change that. Even though he’s not around, he’s still everywhere. He occupies every cell of my body, every thought, every dream. He’s omnipresent but absent, and I fall to my knees like a house of cards every night, pushed to the ground by my sins.
I wipe my cheeks when the sputtering of Tayler’s pick-up reaches my ears. There’s no mistaking the ear-splitting rattle of a defective engine as it pulls into the driveway. That car is a death trap, waiting to give up on Tayler when he’ll need it most. A deep breath helps me bury the pain under a pile of rubble that used to be my heart and mind. Pathetic doesn’t begin to cover my current state. I know I should stop wallowing in self-pity, grit my teeth, and push forward, butthis...this is easier. It requires no effort.
A few pairs of pants rustle in long grass for a moment before Jean plops beside me with two bottles of wine. She hands one over, gazing at the fire, as she unscrews the cap on her bottle and takes a hefty sip. Tayler and his best friend, Rick, plop down on the bench opposite with a handful of beers.
“Is the bar closed?” I ask, guilt like a thorn in my throat because they changed their plans to keep me company.
Jean shakes her head, clanking her bottle to mine. “I won’t let you spend another evening crying.”
“I wasn’t crying.”
Tayler snorts, trading a loaded look with Rick. They’re two ends of a spectrum. Tayler’s twenty-two and the most gullible guy I’ve ever met in all my nineteen years. A five-foot-eight, one-hundred-and-seventy-pounds of a goofy softie. No one takes him seriously. Not with the ever-present surprise on his young, delicate face, careless attitude, or complete lack of a backbone.
On the other hand, Rick is a tall, over-the-top muscular stiffness. Five years in the army explains the lack of facial expressions and tense stance to an extent, but Rick seems almost robotic, as if he was programmed with not enough emotions. He’s gravely intelligent and perceptive, but there’s no joking around with him.
“Instead of lying, start talking,” Tayler says, opening a bottle of Bud Light. “You can’t hide the reason forever. Tell us why you ran from Chicago. You’ll feel better when you get it off your chest.”
“Exactly.” Jean clicks her tongue. “I can’t look at you anymore. You’re a shadow, Layla. You’re getting skinnier by the day. You’re absentminded, fuckingfrightened... what happened?” She squeezes my hand. “You can trust us. I promise.”
The secret weighs down on my shoulders. I really want to let it out. Vent. Cry. Scream at the top of my lungs, but fear stops me whenever I ponder the idea of opening up to Jean.
Tayler scratches his head, stealing a sideways glance at Rick. “I mean, we know most of it anyway, right? It’s all over the news, and Jean told us about your father.”
I glare at my Judas of a cousin. “Way to keep a secret.”
