The Promises We Keep (Made for Love Book 1)

by Martin, R. C.

  I think I know, now, what it feels like to fly.

  I kiss her again, gently this time, before I pull away and align my gaze with hers. “I love you, too, Avery.” I hear her breath hitch in her throat and a grin slowly pulls at my lips.

  “Am I dreaming?” she whispers. “Dear Lord in heaven, please don’t let me be dreaming.”

  I chuckle, bringing my face so close to hers that I can feel the warmth of her breath against my lips. “You’re not dreaming,” I say, sealing my promise with a kiss.

  This time, we do get lost in each other. As we explore one another’s mouths, she shifts and maneuvers herself so that she’s wrapped around me—her legs around my waist and her arms around my neck; her chest pressed tightly against mine. The feel of her small, perfect form clinging to me demands me to acknowledge that choosing to pursue her is the second best decision I’ve ever made in my life—the first being accepting Christ into my heart, which I’m sure has brought me to this moment—this declaration of love. No matter what, I will treasure and protect this woman; this woman who gives before she takes.

  We manage to stop kissing as the sound of the gravel lot filling with more people permeates our little bubble. I’m vaguely aware that it’s almost dark out and the first movie will start soon. Mostly, though, my attention is glued to the face in front of me. “Happy birthday, beautiful.”

  My eyes see the images that flash on the big screen in front of us, but I don’t actually watch the movie. I’m only aware of one thing: the feel of Grayson’s body wrapped around mine.

  After we pry our lips away from each other, I let him go long enough to tune the radio to the appropriate station so that we can hear the movie. While the opening credits introduce us to the stars of the film, he situates the pillows and props himself against them before inviting me into the space between his legs. As I sit with my back pressed against his front, his strong arms locking me in place, everything else seems to fade away; except for the warmth of his body, the scent of his body wash mingled with the fresh smell of his laundered clothes, and the memory of the moment when he first told me he loves me.

  “Say it again,” I whisper, for the second time.

  He tilts his head and kisses my temple before he says, “I love you.”

  Tingles race all the way from the top of my head to the tips of my toes. “I love you, too,” I reply with a sigh. I’m so incredibly happy, right now, I might burst.

  I didn’t mean to tell him that I loved him. I’m not even certain that I was sure until he asked me if I meant it. I knew then, though. I knew—I know that the man who holds me is so much more than I thought he was; which is saying a whole lot, considering I thought he was pretty great to begin with. After hearing the story about his mom and the birthday cards, I realize that he’s been through worse than I imagined. Knowing what I do—knowing who he is now and who he aspires to be, it fills my heart with such joy and hope and love. Love, most of all. As we enjoy this night, I find myself thanking the Lord for him repeatedly. Not just for who he is in my life, but for his life—for the hedge of protection that God placed around him, enabling him to overcome his past, all that he hates talking about, in order to embrace his future. Not everyone is capable of that and I feel so blessed to be a part of his story.

  That fact that he reciprocates my feelings pretty much blows my mind. To be perfectly honest, I was still getting used to the idea that he had feelings for me at all! Even though we’ve only been a couple for eleven days—snicker-doodles, eleven days?!—the truth that I love him doesn’t scare me or worry me or freak me out. I’ve been on the brink of loving him for so long now, I just needed the tiniest poke to fall over the edge. But him? As he encouraged me to be honest about how I feel, I was afraid that if I said the words, he might put up a wall, effectively blocking my access to him as he called the police to report the crazy girl that is/was his stalker/girlfriend. I was not expecting to hear him proclaim his own love. Man, was that a much better response than what my fears had conjured up in my head. As I looked into his eyes after he expressed the sentiment, I saw something that I had never noticed before. I didn’t have to question him or wonder about his sincerity, because it was right there orbiting his green irises—on display for me to see. He loves me. I’m not sure why or how this came to be my reality, but I’ve got it tucked under my arm like a football and I’m running with it—fully prepared to stiff arm anyone who tries to take it away from me.

