The Promises We Keep (Made for Love Book 1)

by Martin, R. C.

  “Don’t run away,” I hear Roman whisper. “Stay. Push through it.”

  He’s gone before I can respond. I think of Beckham and the ache in my chest overwhelms me. I’m betrayed, again, as my heart allows jealousy to twist Avery’s happiness into a reflection of the contentment I felt only a week ago. Now, here I am on the floor in a yoga studio having public meltdown number three. I want to run. I want to get out of this suddenly stuffy room and breathe in a deep breath of fresh air.

  Then I realize—Roman told me not to run. Before the thought even crossed my mind, he told me to stay.

  I don’t know why I listen, but I do. By the time I tune back in to what’s going on around me, everyone is in downward dog, again. I press myself up and join them. For the next fifteen minutes, I cry silent tears as I push away my flight instinct and stay to fight. I wouldn’t necessarily call my sticking it out as strength, more like endurance. As soon as the class ends with a collective namaste, I’m rolling up my mat as fast as I can so I can get out of here.

  “Addie, wait,” Roman stops me at the door with a hand on my shoulder. I turn just slightly but don’t look him in the eyes. I’m still crying and the only reason I’ve not made my escape is because he’s managed to physically stop me. “Wait for me outside.” I peek up at him from underneath my eyelashes as I reach up to dry my cheeks. “Just wait, okay? I’ll be out in a minute.”

  I nod reluctantly before I turn to make my exit. My curiosity is what makes me obedient. At this point, it’s not as if I can ignore his request, run away, and claim embarrassment when I see him later. He’s seen me cry way too many times for that to fly.

  True to his word, he emerges from the studio in no time; now he’s wearing shoes and a long-sleeved t-shirt that’s pushed up to his elbows. He holds his keys in one hand and his wallet in the other and he shoves both into the pockets of his gym shorts as he approaches me.

  “Come on,” he says without preamble. He starts making his way to the corner, leaving me behind. He catches on quickly that I’m not moving and stops to address me. “Come on,” he insists from where he stands, a few paces away from me.

  “What? Where?” I ask, still not willing to comply.

  “Across the street. Morning Glory. I'm buying you breakfast.”

  For a split second, all I can think about is the menu of decadent pancakes that exists across the street at the fabulous retro-chic diner. Mmm. Pineapple-upside-down pancake. With coffee. Lots of coffee. Then I remember how much Beckham loves their signature Nutella banana pancakes and my eyes well up. Stupid tears. Stupid, stupid, stupid tears. Why can't you just leave me alone for two seconds? At least long enough for me to make it home...

  “Oh,” I murmur, noticing that Roman is still waiting for me. “I can’t.”

  “Do you have to be to work?”

  “No,” I answer honestly.

  “Me neither. Let’s go.”

  I look at him and then across the street. The line to be seated is actually pretty small, which hardly ever happens. This must be some kind of magic hour. Even still, I don’t think—

  “Stop thinking,” he demands, pulling me from my thoughts. “I won't take no for an answer so there really isn’t anything to think about, aside from what you’d like to eat.”

  I adjust the strap of my purse over my shoulder and ignore his demand. I can’t help it. I have to think. Do I really want to go to a pity breakfast right now? That’s what he’s offering, isn’t it? “Roman, I appreciate the offer—”

  He chuckles as he makes his way back toward me. “I told you to stop thinking. See what trouble it has gotten you into? This is not an offer.” He circles his way behind me and places his hands on my shoulders before he begins gently pushing me toward the street corner.

  Emotionally distraught or not, I’m still appalled at his audacity. I was trying to be polite but now he’s kind of annoying me. “Roman, stop,” I insist, shrugging his hands away before I spin to face him. “I said, no thank you.”

  He doesn’t even blink. “And I say, you don’t get to cry in my class twice and expect me to brush it off like it’s none of my business. Once, maybe, but twice? After the mood you were in before we started? No. As your new friend, Mr. Yoga has decided to make this his business. So get your little butt across the street.”

  So many thoughts. Absolutely no words.

