Kristie Cook - Promise

The sun dipped behind the water, leaving darker purples and pinks behind it. I turned my head toward Tristan, resting my right cheek against my knees. He cocked his head to look at me, his beautiful eyes sparkling. I felt so content. His conversation with my mom seemed vague and nonsensical now. He was right. She needed to let go. Because I wanted to be nowhere else than right here with him.

"Ready?" he finally asked.

I frowned. Ready to go back to my empty house and spend the evening alone? No, not really.

"I can hang out with you…if you want, I mean," he said, as if reading my mind.

"That sounds…" Wonderful. Fabulous. Perfect. "…good."

As soon as we entered the cottage, I panicked. I hadn't been truly alone with anyone besides my mother in years. I suddenly realized just how inexperienced I was—not just in the whole man-woman thing, but in any kind of relationship. I stopped abruptly in the small foyer, not knowing what to do in my own house.

"I'll be right back." I dashed into the bathroom and couldn't close the door fast enough. I leaned against the back of the door and took deep, calming breaths. My stomach twisted itself into knots, untwisted and twisted again. What do we do? Eat? Watch TV? What if he's bored? Oh! What if he's expecting something?! How much would I give?! I jumped at the knock on the door.

"Alexis?" Concern filled Tristan's voice. I could only imagine how terrified my face looked before I fled to the bathroom. "I was thinking…I'm actually kind of hungry. You want to go get a pizza at Mario's?"

I took a deep breath, picturing it. Public place. Lots of people. He seemed to know exactly what I needed. After another deep, cleansing breath, I opened the door and said, more calmly than I thought possible, "That'd be great."

Mario's was a pizza-parlor-slash-bar. When we arrived at nearly nine o'clock, it took on more of a bar atmosphere. The lights were dimmed and neon beer signs glowed colorfully on the walls. The jukebox played oldies music and people talked and laughed loudly over it. We shared a sausage-and-mushroom pizza and, after eating, Tristan somehow convinced me to play darts.

He was excellent at it. I sucked. He seemed to be able to easily zero in on his target—several times I swore he aimed away from the bulls-eye to prove he could "miss." Most of the time I couldn't hit the board, let alone any specific place on it.

Tristan's close eye on me didn't help. He leaned against a table about halfway to the dart board and to my right, watching me with an amused expression. He made me nervous. I held the dart in my hand, up near my face, eyeing the board—no particular place, just the board in general. It's a big enough area. Surely I can hit it at least once . Just before I let the dart go, my eyes slipped to Tristan.

And the dart flew. And missed the board. By a long shot.

"Oh, oh, oh !" Both hands flew to my mouth. Holy crap! I stabbed Mr. Beautiful!

I stared at the dart lodged in his bicep. He raised his eyebrows with an I-can't-believe-you-just-did-that look as I hurried over to him. "I'm so sorry ! Are you okay?"

He grimaced. "I don't know."

I lifted my hand gingerly to pull the dart out. He flinched and I jumped back.

"Don't touch it! Aren't you supposed to leave these things for the doctor to remove?"

I fretfully bounced on the balls of my feet. "Then what do I do ?"

The grimace disappeared and a huge grin spread across Tristan's face as he easily plucked the dart out of his arm. He leaned forward and whispered, "You can kiss it and make it better."

I narrowed my eyes and scowled at him. He burst into laughter.

"I'm…sorry…but…you…should've…seen….your face!" He nearly fell over from his belly laughs.

I crossed my arms against my chest and glowered at him. I couldn't hold it for long, though. He was laughing so hard and he was so dang irresistible. I couldn't help it. I started laughing, too.

"I am seriously sorry," I said again once we regained our composure. "I can't believe I did that. Are you really okay?"

He lifted his sleeve. The only evidence of my assault was a miniscule hole, though I was sure the steel-tipped dart had pierced at least half an inch, maybe more, through his skin. I exhaled with relief, expecting it to be worse.

"I think I'll live," he said, grinning. "But you are rather dangerous. Let me show you how it's done before you really hurt someone."

He stood close behind me and tried to teach me the proper way to hold the dart and when to let it go, but the electricity distracted me every time he touched me. We laughed at my absurd technique. I had more fun than I'd had in a long time—maybe ever.

When he slid the bike into the driveway a little after midnight, though, the panic started to set in again. Not like earlier, but enough to make my stomach flutter.

"Did you have fun?" Tristan asked as he walked me to the door.

"Yeah, I did. Thank you." I watched the ground.

"My pleasure. Maybe we can do it again sometime?"

I took a breath to steady my nerves and looked up at him as we stood on the front porch. "Hmm…you're brave."

He chuckled. "I'll just be sure to stand behind you next time."

"You saw my throws. That doesn't guarantee anything."

"Yeah, you're right." He smiled. "But I'll take my chances."

My heart raced as I looked into his sparkling eyes and wondered if he was thinking about kissing me.

"I better let you get some rest," he murmured.

"Mmm, yeah. I do have to open the store in the morning."

He held my gaze for a moment and then cupped his hand gently around the side of my face. My skin tingled. Then he leaned over and ever so lightly brushed his lips across my cheek, then whispered in my ear, "Good night, ma lykita ."

I closed my eyes as the sensations washed over me—his smell, the warm breath on my ear, the electric touch on my face.

"'Night," I breathed. He let go of me and when I opened my eyes, he was already half-way down the walk. Electricity still pulsed on my skin and throughout my body. Part of me wanted to call him back, but, with a heavy sigh, I turned and went inside instead. And I realized I didn't get to ask what he called me. It couldn't be bad, but it was annoying not to know. It had sounded like something in French. I made a mental note to research it.

The two-bedroom cottage was quiet and usually comforting. It was one of the few places we lived that actually felt like home. Usually, our moves required leaving everything behind except the bare necessities. Since we actually brought our belongings this time, they were at least familiar, if not nostalgic. Mom decorated in browns and beiges, but with leather and wood furniture and chenille and silk throw pillows, the variety of textures kept it from being boring. Rather, it was cozy and calming, like "Mom's place" should be. And I was scared to death to be here alone.

I paced the cottage several times, mentally going through self-defense moves Mom taught me many years ago. They hadn't done me any good against those people last time, but I thought if I was ready for them now….

I whirled on a whispered sound, my heart hammering. It stopped when I did. Then I realized it was only my own feet sliding across the tile floor.

Feeling the emotional tolls of the day, I finally talked myself into going to bed. But while lying in my bedroom, my eyes wouldn't shut and my ears strained, my mind imagining various monstrosities lurking in the rest of the house. Eventually I curled up on the couch with all the lights on, and, somehow, sleep overcame me. I awoke several times, thinking I heard something outside, but when I listened, all was quiet and I fell back to sleep.

The store felt empty and ominous when I first arrived, but I came early to have a little extra time before opening. Mom kept a small office in the back room and I thought she might be more likely to hide something there than at home, where I might find it. I tugged on all the drawers of her desk and filing cabinet, but, of course, they didn't budge, locked against intruders…and snoopers like me. There were no loose papers on her desk and only one large, flat envelope in her inbox. She was annoyingly organized.