Every Vow You Break

by Peter Swanson

  EVERY

  VOW YOU

  BREAK

  A NOVEL

  PETER

  SWANSON

  For Charlene, once again

  CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Every Vow You Break

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by Peter Swanson

  Copyright

  EVERY VOW YOU BREAK

  CHAPTER 1

  She first spotted him at Bobbie’s Coffee Shop on Twenty-Second Street. He was at a window seat, idly looking at his phone, a white mug in front of him. Abigail was on her way to the office for her half day, dodging pedestrians on the sidewalk, thinking about the wedding, wondering if maybe she should have invited her cousin Donald and his wife, whose name she always forgot.

  Her feet kept moving but it was as though her heart had skipped a beat. It was definitely him, same wiry frame, same beard, same high cheekbones. Even through the glare coming off the plate-glass window, she recognized him right away. And she also knew that he’d come to New York City because of her. He must have.

  When she made it to her office and settled down at her desk, her heart still thudding, she took a moment to consider all the possibilities. First of all, why was she so sure he was here to find her? She lived in New York, not some small town that no one visited. He could be here on vacation, here to visit friends, here for work. And even if he had come here to find her, how much did he even know about her? They hadn’t given each other their real names. She still only knew him as Scottie, and he knew her as Madeleine. She told herself there was nothing to worry about and tried to concentrate on work.

  But walking home, the nights getting darker earlier these days, she took a different route, staying off the busy avenues.

  She had no plans for that evening—Bruce was attending a work dinner—and she made herself an omelet, flipped through the channels, found one that was showing The Ring, the American remake with Naomi Watts. She’d watched it as a kid at a slumber party, and all the girls there had been traumatized except for Abigail, who’d fallen asleep in a brand-new world, one that had movies in it that seemed designed just for her.

  After the credits had rolled, she sent a text to Bruce saying she was going to bed, then quickly checked her emails, ignoring one from Zoe titled emergency wedding question and opening an email from an address she didn’t recognize titled simply, Hi.

  Dear Madeleine, I am sorry to write you like this so soon before your wedding, but I can’t stop thinking about you. If you don’t share similar feelings, then tell me and I promise to never bother you again. But if you do feel the same way, then maybe it’s not too late to cancel the wedding. The exact halfway point between New York City and San Francisco is Wood River, Nebraska. Maybe they have a Travelodge we can meet at? Just hopeful, Scottie

  She read the message through twice, an ache moving from the base of her throat down to her stomach. The email would have been bad enough, but she’d seen him earlier. In her neighborhood. Or had she? If he was really here, then why didn’t he say so in the email?

  He doesn’t want to entirely freak you out.

  He was here, and he was looking for her. Maybe he’d figure if she responded positively to the email, he’d say something like, Guess what, I’m actually in New York. Didn’t want to tell you because I thought you might be thinking I was stalking you. Ha ha.

  And maybe it was as simple as all that. He was here in New York for some reason besides coming to find her and decided to send the email. All she had to do was tell him that she was still getting married, and she’d never hear from him again. But another part of her was telling her that it was more serious than that, that he’d somehow fallen for her, and now he was stalking her. What other word described it?

  Also: How had he gotten her email address?

  Even without her real name he could have figured it out, right? Maybe he knew someone at the hotel who had procured it for him. Or maybe she’d said something to give away the identity of Bruce—he was a fairly public figure, after all. Either way, the fact that he now had her email address meant he knew her name, and she didn’t know his. His email address was simply bluestreakwp@yahoo.com, which gave no indication of his identity, unlike hers, abigailbaskin90@gmail.com, which gave up not only her name, but the goddamn year of her birth. She googled “blue streak” on the off chance she’d luck out, but there were too many things: a movie, a kind of fish, and several companies, even one in San Francisco, but it was for a catering place that looked as though it had gone out of business.

  She considered her options. Simply not answering him felt like the right thing, but somehow she knew he’d try again. Reluctantly she decided to send a reply, something as impersonal as she could make it, letting him know that his feelings were one-sided. She began to construct the email. Should it be dismissive? She didn’t think so. The last thing she wanted to do was piss this guy off. The message should be nice yet firm, unmistakably a brush-off. She also wanted the email to underplay what had happened between them in California, just in case someone else read it. There was no reason for her to confirm what had transpired. She grimaced to herself, realizing that she was acting like a criminal. She wrote:

  Scottie, it was so nice meeting you. Yes, my wedding is still on. Three days away, and I can’t wait. Thanks for thinking of me, and take care.

  She read it over about ten times, finally deciding that it struck the perfect middle ground between being nice and making sure that he got the message. She took out the “so,” worried that it might sound a little too positive, and hit send.

  Twelve hours later there was no reply.

  She told herself that was the last she’d hear from the stranger she’d slept with on her bachelorette weekend.

  “How many men have you slept with?”