  During intermission, we both go to the bathroom. As we walk back to Hammy’s car, neither of us speaks. It’s a comfortable sort of silence. It’s as if we both understand that the most important words that could be said have already been spoken, over and over again, and any other simple conversation tonight is unnecessary. When we climb back into the trunk, he pulls me against him and I go willingly.

  “Say it again,” he murmurs before he kisses the top of my head.

  I smile before telling him, “I love you.”

  He traces his fingers along my cheek, stopping at my chin before he turns my face so that I’m looking up at him. His vivid green eyes seem to devour my face, making my stomach flip. “I love you, too,” he says before bringing his lips to meet mine.

  He kisses me slowly, which makes me feel all warm inside, and I twist around a little more, inviting his affection. Somehow or another we end up lying side by side, our mouths locked the entire time, never breaking our connection. He kisses me deeper but he handles me gently and I have to keep reminding myself to breathe. I feel like a teenager again, making out with my boyfriend in the back of a car, and I love it. I love him.

  We don’t see a second of the next movie—but I don’t mind. Not even a little bit.

  It’s been almost three weeks since the breakup. That seems to be how I’m marking time these days—like moms who don’t know what day it is, but they know how many weeks it’s been since they’ve given birth—except, I know that it’s Thursday. Not only is it Thursday, but it’s one of the last days of the month, which means we’ll be doing inventory at the bookstore for the next couple of days. Inventory time means I’ll be working night shifts so that I’m around to help the manager after hours; she likes to do the monthly task with me because I have a tendency to be so meticulous. I don’t mind. It is, however, the reason I find myself heading to Little Bird in the middle of the afternoon. I put in some volunteer hours at the hospital this morning and now, I could use a jolt. It’s also been a few days since I’ve written in my journal so I thought I’d kill two birds with one stone. No pun intended.

  Grayson and Jackson have done a pretty good job of keeping my spirits up the past few days. It’s not completely intentional on their part, but I appreciate it just the same. Their summer football training started Monday, so that has them both occupied in the morning and then again in the late afternoon. For Jack, the familiar routine has done wonders for his mood. That, and his weekend with Claire, seems to have rebooted him. For Gray, I know it’s Avery that has him humming. Yeah. Humming. Who knew? Football or no football, rain or shine, I guarantee it wouldn’t matter—just the mention of his girl’s name has him smiling without restraint and without shame. Suffice it to say, it’s kind of hard to feel sorry for myself when the energy in our apartment is so positive.

  There’s been lots of laughing, and joking around, and Avery. Lots of Avery. I never really noticed how well she handles herself when it’s just her and us three guys. She gangs up with Jack whenever he teases Gray, which is pretty hilarious; and while she falls asleep every time we turn on ESPN or power up the Xbox, she’s always up for whatever game we’re playing on the Wii. I guess with Addie and Claire around so much, I never had the chance to note how much Avery can shine all on her own, sans cello.

  In addition to the happy people who surround me, seeing Addie hasn’t actually been too bad. I haven’t been around her very much, outside of her birthday outing and church, but she seems to be doing fairly well. Ave tells me she’s keeping busy, which I can relate to, an
d reading a lot. That news is comforting. It feels like maybe we’re getting used to the idea of being just friends, for now, which alleviates my stress more than I thought I needed it to. I miss her. Of course, I miss her like crazy, and I look forward to any excuse to see her, but knowing that my decision hasn’t completely broken her is another affirmation that I did the right thing. Now I just have to deal with myself. It’s my own good mood, bolstered by busy and distracting days, that have kept me from writing; but I have a feeling that once I crack open my journal, things will be unleashed that I wasn’t aware I was hanging onto. That’s generally how it’s been, so far.

  The cafe is pretty quiet at this time of day, the hour too late to be considered lunch time and too early to be considered dinner time. There are plenty of empty tables for me to choose from, I notice as I make my way to the front counter.

  “Hey, I know you.”

