Forgotten Promises: A Novel

Read an Excerpt

Drew drove me tonight, picking up Shayna on the way. I thought he had been running late because he had to work. I now know it’s because he and Shayna had . . . ugh.

Idiot. Idiot. Idiot. Only the last “idiot” is meant for me. Because I was the biggest idiot here. I should have seen Drew’s and Shayna’s lies sooner. I should have recognized the way he’d been pulling away from me lately. The way Shayna didn’t talk to me as often as she used to. I should have held on to the friends who mattered and taken my father’s advice about going away to school.

Tears burn my nose and a fat, warm droplet spills down my cheek. Sure, now I’m crying. And what’s worse is there is no one to comfort me when I need it the most. I take one more look around the parking lot, seriously expecting a tumbleweed to blow by, before sniffling and wiping my tears away with my fingertips. I pull myself out of my pity party and grasp the handle of the door to the 7-Eleven.

Rapid-fire blinks quell another barrage of tears and I vow not to slide all the way into the depression spiral until I buy my gas station wine. I’ll take it home and run a bath and listen to Ed Sheeran, and then I can cry. Cry and sit in the water until I’m pruney and freezing.

My tear ducts comply, and soon I am streak-free and composed enough to go inside. I’m going to have to call a cab, though, because I am not hoofing it from here to my front porch in the middle of the night.

I step over the threshold, narrowly avoiding a wad of bubble gum smashed into the dirt on the floor. Lettering stenciled on the back wall announces wine and beer and soda over corresponding coolers. I walk directly to the wine portion and choose a bottle that meets my needs. This stuff will most definitely make me drunk. I figure it will also plague me with an epic headache in the morning, but whatever. Beggars can’t be . . .

My thoughts stall as I spot the only other patron in the store with me. From my angle behind a rack of potato chips, trail mix, and other snack foods, I can make out only his profile, but his profile is enough. I know him.
You know how you can’t remember things from your past until you do? Until something familiar calls it up? It may be a little thing. An insignificant thing. Then in a perfect moment of symmetry where time stands still, a memory coats your brain like Magic Shell on your favorite vanilla bean ice cream.

I’m in a bubble of time where everything is frozen as my brain catalogs this new information. Admittedly, the cataloging is happening at a sluggish pace given my beverage choices this evening. The guy ahead of me in line is tall, really tall, with shaggy dark brown hair. His jaw is clean-shaven, his lips are full, and his expression is as tortured as it’s ever been.

I tighten my grip on the chilled, cheap bottle of wine and call up a name I haven’t thought about in years.

Tucker Noscalo.

He must feel me staring because he turns, gazing through unkempt locks of hair falling almost seductively over his forehead.

Our eyes lock. Stunning blue, sometimes gray, his narrowed gaze eats into my very soul the longer we stare.
He clenches his jaw—the muscles in his cheek twitch—then he turns away, his hair once again falling over his face. The snack foods and soda fountain and filthy tile vaporize as I recall the first time I ever laid eyes on him. We were in the eighth grade, which would have made me fourteen at the time. Seven years ago.

A lifetime.

He’d clenched his jaw, then, too, viewing me through the veil of thick eyelashes like he did a second ago. It had been the first time I noticed his scars. Several V-shaped marks tracking vertically up his forearm. He was a cutter, I guessed. And the moment he’d stood two lockers down from mine and noticed where my eyes went, he yanked down the sleeve of his hoodie and speared me with an angry glare.

The Noscalo boys were bad seeds. Everyone knew to steer clear of Tucker and his younger brother, Jeremy. But in that moment I felt like I truly saw him—like we saw each other. Then the moment was over, and I was going to class and trying to figure out the cause of the weird hum inside my belly.

Tucker was closed off, quiet, and very bad news. I had assumed Tucker’s habit of bucking authority was because he was a cop’s kid, his behavior akin to a preacher’s daughter sinning because she was expected to be good.
Two years after that, Tucker and a local lowlife robbed a liquor store. Tucker went from “bad news” to certified juvenile delinquent. Dangerous. But he intrigued me as much as he scared me. There was something about him I related to back then, even before he stepped in between me and trouble with a capital T. But I hadn’t known what was coming. Trusting him was a gut call I couldn’t explain.

I blink and the world rushes back, pulling him into sharp focus. His back is to me and he gave no indication of whether he recognized me or not. It’s not like we were friends back then. More, he was a guy I watched from the corner of my eye until he wasn’t there to watch any longer.

The clerk, a short dark-skinned man with great hair, wearing a crisp white button-down shirt, finishes bagging two grocery sacks for Tucker. Seriously, didn’t he know better than to buy his weekly groceries at a place like this? Every item in here is overpriced.

Tucker wraps a hand around the grocery sacks, crinkling the brown paper, and I decide not to let him leave without saying hello. Where he is concerned, my curiosity has always edged out the fear.