  “Excuse me?” she said. “That’s none of your business.”

  “But it’s part of what we’re talking about, right?” he asked, leaning back slightly, reaching for his glass of wine.

  They’d been talking about marriage, or, more specifically, Abigail’s upcoming marriage—three weeks away, exactly—and how she could only admit to being ninety-nine percent sure—“ninety-nine-point-ninety-nine, really”—that she was doing the right thing.

  “It’s not necessarily part of what we’re talking about,” she said, reaching for her own glass of wine, even though it was empty. He picked up the bottle to refill it.

  “Well, that’s like saying that sex isn’t part of marriage,” he said.

  “Have you met my parents?” she said. It was more of a joke than an actual observation. Her parents were separated; their version of a separation, anyway, which meant that her dad had moved into the small studio apartment above the garage.

  “My guess is you have very little idea about what your pa
rents get up to, or don’t get up to, in the bedroom.”

  He’d filled her glass too high, but the wine—a Pinot Noir—was delicious, and she took a long swallow. Slow down, she told herself, although she was also telling herself that it was a bachelorette party (it was her bachelorette party) and even though all her friends had disappeared somewhere in the haze of the previous hours, she was still entitled to drink some wine with the blue-eyed bearded guy wearing the vintage flannel shirt and the wedding ring. He was very Californian, she thought, with his bright white teeth, and some kind of braided leather bracelet with a green stone pendant, but she wasn’t holding that against him. They were in California, after all, on a terraced patio surrounded by an olive grove. Abigail moved her Adirondack chair a little closer to the dying fire.

  “That’s probably for the best,” she said.

  “What is?”

  “Not knowing what my parents get up to in the bedroom.”

  The man said, “That’s a good idea.” Abigail didn’t know exactly what he was talking about but then he stood, lifted his own chair, and moved it closer to the firepit. “We’re the only ones left out here,” he said.

  “You’re just noticing that now?” she said.

  “I can’t take my eyes off of you,” he said, but in a mocking tone.

  “I don’t even know your name, do I?” Abigail said, worried, as soon as she’d said it, that he’d already told her.

  “If I tell you, will you answer a question?”

  “Sure. Why not?”

  “You already know the question.”

  “How many men have I slept with?”

  “Right. How many men have you slept with?”

  CHAPTER 2

  Abigail Baskin lost her virginity to a visiting actor at her parents’ summer theater in Boxgrove, a small town in western Massachusetts. She was seventeen years old, and the actor said that he was twenty-two. A few years later, however, she’d looked him up on IMDb after he’d gotten a couple of small roles on television, and discovered that he’d probably been closer to twenty-six. Not that it mattered much. She’d been ready, and he’d been beautiful.

  In fact, the moment that she’d seen him she knew that her longtime plans to lose her virginity to Todd Heron were out the window. She and Todd had been together since they were both fourteen years old, and Abigail had read enough adult contemporary fiction to know that Todd and she had already settled into a teenage version of a passionless marriage. They were best friends, made each other laugh, and had steadily progressed from a year of kissing to the occasional bout of sexual activity that included the proverbial “everything but.” These bouts usually ended in a conversation in which both parties agreed that the timing wasn’t right, or that the location, usually Todd’s parents’ semifinished basement, wasn’t, or that it wasn’t romantic enough. They began to plan scenarios in which they could each lose their virginity in an actual bed, and with the opportunity to fall asleep together afterward, no parents around. But Todd’s parents, his dad the chief of Boxgrove’s rarely used fire department, his mom a bookkeeper at the Congregational church, were never not around. And Abigail’s parents, who ran the Boxgrove Summer Theatre, were always around as well, working constantly, even during the months when there were no productions. They said they didn’t have the time to travel, but Abigail had begun to suspect that they also didn’t have the money.

  The summer that Abigail turned seventeen she and Todd had resigned themselves to the status quo, Todd working long hours—early mornings—at the local golf course, and Abigail working long hours—the evening ones—as a hostess at the Boxgrove Inn. Their relationship became a series of texts in the rare hours they were both free. And when Abigail wasn’t hostessing, she was helping out, as she always did, at her parents’ theater. Lawrence and Amelia Baskin were putting on five productions that summer, up from their usual three, including a revival of Ira Levin’s Deathtrap. Zachary Mason had come up from New York—all the actors came up from New York—to play Clifford Anderson. Abigail, despite many crushes on television stars and film actors, hadn’t realized just how much she had a specific physical type until the moment she first saw Zachary. He was tall and thin, with high cheekbones and mussed hair. He reminded Abigail of Alain Delon in Purple Noon, her current movie obsession, and when she first saw him, as she was getting the room ready for the table read, her stomach flip-flopped like she was a heroine in a cheesy romance. It must have shown on her face, because Zachary looked at her and actually laughed, then introduced himself while helping her set up the room. A little bit of the sudden infatuation immediately went away when she realized just how much he was like all the other aspiring actors that came here for the summer. He wore skinny jeans and had a tasseled scarf wrapped twice around his neck even though it was July, and Abigail could make out a tattoo on the inside of his forearm that looked, without her being able to read all of the words, to be some Shakespearean text.