  He thinks we’re friends, too? How I feel is now his business? This isn’t a pity breakfast? Was he talking about himself in the third person? Did he really just refer to himself as Mr. Yoga? I stop my stream of questions long enough to take in the look on his face. I can’t help but notice that it is quite handsome, even though his usual smile is nowhere to be found. His eyebrows are lifted expectantly and his mouth is set in a straight line, clearly conveying that he doesn’t intend to argue about this anymore. In fact, his whole body seems to be sending the same message. Finding that I still have no words, I turn and make my way to the corner. He follows me and we cross the street together.

  The wait is fifteen minutes, unless we want to sit at the breakfast bar—which apparently we do. Roman leads us to two empty chairs at the far end. I take the seat closest to the wall, lower my things to the floor, and pick up the menu in front of me without speaking. I’m not sure if I’m upset or shocked or pleased or what. I do know that I’d like some coffee, which is what I tell the woman behind the bar who comes to take our drink order. I notice that Roman orders a chai latte but then I’m lost in my thoughts again, trying to figure out how it is that I got here.

  When the woman comes back—Stacey is her name—she asks what we’d like for breakfast. I order a pineapple-upside-down pancake and Roman orders a breakfast burrito. If I wasn’t so weary of striking up a conversation, I would scoff at his choice. This place has the best pancakes I’ve ever had in my life and he’s ordering a breakfast burrito? Really? I shake my head as I doctor my coffee and then take a sip. Yum.

  “So, are you going to tell me?”

  My eyes shoot to the man beside me as he finally speaks. “Tell you what?” I murmur.

  “Tell me the story behind the tears.”

  “Oh, I get a choice this time?” I ask, lifting an eyebrow.

  He turns toward me in his chair. “Look, sometimes I’m pushy. I would apologize for it if I was truly sorry, but I’m not. I’d like to be your friend, which is something else I won’t apologize for, and I already told you that I’m a good listener. I’m not hitting on you or trying to get in your pants, I’m just trying to offer you an outlet. It’s obvious that you’ve got a lot of things going on up there,” he says, pointing at my head, “and maybe if you talk about it you’ll stop crying. Maybe if you talk about it with someone like me, who is completely impartial, you’ll get a different perspective than someone like Sarah—who is obviously very close to you—can offer. And even if my impartial perspective isn’t helpful, I’ll at least know enough to be praying for you. Not sure if that’s your thing, but it’s my thing and I won’t apologize for that either.”

  So many thoughts. Absolutely no words.

  Who is this guy?

  “I’m Roman, remember?” he says with a grin.

  Crap. I said that out loud. But his smile is back, which is actually very comforting.

  I take a deep breath as I pull the hair tie from around my ponytail—it was suddenly feeling too tight. I rake my fingers through my hair as I try and collect myself. I feel like such a basket case. He's rendered me speechless twice in the last half an hour. He probably thinks I'm a basket case. Yet, even if that is true, he said he wants to be my friend. Ha—what does that say about him?

  When I manage to bring my eyes back up to meet his gaze, I find him looking at me. Oddly enough, his stare doesn’t make me uncomfortable. “I didn’t think you were hitting on me.” It was the first complete sentence to come to mind, and he seems to appreciate it, so I continue. “Why do you want to be my friend?”

  He grins at me before he answers. “Because you haven’
t hit on me or tried to get in my pants.”

  I laugh and the familiarity of this moment fills me with relief. He makes me laugh. That’s why I want to be his friend. Whether or not I want to spill my guts about Beckham, though, is still up for debate. I decide to ease my way into it. “My boyfriend and I—we sort of broke up.”

  “Sort of?”

  “Well, it’s complicated.”

  “I’ve got time,” he says, reaching for his chai. “Lay it on me.”

  I puff out a sigh and blow out my apprehension. “His name is Beckham.” Saying his name is like sticking my finger down my throat—gross, I know, but so true—because within the next hour, I’ve thrown up every last ounce of my broken heart and Roman knows everything.

