Page 13 of The Worst Kind of Promise
I caress her cheek, beginning to believe that I might wither away if I don’t touch her. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner. I didn’t know what you would say. I was worried it would scare you away.”
“I’m just as much at fault as you are,” she says, her lashes kissing her brow bone as she stares up at me.
I show her some eyeteeth. “Then I guess we’re both big idiots.”
I manage to elicit a genuine laugh from her, and I’m pretty sure my heart grows two sizes just from hearing it.
Her hand rests over mine as she leans the slightest bit into me. “My brother’s going to kill me, isn’t he?”
“If he’s going to kill anyone, it’s going to be me,” I admit, and upon seeing the frown twisting her lips, I quickly fire back, “But it’s fucking worth it.”
Faye sighs out the weight of the world, which doesn’t seem humanly possible given how tiny she is (at least compared to me). I expect her to keep arguing with me, but she doesn’t. All she does is hug me, her small arms wrapping around me, her nose smushed against my pectorals.
I have no idea how something so simple, so ordinary, could bring me such immense pleasure.
We embrace for what feels like an immeasurable amount of time, until my stomach grumbles audibly and we break apart.
Faye’s eyes round in realization. “I cock-blocked your breakfast, didn’t I?”
“Maybe a little, but it’s perfect. I want to take you to breakfast. At a real dining establishment that sells full-sized sausages instead of mini wieners.”
She does a double take. “You want to take me to breakfast?”
It kills me that she seems so surprised, like she couldn’t understand why I’d want to spend every second of my time with her. I’m obsessed with this girl. I’d give her anything she wanted. If Faye asked me to make her a dining table from scratch, I’d make her that goddamn table, even with my one woodshop class worth of experience.
Butterflies skitter inside me, creating a small windstorm with how much they’re flapping their wings. “You’re spending the summer with me, Faye. Eating breakfast with me is a requirement.”
THE SISTERHOOD OF THE TRAVELING PROMISES
FAYE
Kit wasn’t kidding about taking me to breakfast. Nor was he kidding about the freakishly large sausages at Crêpe You Later.
It’s only a Wednesday, so the café isn’t too packed. Crêpe You Later is a staple in Philadelphia. Low-light sconces line the walls of weathered bricks, tables are draped in checkered cloths, and a motif of wired whorls intricately weave themselves into the backs of chairs. Sunlight fans across the wooden floors, spilling down from a huge skylight in the ceiling. A plant fixture hangs from the pyramid shaped glass, a forest of green vines twisting over an auburn-colored, potted rim. Today, the display case is overflowing with a variety of pastries, from brown-butter raspberry tarts to maple-cinnamon muffins.
I always stop here before heading to work for a pick-me-up. Usually by myself. But I’m not by myself this morning. I’m sitting across from a famous NHL player who has crowds of fans screaming his name. I have a classroom of kids screaming mine. Kit doesn’t belong here, just like I don’t belong in California. I’ll let myself have the summer, but the minute the leaves turn brown, this little fantasy of mine will be over. Kit and I would never work in the real world.
God. Never in a million years did I imagine this is how my life would turn out, in some weird situationship with my brother’s ridiculously attractive teammate.
“Earth to Faye?”
My gaze scrambles up from my strawberry and Nutella crêpe to reach Kit’s eyes, and I do my best to ignore the spot of cinnamon lingering at the corner of his lips. As if receiving some telepathic mind waves from me, his tongue peeks out to clean the skin, and I involuntarily squeeze my thighs together.
“Sorry, uh, I was just thinking.” I pick up my fork and stab at the golden-crusted flour, spearing a cloud of whipped cream in the process.
Kit digs into his one of many breakfast plates, piling up squares of crêpe, syrup-slicked strawberries, and a spoonful of freshly ground cinnamon. His whole spread takes up the majority of our table—three crêpes, a side of sausage, scrambled eggs, hash browns, and a giant glass of pulpy orange juice. And he’s already hoovered up most of it.
“Are you having second thoughts?” he mumbles through a mouthful of food.
The thought of consuming any more sugar makes my stomach clench. “No, no. I was just…”
“Because you can always back out, okay? I don’t want you to feel like you’re trapped. And I definitely don’t want to make you feel uncomfortable at any point.”
A wash of pink seeps into my cheeks. “I’m excited, Kit. Really. It’ll be good to see everyone,” I say, reaching for my water in hopes that it’ll cool my burning throat.
“You know it’ll be a two-day road trip, right?” Kit reminds me.
Two days. Two days being trapped in a car with the man who I want to ruin me in every thinkable way. It’s always been hard for me to have sexual feelings when it comes to guys. I haven’t even been sexually involved with anyone since the rape. But with Kit, it’s a different story.Everythingwith Kit is a different story.
