The Promises We Keep (Made for Love Book 1)

by Martin, R. C.

  “Yeah. I’ve got a couple. My first was my tramp stamp,” she says with a wink.

  “Really?” I ask with a laugh. “Can I see it?”

  She turns and lifts up the back of her tank top, revealing an image of a phoenix; the bird is outlined in black, with the tips of its wings—open wide across the small of her back—shaded orange and red. “That’s not a tramp stamp,” I murmur as I stare, taking in all of the intricate and delicate details. It looks feminine and yet it seems to speak of power. “That’s beautiful.”

  “Thanks,” she says, readjusting her shirt. “I’ll tell him you said so. Like I said, he’s amazing at everything he does.”

  There it is again—it’s like her voice changes whenever she talks about him. “Do you like him?” The words are out before I can stop them. When she snaps her head around to look at me, I can feel my blush crawling into my cheeks. “I’m sorry. That’s none of my business.” I avert my gaze from hers as I rewind my way through the last couple hours and quickly replay the evening. She might talk about him endearingly, but she doesn’t act as if she likes him. In fact, it was Logan who was flirting with him all throughout dinner.

  “What makes you ask that?” she inquires, interrupting my thoughts and pulling my attention back on her.

  “It’s silly,” I say with a shrug as I reach for the end of my ponytail to fidget with my hair. “These days, I just imagine everyone is in love. The way you talk about him…I don’t know. You sound close to him.”

  “I am,” she states, matter-of-factly. “There’s no one closer.”

  “So, wait,” I stammer, now confused. “Are you together?”

  “No,” she answers with a small, sad smile.

  She has officially kicked the hornets’ nest that is my inner hopeless romantic and my curiosity has been set ablaze. “Does he not reciprocate your feelings?” She studies me for a moment without responding. I stare back into her brown eyes, decorated in various shades of blue eyeshadow that I’m still having a hard time believing she can pull off so well. Who pulls of blue eyeshadow? I mean, really? She an anomaly. I shake the thought away when I realize that silence has wedged its way between us. “Sorry. Again, none of my business. I don’t mean to pry.”

  “It’s complicated,” she speaks softly. “We’re two very broken people. Sometimes love can’t fix what is broken.”

  Her words break my heart. I’m not sure that they would have a week ago; I’m confident I would have felt bad for her or sympathized for her, but I don’t think that her admission would have stirred the ache that permeates my chest just now. I know why without even thinking about it. Sonny.

  I know our love is new—everything about us is new, aside from our friendship—but with every day that goes by, I can’t imagine not having what we have; not being able to experience our relationship to the fullest, like we are now. It sounds like Daphne and Trevor are in love—but they aren’t doing anything about it, or they think that they can’t because they’ve been hurt in the past…whatever that looks like. Sonny’s been hurt, too, and yet…

  My body starts to tingle in that way it does when I know I should talk to someone about God. It’s not the most comfortable sensation, because it’s not exactly a topic of conversation everyone is open to; but for some reason I’m feeling more brave in this moment than timid, so I ask, “Do you really believe that?”

  “Yeah. I really do.”

  “What about God’s love? Do you believe in that?”

  “Ah,” she begins with lopsided smile that seems to showcase her condescending attitude toward the topic. “Now you’re starting to sound like my brother.”

  “So you don’t believe?”

  “Let me put it this way: God and I are acquaintances, not friends. I believe He’s there, but I’m not interested in a relationship.”

  “Why?” I ask, emboldened by her participation in this discussion so far.

  “In my experience, most of the Christians I know are self-righteous assholes who wouldn’t be able to define hypocrite if you dumped a truck load of dictionaries in their laps. If being one of God’s people means associating with them, I’d rather not be one.” She uses her fingers to air quote ‘God’s people,’ implying her distaste for the term—or perhaps the people themselves. I feel my mouth fall open into a silent ‘oh,’ unsure of how to respond to that. She saves me when she continues. “No offense. I know not all of you are like that…but something happened to me and it’s not easily forgotten, that’s all.”