  As I walk into Cooper's, my nerves are on high alert. I know Roman will be behind the bar and, after our “conversation,” I'm worried about seeing him. Turns out our “conversation” ended up being pretty one sided. I just kept talking and talking and he listened. His undivided attention made me want to keep talking. He only spoke when he wanted more details and, in my vulnerable state, I gave them to him. I can’t explain why, really, except for that it felt good to talk about it with someone who didn’t start tearing up every time I started to cry. I could never get through this without Avery or Sarah, but sometimes their sympathy makes me feel worse.

  When I was finished divulging the sequence of events that led to the awful day that was Sunday, he didn't have anything to say. He simply nodded as if he understood something I didn’t. His lack of response left me speechless—he’s apparently got a knack for that—and extremely self-conscious, which also made me emotional. Not that I think anyone can blame me. I mean, come on, how could he not have anything to say?

  I was placated only after he promised me that he would have plenty to say after he gave my story some thought. I couldn't argue with that; instead I spent the whole afternoon trying to read while I panicked over what I'm referring to as my hour of temporary insanity. As I sat around not reading, I also thought about the fact that while Roman knows every bullet point there is to know about my relationship with the love if my life, I know absolutely nothing about him. Nothing! Unless you count my knowledge of his yoga and bar tending skills—which I do not.

  “Addie!” Someone calls my name, effectively breaking my trance.

  “What?” I snap as I turn around to address the voice that beckons me. Good gracious, I feel like I’m PMSing. I’m not, I know I’m not, but I kind of wish I was so that I could blame all these emotions on my hormones. I don’t mean to bite, but now I’m so worked up about Roman that I can’t seem to control my temper.

  “Whoa.” Speak of the devil. He takes a step back as I face him, his arms filled with a couple racks of glasses to restock behind the bar. “What’d I do?”

  My initial instinct is to calm down, but then he asks that question and the answer gets me all riled up again. “Friendship goes both ways, you know?” I say, pressing my fists against my hips. “I told you way more than you should know, considering how much I don’t know about you.” He raises his eyebrows in surprise and then I see it—that look he gives me that tells me he’s not trying to trick or manipulate me. He’s an honest guy who means what he says. I calm down, realizing that he’s never done anything to me that says otherwise. I smack my palm against my forehead. “I’m sorry. You didn’t make me tell you any of the things I did over breakfast. I’m just freaking out. I’m not usually so crazy.” I cough out a humorless laugh when it hits me that all he was trying to do was say hello.

  Yeah. He may have just thought I was a basket case before—now, I’m sure he has no doubt.

  I turn to go and find Henry, sure that if I stay I’ll only continue to embarrass myself, but then he starts speaking and I stop dead in my tracks. “My middle name is Cornelius. My favorite color is orange. I love pineapple on my pizza and hate tomato on my burgers. I was engaged to be married once and I can’t help but wonder if Beckham is feeling some of the exact same things I’ve felt before. That’s why I needed time to process what you told me earlier. Oh—I also hate coffee.”

  He was engaged to be married, once? Talk about withholding information. I turn and face him, practically awestruck at his offering. I need a second to wrap my head around the idea that Roman Cornelius—last name still unknown—was engaged.

  “You hate coffee?”

  He chuckles as he lifts his load and sets it on a nearby table before leaning up against it. “Yes. Considering the way you downed yours this morning, I guess it’s safe to say that’s something we don’t have in common.”

  “What was her name?” The words tumble out of my mouth as soon as they pop into my head.

  His smile shrinks. “Kathryn.” Earlier, after I spoke Beckham’s name, everything else just came out; apparently Kathryn’s name does not have the same effect on Roman. I start to ask for more but he speaks before I can. “No offense, but now’s not really the time to talk about her. Not that I don’t think it’s fair that you have questions,” he continues, lifting a hand to stop my protests before I can even begin. “But she’s probably a topic best broached over breakfast. In the meantime, though,” he pauses as he picks up the glasses. “I’ll make you a deal. Every time you come to the bar for an order, you can ask me a question—any question—and I’ll give you an answer. Even up the scales a bit. Fair?”

  A small smile graces my lips as I give him a nod. “Fair.” I murmur.