“I know you,” I say to his back.

He lets go of the bag and turns to face me fully. My breath catches as I get a good look at the dried blood decorating his white T-shirt, at least on the part I can see beneath his zipped leather jacket. He shoves the receipt and his change into a front pocket and I notice dried blood on his knuckles, too. My face goes cold like I’ve gone into shock from the sum of the evening’s events. Yet I’m more curious than afraid.

“Are you okay?” I ask, my voice quiet.

His blue-gray eyes find mine and my shock is replaced with warmth. Like honey is oozing down my spine. Pooling in my belly.

He’s well over six feet, but not as rangy as I remember. The leather coat does little to hide broad shoulders and his well-defined chest. Interesting. My memory of Tucker doesn’t include ample pecs. Or traps, I think as my gaze trickles down his throat and along the side of his neck.

God, he’s gorgeous. Straight nose, high cheekbones, a sharp, angled jaw. His hair is longer, shaggy, with a bit of curl. His lips are full and enviable. And frozen into a firm line. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Tucker Noscalo smile.
His style hasn’t changed much, either. Worn jeans, Chuck Taylors, white T-shirt. I inspect the blood spatters on the cotton, but other than his knuckles, I spot no signs of injury. I remember suddenly, shockingly, that he’d been to prison and further wonder if he got out or if he busted out. Did people still escape from prison?

I take a step forward rather than back. His eyes snap down to my feet then back, a look of confusion bordering fascination coloring his face.

“Morgan,” I introduce.

He’s a criminal. But he paid for the sundries in the overstuffed bags on the counter. He can’t be all bad.
“Morgan Young,” I sort of repeat. “We shared a chem class a million years ago.”

He’s staring. Not speaking. And he does not look happy. I’m not sure if he’s unhappy because he remembers me, or because he doesn’t. Or if he’s trying to remember who I am, or decide if he should rob the place and take me as a hostage.

To say that I’m a little nervous would be like saying the Arizona desert is a bit warm.

Oddly, I’m not sure what I’m nervous about . . . because I’d once harbored a crush on the guy and am attempting to talk to him, or because I’m in imminent peril and my flight-or-fight response has kicked in.

Damn tequila. I should never drink it. It makes me fuzzy; take risks I shouldn’t. Case in point, I continue my one-sided conversation.

“It’s my birthday. Twenty-one today.” When he doesn’t respond, I run my fingers along the edge of a bag of Cheetos. “Yep. The big two-one.” I leave the Cheetos behind. No sense in buying food to soak up my upcoming alcohol buzz. Because when I get home, I am getting duh-runk.

Closing the gap between us in a few short steps, he moves toward me easily, his lithe gait suggesting he isn’t injured. The blood must belong to someone else. I stand my ground, trying to reflect the confidence of his approach, but it’s for show. I have no confidence tonight.

He sizes me up, his eyes skating over me, and I wonder if he can sense I’m not having the happiest of birthdays. Warm fingers brush mine as he lifts the wine bottle from my hand, I assume to inspect the label. He won’t be very impressed. Even I have my doubts about the label’s claim declaring the gas station wine tastes like “strawberry fields.” Rather than hand it back, he walks the bottle to the counter and drops money onto the counter. The clerk rings him up, casting me an unsure glance.

“I’m twenty-one,” I say, feeling the need to defend myself.

The cash register spits out a receipt and the clerk offers it to Tucker, but Tucker holds up a hand to turn it down. His back to me, he gathers his groceries and walks out a pair of doors opposite the ones I entered.

I’m left standing a few feet from the clerk and my now-paid-for bottle of wine. Do I show him my ID or just take my gift and run? Option B sounds the best, though I won’t be running very far. I still need a cab.

Raising my chin, I walk to the counter, grip the wine by the neck, and head to the front doors. Then I pause to stare through my reflection to the poorly lit parking lot. Tucker exited the other side of the building without speaking a single word. And I didn’t thank him.

You really should thank him.

If I follow him, at least I’ll have company while I call for a cab. What’s the harm?

Twelve answers present themselves instantly. I ignore them all. His silence, his presence, his hotness, have reeled me in like a helpless fish on a lure.

I spin on my heel and march to the other side of the store, the driving force another memory altogether. A time when he stood up for me; protected me. It was a moment where Tucker Noscalo recognized the danger that I, cocooned in my perfect world, had completely overlooked until just then.

That’s why I slip out the door now and go to him. Under the guise of saying thank you, and because I have to know if he remembers me. He’s piling his groceries into the backseat of a black car that has seen better days. It suits him. He spots me and stands slowly, looking taller and broader than he did inside. As our eyes meet over the top of the car, I decide gas station wine shared with a handsome, mysterious criminal is a huge step up from my evening thus far.

I’ve never been so wrong.