  “Ah, the daughter,” he said.

  “They haven’t thought of me as their daughter for a long time. I’m their unpaid intern.”

  “Well, you look just like your dad.” It was the first time Abigail had heard this, since most people told her she looked like her mom, maybe because her mom, like Abigail, was tall and had dark hair. But Abigail did feel she looked just like her father. She had his large forehead, his downturned eyes, his short upper lip.

  “Is that a good thing?” Abigail asked.

  “Are you fishing for a real compliment?”

  “Of course I am.”

  There was activity in the hallway outside the conference room, a bustling of bodies and a few conversations starting up, and Zachary leaned in quickly to Abigail and said, “You are very pretty, but you’re probably only sixteen and I’m twenty-two, and I’m going to leave it at that.”

  “I’m seventeen,” Abigail said as the room began to fill.

  Deathtrap ran two weeks. It turned out to be one of the better productions of the summer; Abigail saw it twice, and was relieved that Zachary was not only good, but almost great. It didn’t hurt that he was playing opposite Martin Pilkingham, the soap actor who performed at least one role for Boxgrove every summer. Zachary and Martin had great chemistry. A critic from the city actually came up in order to review the play; “A Revival in the Berkshires Warrants the Drive” was the headline.

  Halfway through the production Abigail was sitting on her front porch, in the swinging chair, rereading Red Dragon, when Zachary wandered by along the sidewalk. She checked her phone, realizing it was later than she thought, and shouted out a hello that made him turn in obvious surprise. At least he wasn’t purposefully walking by my house in hopes of seeing me, she thought, as she came down the front porch steps. Although why that would make a difference, she didn’t know. They walked together at least two miles that night, the night getting cooler, Zachary talking about all the parts he’d almost gotten in TV shows and commercials. When he dropped her off, Abigail swung quickly into his arms and kissed him. He kissed back, and with his arms lifted her almost entirely off her feet.

  “I don’t know,” he said, his voice hoarse.

  “I do,” Abigail said, and half ran to her front door, not wanting to give him a chance to talk them out of what was happening.

  The wrap party, like all of Boxgrove’s wrap parties, was held in the basement tavern at the Boxgrove Inn. Abigail got there early to help Marie, the bartender, set up the platters of snacks, and in return, Marie poured Abigail what looked like just a Sprite, but with vodka in it. The night before, after the second-to-last performance, Zachary and Abigail had fooled around once again, in his dressing room. At one point, Abigail thought they were going to have sex, and she broached the topic of condoms.

  “You want to do this right here, right now, in my dressing room?” he’d asked. He already knew Abigail was a virgin because they’d discussed it.

  “I don’t care where we do it, I just want it to be with you,” Abigail said.

&nb
sp; “Let’s talk just a little bit more about this, okay?” Zachary said. “Are you a hundred percent sure? I’m going back to New York in three days, and you and I—”

  “You want written consent?” Abigail said, and laughed. Sexual harassment was all over the news, and she appreciated Zachary wanting to make sure, but she was ready.

  “I’m considering it,” he said, but laughed as well.

  After the wrap party Abigail had been planning on going home with her parents, then doubling back to meet Zachary in his room at the inn, but both her parents had left the party on the early side. “I’m exhausted, honestly, Abigail,” her mother had said. “But you stay here. You’re young.” Abigail, who didn’t want to get too close to her parents in case they smelled the vodka on her breath, waved goodbye as they climbed the stairs to the street level. Then she returned to the booth where Martin Pilkingham was holding court and drinking scotch. She’d known him her whole life, and he felt more like an uncle to her than her actual uncles.

  Toward closing time, the bar mostly empty, Zachary, gripping a pint of Guinness, pulled Abigail into a dark corner of the pub. She could smell the alcohol on his breath as he touched her face. “It feels so wrong, but it feels so right,” he said.

  It was his hand on her face, and not the words, that made what he’d said sound like he’d memorized a script, that caused her knees to go temporarily weak. He took her arm and they walked through the winding hallways of the inn to his room.

  She never saw Zachary again, except in an episode of Law & Order: Special Victims Unit, and a terrible indie horror film called The Ghosting. The day after the wrap party Abigail went for a run with her friend Zoe and told her all about it. But what she really wanted to do was tell Todd; he was her friend, after all, and it seemed wrong that she couldn’t tell him about this momentous occasion.

  She made a date with Todd to get lunch the following day, after his shift at the golf course, and she broke up with him, telling him she thought they should be single for their senior year of high school. He seemed somehow relieved.