Jessica Martinez - The Vow

It’s better to let Mo think I’m sad about disappointing my parents.

We’re here. Mo stashes our skateboards in a bush while I grab a cart.

“What are we getting?” Mo asks.

“Small things. Small, light things.”

“I’m worried someone’s going to steal the skateboards.”

“No offense to your wedding gift to us, but I don’t think anyone would bother. Besides, they’re barely visible.”

We wander the aisles without a list or a plan, but we do fine with Mo’s stomach as our guide and a few last-minute additions by me to round out a meal or two. Or at least I think so until I see our purchases through the eyes of the middle-aged checker, whom I kind of know because her daughter was in my chemistry and English classes last semester. Angel hair. Pop-Tarts. Alfredo sauce. Wonder Bread. A bunch of bananas. Nutella. Chocolate milk. Regular milk. Frozen garlic bread. Cheese sticks. Instant mashed potatoes.

“I just realized we’re only buying white foods,” I whisper. “We’re going to die of malnutrition.”

“Nutella and chocolate milk,” Mo says. He has no whisper in his repertoire, so the checker can be open with her disapproving stare. “That’s team brown being well represented. And plus, we’ve got like ten boxes of cereal at home, and they are all fortified with stuff. I think.”

Out front, we’re reorganizing groceries when Mo says, “Crap, I forgot something.”

“What?”

“I’ll be back in a minute.”

“What did you forget?” I ask.

“Just something.”

I finish the reorganizing, trying not to think about what “just something” might mean—laxatives, jock itch medication, hemorrhoid cream. I can’t even think what else might be too embarrassing for him to tell me. He generally has no shame.

By the time he reappears I’ve divided everything into two light bags for me and two heavier bags for him, and I’ve eaten half a banana.

“You ready?” I ask, trying not to notice that every pocket on his cargo shorts is bulging.

“You want to see what I bought?”

“Do you want to show me what you bought?” I ask cautiously.

It’s then I really look at him, see the little-boy smile. He holds out his hand and opens one finger at a time, revealing a plastic egg, red on the bottom, clear on the top. Inside, something glitters. “It took me nine quarters.”

I take the egg from his hand and pop it open. It’s a ring, the color of grape crush and the size of a dime, glued to an adjustable plastic band. “Sparkly,” I whisper. “How many karats—no, don’t tell me.”

“And we also have a collection of sticky hands and princess tattoos.” He pats his pockets.

The ring is too small, even with the adjustable band, so I slide it halfway down my pinkie. “Perfect.”

“If you were five.”

“I’m young at heart.” I reach down, pick up the two heavier bags, and hand them to him. “Thanks.”

He shrugs. “I can’t have my wife wandering around without a ring, can I? No telling who might hit on her.”

“Does that mean I’m supposed to buy you a ring too so girls aren’t throwing themselves at you?” I ask, and shove the rest of the banana in my mouth and throw the peel at him.

He dodges it, picks it up, and tosses it into the trash. “No amount of bling is going to stop the ladies from doing that. Let’s go.”

I examine the ring one more time. The plastic is already digging into my knuckle. I want to say thank you again—less for the ring, more for just being Mo—but I’m suddenly fighting to swallow over the lump in my throat.

Mo’s staring at me. “Your parents are going to get over it.”

Oh, them. I nod. And for just a second I consider really telling him about my broken, smashed, trampled-on heart. Maybe I wouldn’t feel so empty if I could explain I think I may have actually been in love.

“They will,” he says. “They love you. They’re just playing hardball. Ready?” He steps on his board.

I grab my bags and follow.

I don’t like being weighted on wheels, without hands free to catch myself when the inevitable happens. The bags are practically even, but I still feel like I’m leaning left. All I have to do is let go of the bags if I fall. I know that, but I doubt I’ll know that while I’m actually falling. Not everyone has the same set of survival instincts.

But I don’t fall. Not on the surprise lip in the sidewalk, not on either of the two hills, and not even when we roll back through the parking lot and I see my Explorer parked in a visitor stall, my mother in the driver’s seat, staring off into nothing.

It’s only been a week. I’m not sure if this makes me a bad daughter, but I haven’t missed her, unless the heart lurch I feel right now counts. I’ve been too busy dying over Reed, too busy playing house with Mo, too busy painting pictures of weird objects from the apartment to chase the ocean out of my head.

She turns and sees me, then lifts a hand—a greeting, not a smile.

Is she waiting for me to go to her? I step off my board, but I don’t get any closer.

Mo swears under his breath.

“You should go up to the apartment,” I say.

He tucks my board under his arm and takes the bags from me with his other hand.

She gets out of the car and walks toward us.

“Mrs. Bernier,” he says with a nod.

She squints at the skateboards instead of looking him in the eye. “You don’t have a car?”

“Yes, ma’am. It’s over there.” He points to the Camry.

“It doesn’t work?”

“It works fine.”

“Mo’s just taking this stuff up,” I say.

He nods. “Nice seeing you, ma’am.”

She rummages through her purse, pretending to look for something so she doesn’t have to say good-bye politely, like she doesn’t know I’ve seen that move from her before.

I wait until the stairwell door clicks shut. “You could be nice to him, you know. It’s not like he has any family around anymore.”

“Is that why you married him? Because you felt bad for him? So you could take care of him? Girls who think like that don’t end up happy, you know.”

“Why are you here?”

“To help you.”

“I don’t need help.”

“Of course you do.”

“No, I don’t. I’m an adult. I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine. And adults don’t ride skateboards to the grocery store. You’re kids playing some kind of grown-up married-person game, and at some point you’re going to realize there’s a lot more to marriage than skating around and whatever else you two do together.”

I snort. Whatever else. This is the closest thing to a sex talk we have ever had. “Maybe my marriage isn’t anything like yours, but I happen to think that’s a good thing.”

She lifts her chin slightly, pulls her cheeks in so her face looks a little gaunter. The movements are all small, but I recognize them. I’ve hurt her. That familiar pang of guilt rings through me. I’m so tired of hurting her.

“I am here to help you,” she says. She may be wounded, but she’s always calm, like a bird with a smashed wing waiting for something worse to happen. “You don’t want to come home. Fine. I can’t make you. But your dad thinks you’ll change your mind faster if we sit back and let you sink, and I’m not prepared to do that.” She holds out the car keys. “Here.” The single word echoes through the garage.

“I don’t want it.”

“Take it.”

“No.”

“You can’t skateboard to school all winter long.”

“Mo has a car!”

“Then take this,” she says, slipping her MasterCard out of her wallet.

I shake my head.

“For when the car breaks down.”

“Mo has money.”