From Our First: A Promise Me Novel

by Carrie Ann Ryan

  I went to the kitchen to pour myself a glass of water and did my best to calm my nerves so I could focus on what was important. The idea that I was so scatterbrained annoyed me. I wasn’t always like this, and I couldn’t entirely blame Nathan for it.

  I looked around the kitchen and frowned. I needed to do another deep clean. A service came in once a month, but since I lived alone and didn’t have pets, I could usually handle everything on my own. It was only when I traveled for work or was busy on a project that I sometimes couldn’t quite keep up. Besides, the company I hired was a group of single moms who got together to help younger moms find a place in the world and finish school.

  If I could help others while keeping myself sane and my house clean, all the better.

  I pulled out my cleaning supplies and began scrubbing counters, cleaning grout, and then started my deep clean of the kitchen. It had been on my to-do list for the weekend, but it seemed I would be working out my frustrations today.

  I was elbow deep in cleanser when the doorbell rang. I frowned.

  The girls all had plans today, so I knew we weren’t meeting, and I didn’t know who else it could be. It couldn’t be Nathan.

  My heart rate sped up.

  He had come into my house once before to pick up that container for Dakota. All the other times he had been here, he’d only dropped me off when we took care of Joshua. He claimed it was because he wanted to keep me safe when our friends were in danger, but it was still hard for me to stomach having him so close.

  I made my way to the door and looked through the peephole. I froze, not quite believing what I was seeing. I looked at the cleaning clothes I had on, the smell of pine still drifting in the air.

  I tried to reach out to grab the doorknob, but my hand slipped. I held back a curse, wiping my palms on my jeans before I opened the door and looked at the three people who had never been at my house before.

  My mother looked at least a decade younger than she was. There was no way anyone would think she was in her fifties. I didn’t think she had ever had any work done, but for all I knew, she had. If it made her happy, I wouldn’t care. But nothing ever made my mother happy. I sure hadn’t.

  She was a couple of inches taller than I was and wore the perfect shoes for whatever environment she was in. Although, they always had to have a heel to make her calves look great. It was something she had taught me when I was a young girl as I slid my feet into her eight-hundred-dollar shoes and walked around the bedroom. She hadn’t laughed with me or encouraged me. She had scolded me and then showed me how to walk in them to accentuate my features and be the perfect young lady.

  I shifted my gaze to my father. He had gone gray at the temples and had a frown on his face. That was his normal look, though. It didn’t worry me. He always scowled. Nothing was ever good enough for my dad. I hadn’t been. Maybe because I wasn’t the son he had so desired. He had wanted somebody to carry on the family name. Instead, he had gotten a girl who refused to listen to him and tried to ruin the family name. At least, in his opinion.

  I looked over at my cousin, his dark hair brushed back from his face—a thousand-dollar haircut if I guessed correctly. He had on nice slacks, a button-down shirt, and looked his version of casual. Though I knew it was anything but casual given the name brands he wore.

  His Ferragamos were perfectly shined as if he hadn’t recently walked off a plane and was now in the mountain areas of Boulder, Colorado. The three of them looked so out of place, and I was surprised they even knew where I lived. Maybe they had looked at the return address on the Christmas card I had sent or something. They certainly never sent one back. And I hadn’t heard from them since I moved here after finally taking a stand.

  “Are you just going to stare at us, or are you going to ask us in?” my mother asked, her voice crisp and still so familiar. I nearly bowed my head and curtsied, but this was my home. I was going to stand up to them.

  I had loved my parents once. Had cherished them and did my best to live up to what they needed and wanted of me.

  But when I was broken, and they forced me back to California and tried to mold me in their image, I realized I wasn’t enough—I had never been.

  Even now, I didn’t think they thought I was, despite the fact that I knew who I was now.

  “I wasn’t expecting you.”

  “Clearly,” my father said, his gaze going down to my bare feet, my jeans with the holes in the knee and the thigh, and my T-shirt. I had gone from painting to cleaning, and I looked my version of casual.

  Which was nothing like my family’s.

  “Please, come in.” I didn’t want them inside. I couldn’t simply ask them to leave, though. I could, but there was no good reason.

  If they were here, it wasn’t merely to judge me. No, that would be the icing on the cake. This had to be an emergency. Or they wanted something. Regardless, this was my home. I could dress how I wanted, and after they left, I would call my friends, and we could have a bottle of wine—or four—and I could lament.

  I would not let my parents get to me or ruin everything.

  “Your home is...nice,” Roland, my cousin, said as he looked around, practically bouncing on his feet.

  I ignored the sneer in his words. “Thank you. I love it. It fits well into the mountainside.”

  “It’s very rural,” my mother remarked. “But quaint.”

  I nearly rolled my eyes but held myself back. “I was deep-cleaning the kitchen, so I apologize for the scent of cleaning supplies and my appearance. I wasn’t expecting you.”

  “Do you not have a cleaning service for that?” my father asked, disappointment evident in his tone.