  “Wh-what ha-happened?” I manage to stutter before I lose my nerve.

  “That, my friend, is another story for another time,” she says kindly before she disappears into the next available stall.

  Wow. How we managed to get from the subject of corn hole to God, I have no idea—but I find that I’m grateful for the moment. These situations don’t happen every day; or, at least, my eyes and my heart are not open to see them or embrace them every day. I know there is more to her story that I’ll have to wait to hear, but my patience—and my surprising persistence—is derived from my genuine interest in this new person. She strikes me as someone who makes new friends out of habit and I like that about her and hope this isn’t our last meaningful conversation. She’s different than anyone I’ve ever met, but in the couple times that I’ve hung out with her, I find that I do enjoy her company.

  After we both get a chance to use the restroom, we stop at the bar so that Daphne can grab another beer. As we wait, she tells me more about the band that we’re about to see. Apparently, they are a folk rock band that has been growing in popularity around Fort Collins over the last few months. It doesn’t surprise me that she knows so much about them, as she strikes me as someone who is really into music. She confirms my suspicions when she gushes about her love of the local music scene. When I tell her that I share in her appreciation for music and that I play the cello, she tells me that she knows a couple of bands off the top of her head that she thinks I might really enjoy and she makes me promise that I’ll come along to see them in concert over the summer.

  As we make our way into the growing crowd that fills the patio, I try to look over and around people to spot our group, reprimanding myself for picking my flat sandals instead of my wedged ones with the platform heel. Then I see him. Or, rather, I see his gorgeous head full of dark auburn hair. My heart begins to race with anticipation as I point him out to Daphne. When I turn from her to look back at him, I see Logan appear at his side. My feet stop moving as I watch her lift herself up on her tiptoes and brace her free hand on top of his shoulder so that she might speak directly into his ear. I don’t have to hear the words she’s saying, I can tell just by the way she presses her body against his arm that she’s flirting.

  “Seriously?” I huff.

  “What?” asks Daphne, who stops at my side and follows my gaze.

  “What is it with her?”

  In the last couple of hours, I have watched that girl flirt with Trevor, Beckham, and now Sonny. I’d bet my right arm that she was flirting with Jackson while Daphne and I were in the bathroom. Knowing what I do now about Trevor’s complicated relationship with Daphne—albeit my knowledge is very, very slim and vague—it makes me even more mad that she kept touching him and laughing at his jokes all throughout dinner. Granted, I was laughing at his jokes too, but that was so not the same thing. Then, of course, seeing her throw herself at Hammy was no walk in the park, either—even though it did up my corn hole game—but now this?! She knows he has a girlfriend!

  “Are you talking about Logan?” asks Daphne with a furrowed brow of confusion.

  “Yeah. She practically flirts with anything that breathes!”

  Daphne laughs and continues walking, tugging me along by my elbow. “Actually, she only flirts with anything that breathes and has a dick. It’s just in her nature. You get used to it.”

  “It’s rude!”

  She grins at me from over her shoulder. “Feisty Avery! I like it.”

  Sudde
nly incredibly anxious to reach Sonny, I quicken my pace. Daphne has to let go of my elbow as I take advantage of my small size and force my way through the crowd that separates me from my man. Sonny spots me just as I make my way around the last obstacle between us and as our eyes meet, I forget about Logan almost entirely. He turns to address her, saying something I don’t hear while he keeps his eyes trained on me, and then his arms are around my waist and his lips are pressed against the side of my neck just below my ear.

  “Hey, Shorty.” His voice rumbles against my skin and I have to hold onto his arms to keep myself upright as my knees grow weak.

  “Hey, Hottie,” I say with a grin. “I’m so glad you’re here.”

  “Me too. I missed you.” As he speaks, he kisses his way down my neck and then back up again, mapping a trail of affection all the way across my cheek.

  “I missed you.” My stomach starts dancing when his lips finally meet mine.