  I smile at Daphne, who’s leaned casually over the counter. She’s in jeans and a faded t-shirt—I can barely make out the tops of the heads of classic comic book characters printed on the front, their bodies covered up with her black apron. I smirk as I wonder if she’s wearing something from the little boy’s section I might have worn ten years ago. Her pink bangs cover her left eye and when she sees me, she pushes herself up into a standing position and tosses her hair out of her face. “Hi, Daphne.”

  “Wow. Good with names, are we, Bow Tie?”

  I laugh and shrug. “Sometimes.”

  “Well, Beckham, I’m always good with names. It’s nice to see you. Can I get a drink started for you?”

  “Sure.” I order and as she makes my iced latte, we chat casually about our days. She seems just as cool now as she did the other night, so when I tell her that I’ll see her around, I hope that I actually do. As she helps the customer who arrives after me, I settle at a table near the front, by the windows looking out into the square just outside.

  Unsure where to begin when I open my journal, I decide to draft an entry to Addison; I write as if she’s sitting across from me and I’m speaking to her. It’s a good place for me to start as it helps me figure out what things have been on my mind that I haven’t been able to express—as the one person I would tell them to isn’t exactly available for me to unload on. It doesn’t take long before I’m so distracted by what I’m doing that I tune out everything else around me.

  This summer is not turning out to be anything like I planned it would be. I imagined months full of adventures with Addie and all of our friends, knowing that this is our last break before we’re confronted with what everyone terms the real world. After graduation, life will change—and while I plan on continuing my schooling, it’ll definitely be a transition. I’m pretty sure I’ll be moving; chances are, out of the ten medical schools I apply to, I won’t get accepted into more than two or three. Thinking about moving, after spending my whole life in Colorado, is both exciting and nerve racking. Add to that Addison and her plans. I have no idea where we’ll be next year, or if she’ll be moving with me or not. Dammit, I can’t even think about that right now…

  The point is, I knew this would be our last normal summer and I went and made it the opposite of normal by breaking up with my girlfriend. It’s so weird being single. Or…sort of single. I don’t even know what I consider my relationship status to be. I guess I’m single—isn’t that the correct answer? Not just because Addie and I are separated right now, but because she’s no longer my true north. As of this moment, I need to be worried about me. Too bad worrying about me means thinking about Addison.

  What does that mean?

  Thinking about her now reminds me of Roman. It’s the first I’ve thought of him since the night of her birthday, but jealousy pinches my gut as I picture him. It’s not that I don’t trust her; it’s not. What bothers me is that I know he gets to see her more regularly than I do. Claire was right, Addie is a catch and I can’t stop people from falling for her, which it looked like he might be doing. I don't know him from Adam, so I sure as hell don’t trust him. It doesn’t matter how much I believe in Addie’s feelings for me—I can’t stop him for doing something I don’t approve of as the absentee-boyfriend. Ex-boyfriend?

  God—this is too confusing.

  I’m startled when someone sets a drink on my table, right in front of me. My head snaps up, following the hand that sits on top of the cup, to the arm it’s attached to, and then to the body, and then…

  “Logan,” I say, sitting back in my chair. I notice that she’s wearing workout clothes—her shorts and tank top hugging her like an extra layer of skin, accentuating her slim, toned figure. Her blonde hair is pulled back into a ponytail and while I can tell she’s wearing makeup, it’s less than she had on when I met her, which somehow makes her appear…softer.

  A smirk pulls at her lips as she looks down at me. “Beckham. Fancy meeting you here. Mind if I sit?” Remembering her brazen attitude Friday night, I’m surprised she asks; so surprised that I find myself nodding lamely in reply. She accepts my nod as approval and sits down without missing a beat. “No work today?”

  “Um, I have work tonight,” I answer, trying to catch up. She’s made herself comfortable already and acts as if our chance run in was more than just chance. “You?”

  “Off, thank god. I needed the break.”

  The corners of my mouth turn down as I’m still feeling behind. Did she tell us about her job at Coopers? “Where do you work?”