  “I do, but sometimes I like to do an additional clean so I can clear my head. May I ask what brings you here?” I asked. They narrowed their eyes at me. “Not that it’s not a joy to see you, but it’s been a few years, and I didn’t know you were coming.”

  “We sent you a certified letter,” my mother said, and I frowned.

  “I didn’t receive it. You could have called. Sent an email. A telegram…” I trailed off.

  My father interrupted. “There’s no need for that tone.”

  “Okay, I think we started off on the wrong foot. Hi. Welcome to my home. Would you like me to show you around?” I asked, holding out my arms. I loved this house. I had made it mine, and while I might be a little more anal-retentive than some of my friends, I could relax here. And I did not want my parents and my cousin to jeopardize the sanctity of what I had built here.

  Only it didn’t seem as if I had a choice.

  “We are here now,” my father began, “and we don’t need to see your home. But there are a few things we need to discuss.”

  “Oh?” I asked, confused.

  “It’s about Grandma Sharon,” Roland answered.

  My heart twisted, and I took a step forward, my hand outstretched. “Is she okay? We have our scheduled call tomorrow, but I haven’t heard anything from her this week. We’ve both been busy. She always sends cat memes, but it’s been...I guess it’s been longer than usual.” Worry filled me, and I put my hands in front of myself, clasping them together.

  “Your grandmother passed,” my mother said, waving her hand in the air as if it weren’t her mother who died.

  I staggered back, placing my hand on my chest. “What? Grandma Sharon is dead?” I asked, tears filling my eyes. “When? And you came here to tell me in person? What happened?”

  “It was last week.” My mother fixed her hair even though not a strand was out of place. “She fell asleep and didn’t wake up. The funeral was two days ago.”

  Shock slid through me, and I took another step back, running into the armchair in the sitting room. I sank onto its cushions, trying to catch my breath. Grandma Sharon had been the one person in my family who always understood me. She had bought me my first paint set, had taught me how to work with watercolors and oils, and had taken me to different art classes when my mother said it was useless. She had
been the one to show me who I could be if I let myself. She helped me apply to out-of-state colleges when my parents were opposed. She tried to help me find my way when I came back from Colorado brokenhearted. We had drifted apart slightly when I moved back here, needing space from my family and wanting to be near Hazel. But we talked weekly.

  “How could you not tell me? Grandma Sharon is dead? And you already had the funeral? Without me?”

  “There’s no need to be dramatic,” my father chided. “There’s nothing you can do about it. There was a small ceremony with family.”

  “I’m family,” I growled.

  “Watch your tone,” my mother snapped.

  “No, this is my home. We’re under my roof. I can say whatever the hell I want to. I can yell if I want. You barged into my home without saying you were coming, and now you’re telling me my grandmother is dead? And acting as if you don’t care?”

  “Of course, I care, Myra,” my mother said. “She was my mother. But there’s nothing I can do. She’s dead. And you need to stop acting like a petulant child. You’re the one who left us. You’re the one who came back to this godforsaken state to be with the mountain people or whatever the hell it is you love here. You left us. You decided to cut the ties. And I’m sorry if we couldn’t bow to your precious schedule.”

  “How the hell could I bow to your schedule when I didn’t know the funeral was going to happen?” I asked, pain slapping me in the face. “You didn’t even call to tell me. And yet you flew out here? I don’t understand.”

  “Your grandmother’s lawyer set up the reading of the will here.” My mother’s voice was crisp. I simply sat there as my cousin glared, and my parents looked annoyed to be in the same room with me. They stood, hovering, and I felt walled off and as if I were two steps behind. I didn’t know what to do.

  “The will,” I whispered. “This is all about money?”

  My father snarled. “Life is about money, Myra. My mother-in-law set up the reading of her will to be in this state for some reason, even though she resided in California for forty years.”

  “But she was from here originally,” I whispered. She had been a huge part of why I moved to Colorado.

  “Why are you here, truly?” I asked, too tired to deal with my emotions. Everything hurt, and I wanted to be able to allow myself to feel that, but I couldn’t do that while they were watching. I had never been able to, and now, it was only worse.

  “The reading of the will is next week. We are staying in downtown Denver. We’ll give you our information. You need to be at the will reading since you are listed as a beneficiary. You are required to be there.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Just give me the information, and I will see you there. I don’t know why you didn’t tell me when it happened.”

  “Not everything is about you, Myra,” my mother spat.

  “I see,” I whispered.

  “It’s okay, cuz.” Roland smiled. “I didn’t know you didn’t know about Grandma, but you know she loved you the most. She’ll take care of you.”

  I looked over at Roland, wondering what he expected me to say. We had never gotten along, but he had never been cruel to me like some of my other cousins had. He was nothing but a rich boy who worked for his dad and liked the money that came from his mother—my mother’s sister. He was probably waiting on a large inheritance from Grandmother to help fulfill his next phase of life. I didn’t care. I had money from the other side of the family. And from work. What I wanted was my grandmother. And here I was, not even allowed to grieve. Not yet, at least.

  “Hey, the door was open, are you okay?”