  “Looks like you win,” Daphne whispers in my ear. I turn to look in her direction and she offers me a wink before she goes to occupy the space beside Trevor.

  The band is announced and the music starts immediately. I can tell right away that I like their sound—mostly because they've managed to incorporate a banjo that adds a bit of twang to their rock and roll. I turn to face the stage, which is far enough away that I can actually see the musicians, and Sonny wraps his arms around my shoulders as he hugs me back against his chest. Here is my favorite place to be, I think to myself as I enjoy the moment and everything that’s in it—the music, the majestic setting that is the end of dusk, the warm night air, the crowd, my friends, and the man that I love.

  This is my summer.

  Part way through the set, my eyes wander and I see Trevor has his arm wrapped comfortably around Daphne’s waist. I watch as they bob their heads in unison to the music. Then he speaks into her ear and she laughs at something only she can hear. I think back to our previous conversation and wonder about them—about what makes them broken. I know that I can’t fix them, but my heart aches for the hurt that I assume exists in the realm of complicated. I’ve seen it first hand, with Addie and Hammy; their story may be different, but it gives me a really good idea of what complicated looks like. Even though I know I can’t fix Daphne and Trevor, I believe that I can help them by praying for them. It might not be much and it might not be enough, but it’s something and my heart is begging for me to do at least that, so I promise myself that I will.

  Singing on the praise team at Calvary Hill is usually such a blessing. I love that I can use my voice to help create an atmosphere of worship for people to enter into on Sunday mornings. In my opinion, the praise and worship part of service is the best part—it’s a chance for everyone to love on Jesus as they sing or dance or clap or lift their hands in honor of Him. Being on the platform, I can look out and see the congregation as they lose themselves in their own personal and intimate moments with God. Not everyone feels free or comfortable to worship and the sight of the stiff or uninterested always elicits a prayer from me that God might move in such a way that would break their resolve. But for those who aren’t afraid to participate wholeheartedly, I rejoice with them and I feed off of their praise. Except for today.

  Today was a struggle for me.

  It’s been four weeks since Beck and I broke up. When I woke up to get ready for church this morning, I didn’t really think about it. That’s how quickly our separation has become a part of my everyday reality. A month. I didn’t dawn on me, though, how crazy that is until I was on the platform and we were in the middle of a worship song. I looked out into the congregation and I saw him lost in his own moment; his head was bowed, his hands were clasped together and pressed against his lips, and he was swaying slowly with the beat from side to side. Seeing him like that—looking vulnerable and clearly immersed in a moment of prayer—my love for him unleashed my longing for him that I have been trying to cover up with my understanding. Needless to say, my worship shifted then; shifted from a time of worshiping God to a time of pleading with Him to hurry this whole breakup crap along—to do whatever it is that He needs to do in Beckham so that I can have him back.

  I was distracted for the rest of service. I didn’t cry, which I am proud of, but I didn’t pay attention to a single thing Pastor Doug said. Instead, I pulled out my journal and wrote an entry to Beck, pouring out my heart in that moment. I thought the hardest part about being friends with him would be the lack of our physical connection—holding hands, hugging, kissing—just the little things that we got so used to doing without thinking. Turns out, that’s not the hardest part for me at all. Yes, I get to still see him—not as often as I’d like, but I’ll take what I can get—it’s just that I never get to be alone with him. Our conversations over the last four weeks have been far from intimate. I miss talking about our future or about things that we’re experiencing as we continue to grow up and live life. I miss discussing things that we might be struggling with. I miss our wordless conversations that we'd have with just a look or a sigh. I hate that he’s on this journey that I’m not allowed to be a part of—a journey that he feels he needs to do on his own. Plus, I don’t like being on my own journey by myself.