  “Smitten Kitten.” She laughs at my confused expression. “It’s a vintage clothes boutique a couple blocks down from here. The store has been crazy busy this week, for some reason, and I’m so glad to be out of there for the day.”

  “Oh, okay,” I mutter, unsure what else to say.

  She sips at her frozen drink and a moment of awkward silence passes between us. I’m not really sure why she sat down, seeing as how we’re practically strangers who only just met at a bar a week ago, and nothing more. “What have you got there?” she asks, interrupting my thoughts.

  “Oh.” Instinctively, I place my hand over the pages of my open journal and slide it closer to me. “Nothing.”

  She lifts a perfectly sculpted blonde eyebrow at me in disbelief and apparent amusement. “Your reaction says otherwise. Is that a journal? You write?”

  “I don't know what you mean by write, but it is a journal I scribble words in.” Her eyes grow narrow as she squints and smirks at me in a way that leaves me feeling uncomfortable. It’s not so much that I think she’s judging me; it’s more like she’s trying to figure something out. “What? Why are you looking at me like that?”

  “Mysterious Beckham…don’t get you briefs in a bunch, I think it's great. More people should express themselves that way.”

  Her response surprises me. Again. “Speaking from experience?”

  “I’ve been writing, Dear Madge, since I was ten,” she replies, curling her fingers to imply quotations marks around ‘Dear Madge.’

  “Madge?” I ask, my curiosity too great to be discarded.

  “Yeah. Dear Diary was far too cliché and common for me.”

  “So you chose Madge instead?” I ask with a chuckle. “Where did you even get that name?”

  “It reminded me of an ugly girl with no friends, you know? Pretty girls can always trust the likes of them with their secrets.” Now it's my turn to lift an eyebrow at her; and yet, for some reason, I’m not surprised by her comment. “Kidding! Geez,” she scoffs. “It was my grandmother’s name. She died when I was ten.” I relax my face in sympathy and offer her a nod, internally apologizing for my assumption that her original statement was legit. This, apparently, encourages her to share more. “I didn’t handle the loss well and I wouldn't talk to anyone about it. My parents bought me a journal and I’ve been writing in one ever since.”

  Wow. She has surprised me. Again. “You must have quite the collection by now.”

  “I do.”

  “Hey, you two. Making friends over here without me?” asks Daphne as
she pulls up a chair. The top of her apron hangs from her waist, which leads me to assume she’s on a break. I don’t know how my table turned into a hangout spot, but I don’t mention it, not wishing to be rude. “Shit, I’m sorry, you were in the middle of something,” she says apologetically, noticing as I close the pages of my journal. “Geez, LG, interrupt much?”

  “Look who’s talking,” she retorts with a grin.

  “I only came over because you were here first.”

  “LG?” I question. Hoping to interrupt their banter, I grope for the first conversation starter I can think of.

  Daphne pulls her focus from Logan and smiles at me. “Ever notice how there aren’t any nicknames for Logan? Well, I made one up. I’m kind of big on nicknames, for some reason.”

  I nod, a small smile tugging at my lips as I think of Avery. “I know someone else like that.”

  “Anyway—sorry for barging in. But since I’m here…I was just thinking, what are you doing tomorrow night? Are you working?”

  “No, actually. Why?

  “There’s a new brewery that just opened up this week. LG and I were going to check it out. Do you want to join us? You’re definitely welcome to invite some of your friends from the other night. It’d be fun to go in a group.”

  I think about it for a second. Immediately I wonder if Addie will be working, or if this might give me an excuse to hang out with her again. I'd bet anything she doesn't have any interest in beer, though. It's an acquired taste for most. Gray probably has plans with Ave—but Jack would be up for it, if he doesn't have anything else going on. It beats staying at home and playing video games. “Sure, why not,” I answer with a shrug.

  “No white horses, though,” Logan insists, emphasizing her command with a pointed finger. “Someone else will have to play responsible.”

  “I doubt I’ll be drinking that much, but I’ll keep your request in mind,” I assure her with a chuckle.