  I turned, nearly falling out of my chair at the sound of Nate’s voice. He walked in, his eyes wide as he looked at me. And then they narrowed into slits as my parents turned as one to face him.

  “Nathan,” my mother bit out.

  I looked between them, confused. “Wait, you know each other?” I asked.

  “Of course, we know each other,” Nate said. “They’re the ones that showed me the photos of you cheating on me.”

  I looked at him, and my world tilted on its axis as I turned to my parents and finally understood.

  “What the hell?” I asked.

  Though I was afraid I already knew the answer.

  Chapter 7

  Nate

  * * *

  I stood in Myra’s sitting room, wondering if I’d somehow crossed a portal into the past. One of the worst moments of my life was now staring back at me in full force.

  Her parents might look slightly older—not much, if I were honest—but they had the same expression they’d had the last time I saw them.

  Disappointment.

  Anger.

  Pity.

  And, once again, I didn’t know which of the three were for me and what was for Myra. Probably a mix of all of them.

  Myra looked at her parents and I had a feeling I’d fucked up. Not now. Not in this moment. But years ago. I looked between them and I knew I’d been decided, and I’d made the biggest mistake of my life. A colossal misstep that I’d never be able to come back from.

  “What the hell?” Myra asked, her hand shaking at her sides.

  “Myra, what did I say about that tone?” her mother snapped. I took two striding steps forward to stand at Myra’s side. We may have been on opposite sides of many encounters recently. But right now, I was on her side. I didn’t know why. I didn’t know what would happen next, but something was going on. What I did know was that I did not want to be in the dark.

  “I told you before, this is my home. How do you know Nate?”

  “It was a long time ago, Myra,” her father said offhandedly, waving off the entire situation as if he hadn’t had a hand in breaking Myra and me up.

  “No, it’s happening right now. How do you know Nathan?”

  “We met with him to make sure the family got what it needed.”

  My stomach churned, and I felt as if the world had crashed down around me. I couldn’t breathe.

  “Those photos were fake, weren’t they?” I asked, my mouth dry.

  “Photos? What photos?” Myra whispered, her face pale as I looked over at her.

  “Jesus Christ.” I gasped.

  “Stop being so overdramatic,” her father snapped. “Of course, we knew about the marriage. You two were far too young to get married. And who is this man? A Brady? No, Myra. You had to go off and marry someone so beneath your station that no one had ever fucking heard of him,” her father shouted.

  “What did you do?” Myra asked, her voice steady.

  Far stronger than I felt.

  I saw the younger man in the room smirk for just a second before his face smoothed to a carefully neutral expression.

  I didn’t know who the asshole was, but now he was a witness to whatever travesty was happening, and I honestly wanted to punch his smarmy little face.

  “The photos that you showed me of Myra with her boyfriend. Those were fake, weren’t they?” I asked, trying to keep my voice calm.

  “Again, what photos?” Myra whispered. “You showed him pictures of Alexander and me?” Myra asked. “How could you do that? What did you…? Why would you think that’s okay? Where did you get them? You faked photos?”

  Her mother sighed, pinched the bridge of her nose, and gestured around the room. “It seems we have a lot to talk about. And I’m not going to stand here without a drink in my hand. Since you never were good at making me a martini, I guess we’re going to sit and hash this out, and then I’m going to go and get a drink.”

  “No, you’re going to explain what the fuck is going on. Right now,” I growled, trying to keep my voice smooth—it wasn’t happening.

  “You don’t get to use those words with me,” her father said coolly.

  Myra snarled. “I will deal with Nate later, but right now, he’s allowed to say whatever the fuck he wants to say.”

  “Apparently, we’re all going to curse now,” her mother grumbled, sighing before draping
herself dramatically in an armchair.

  “You were too young to get married,” her father began. “You were eighteen years old, Myra. You had no right to go behind our backs and marry this white trash piece of shit with no future.”

  “You’re going to want to be very careful about how you speak to me and how you speak to your daughter.”

  “Are you threatening me?” her father asked, his eyes narrowed.

  “I should be the one threatening you,” Myra shot back. “I was eighteen years old, as you said. An adult. You had no right to stand in my way.”

  “You were a child.” Her mother sighed. “You went off to Vegas and married a little boy who didn’t know what he wanted.”

  “You’re going to want to stop talking about me in that way,” I said, my voice deceptively calm and casual.

  “And what are you going to do about it?” her father asked.

  I took a breath. “I want answers, and then you’re going to leave.”

  I looked over at Myra, knowing that I needed to say something to her. She deserved so much more than what I had given her.

  I was trying to keep up.

  She hadn’t cheated on me.

  I had lost the best thing in my life because I was a fucking idiot and didn’t question what I was told.

  I’d wanted to latch onto whatever truth I was dealt, and I had ruined everything.

  There was no way she would ever forgive me.

  I hadn’t given her a chance to explain.

  I had worked hard for so many years, trying to decide if I could ever forgive her. And in the end, I was the one who needed forgiveness.

  Dear God, she should hate me forever.

  No wonder I felt as if she already did.

  Her mother waved her hand. “You came out here on my mother’s whim.”