  Throughout the course of the night, I learn quite a bit about my new friend. Like how he used to run track until he injured his foot; his injury was what made him start doing yoga. Now, obviously, he loves it. I also found out that he studied engineering at CU Boulder and graduated three years ago. I don’t ask him why he isn’t using his degree, sensing that might also be a topic best broached over breakfast, but it clued me in on his age—twenty-five. I was surprised to learn that he’s not much of a book reader, but he loves poetry. He also prefers hockey over football. I told him I’m not sure if we can be friends now that I know that. Football is pretty much the only sport that interests me—“And you don’t like coffee?”

  He laughs as he fills two glasses from the tap. “You’re going to have to let that go. Come on, ask me something else.”

  I pause and think for a minute. For most of the night, I’ve kept the questions light, knowing that if I asked something too personal he might not feel comfortable answering it while we are working. Nevertheless, there is one thing that I’ve been itching to know. “You listen better than most of the guys I know. Actually, you’re pretty insistent about it. Especially considering you hardly know me.”

  He smirks at me as he sets my order on the bar. “That’s not a question.”

  “How’d you get to be that way?” It’s an odd question, I know, but I sense there’s a story behind his I’m a good listener line. Especially considering it ended up not being a line at all, but the truth.

  He rests his elbows on top of the bar and leans toward me before answering. “I have a younger sister. Her name is Daphne,” he says her name with a grin, addressing the question on my lips before I can ask it. “We’re very, very close. She likes to talk—a lot. When we were younger—sometimes even now—she’d pinch me every time she thought I wasn’t listening. I got sick of getting pinched.”

  “Hmm,” I hum, grabbing the beers as a smirk pulls at my lips. “I think I like her.”

  My shift flies by and before I know it I’ve only got fifteen minutes before I get to go home. The Friday night crowd kept me busy and my frequent run-ins with Roman helped calm the anxiety I arrived with and put me in a really good mood. He ended up asking me a few questions throughout the night, as well. We talked about Avery, which reminded me about her and Grayson, lifting my spirits even more; and I told him about my plans to become a first grade teacher. Thoughts of Beckham are always present, but I tried to keep them at bay so as not to rouse the ache that had lessened with the distractions of the evening.


  “Okay—last question,” I say as I hop up and occupy an empty barstool. He turns from where he stands, wiping down a surface behind the bar, and indicates with a tilt of his head to proceed. “Earlier, you said praying was your thing. That could mean a lot of different things depending on what you believe. So, what do you believe? Or maybe who do you believe in is a better question.”

  “I believe in Christ,” he says matter-of-factly, studying me as I absorb his answer.

  I nod solemnly in an attempt to bait him before my smile breaks through. “Me, too,” I admit, too impatient to leave him hanging. “I guess that trumps your distaste for coffee and football. We can still be friends.”

  “Oh, thank God,” he jibes. “I was so worried.”

  “Well—I’m out of here for the night. Do you work tomorrow?”

  “Nope. You?”

  “Yes. I’ve got an early shift.”

  “Will you be able to make it to yoga?”

  “I wouldn’t miss it,” I assure him as my feet find the floor and I push in my vacated seat. “I have to see if I can make it through one of your classes without crying.” I say it with a forced smile because my tone might hint that I’m joking, but I’m not amused. By the sympathetic expression in Roman’s eyes, I can tell that he’s not either. I assume we’re both thinking the same thing—I’m completely serious.

  It’s still pretty early when I get home from the hospital and I find myself hoping that Jack has nothing going on tonight. I could use a bit of mind numbing video game hang time. I know it’s Friday night and that’s all the excuse Jack needs to head out for some fun, but he never extended an invite, which he usually does, so my hopes are high that his plans are to stay in. When I open the door, I immediately become aware of two things: Jack has no plans of going out, and we won’t be playing video games, either.

  He’s in the kitchen making himself a sandwich as he talks on his phone. Jack only talks on the phone with three people—his mom, his grandma, or Claire. I’m not sure who he’s talking to now, but I know if he’s grabbing a bite to eat, that’s a sign that he's planning to be occupied for a while. My money is on Claire. Or maybe his grandma, if he hasn’t gotten a chance to tell her about the engagement yet. Although, he seems to be playing listener just now. He spots me and jerks his chin up to signal his hello. I return the gesture and then shift my focus.