  When service ended, even with the pages of my journal I unloaded on, I didn’t feel up for a lunch outing with everyone. Luckily, Beck had to get to work and Sarah felt like a nap, which left only Ave and Gray—and they’re so crazy in love they wouldn’t notice if we all decided to join them for lunch or not. That’s how I find myself alone on this Sunday afternoon, sprawled across my bed with a novel in one hand and a peanut butter and jelly sandwich in the other. I grumble only slightly when my phone begins to ring and I have to set down my book and reach over to grab it from off of my nightstand.

  My heart drops when I see who’s trying to reach me. I haven’t spoken to her since Beck and I broke up, and I suddenly feel like an awful person for it.

  “Hello?” I answer as I sit up.

  “So you are alive! Good grief, woman! Just because you and my brother are broken up, or whatever, doesn’t mean you’re allowed to break up with me.”

  I smile, because I can’t help myself. I’ve missed the sound of her voice. “I know, Kenz. I’m sorry. I’ve been a terrible friend. Will you forgive me?”

  “A terrible sister, which is even worse by the way…but yes. You’re forgiven.”

  “So, how have you been?”

  “Me? Hunky-dory—aside from the fact that I feel like my brother has gone temporarily insane and I’m too far away to smack any sense into him. Now he’s ignoring most of my calls because he’s sick of having to explain himself. Just wait until he comes down for his next visit.”

  I giggle, comforted by her overwhelming amount of love for me. My amusement disappears almost just as fast as it arrives when I’m struck with a thought that hadn’t occurred to me until just now. What if Beck and I never get back together and I lose his family, too? His mom and dad and Kenzie are my second home!

  I force myself to not follow that train of thought. I remind myself that I’m living in the realm of trust and I can’t allow what ifs to plague my thoughts anymore. If I do, all the trust in the world won’t stop me from receding into the realm of depression, ruled by fear.

  I take a deep breath before I force myself to respond. “Kenzie, maybe give him a break.”

  “Excuse me?” I can hear her arched eyebrow through the phone.

  “It’s just…it’s complicated. He’s doing what he feels is best.”

  “B.S.! Why are you defending him, Addie? Are you okay with all of this?” She doesn’t give me a chance to respond before she continues with her rant. “This is crazy. You two are meant for each other. Everybody knows it. You’ve been together for a quarter of my existence, for crying out loud! If you don’t get back together, I’ll never speak to him again—because it’ll be all his fault and I’ll always blame him for ruining everything and robbing me of my hope of ever finding a love like yours—”r />
  “Whoa, whoa, whoa! Kenz! Stop.” She obeys and I have to take a breath. Her outburst, on top of my already fragile state, just about pushes me over the edge; and the tears I was proud of holding back earlier are crawling their way up my throat. It kills me that the outcome of my relationship with her brother could possibly rob her of her hope of finding a love like ours.

  For a second, my thoughts drift toward Roman—Roman and Kathryn. I wonder how their breakup affected their families and friends. I never thought to ask. The shift in my relationship with Beck has been so difficult, it’s hard to imagine how it touches anyone else but him and me. Our friends, who have been here to watch this whole thing unfold, they have a different vantage point than most. They’re all really supportive. But there is a difference between friends and family, isn’t there? Friends can keep both of us, no matter what—but what about family? Does Roman keep in touch with Kathryn’s parents? Did she have siblings he was close to? Or was Kathryn close with Daphne?

  I shake my questions away. This isn’t about them. In this moment, it isn’t about anyone except for Kenzie and me. “Listen, no matter what—you’ll always have me, okay?”

  It takes her a minute to respond. When she does, she sounds so down that I can no longer stop the tears. “Okay. But…you know it’s not just me I’m worried about, right? He’ll never be the same without you.”

  The wound that was inflicted four weeks ago by way of our breakup—the one I’ve been covering up with novels and yoga and brownies and pineapple-upside-down pancakes and work and new friends—it feels as though it’s been ripped open, my pathetic bandaids rendered useless by her words. I can’t take it. I just…can’t. “Kenz?” I manage. “Can we not talk about it? Please? Can we talk about something else? Anything else?”