The Vow (Jessica Martinez) by Jessica Martinez

Author:Jessica Martinez
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: Simon Pulse
Published: 2013-10-14T18:30:00+00:00

Chapter 17

Annie

You don’t have to turn off your phone,” Reed says. He’s standing next to the stove, a paring knife in one hand, pomegranate in the other. At least I think it’s a pomegranate. It’s slightly mottled pink, the size of a fat orange, and has a spiky, protruding navel.

“What makes you think I was turning it off ?” I ask, and slip my phone into my purse.

“Were you?”

“Maybe.”

He holds the fruit to the cutting board, flexing his fingers to anchor it in place. “Won’t your parents worry when they can’t get ahold of you?”

I shrug like I don’t care if they do, but I’m pretty sure he doesn’t buy it. It’s better than telling him the truth, that I told my parents I was going to the movies with Mo, so they won’t be expecting me to be reachable anyway. At some point, Reed’s going to start wondering why I won’t tell them about him. At some point I’m going to have to answer that question for myself.

He pulls the blade across the skin and turns the fruit, then again, and again, scoring the flesh into perfect quarters. Bloodred juice seeps from where it’s been pierced, and I stare, mesmerized, as he puts down the knife and breaks open the fruit with muscular hands. Its insides glow. Rows of seeds glisten like rubies.

“You like pomegranate?” he asks.

“Um, I don’t know. I don’t think I’ve ever had it. I should probably be embarrassed by that, right?”

“No. I probably didn’t see the inside of one until we moved to California and I started hanging out at my aunt’s restaurant.”

“Is that how you got interested in cooking?”

“Sort of. The menu at Burgers and Burgers wasn’t all that inspiring, but the kitchen was where I met people who love to cook. So I guess you could say that.”

I approach him from his left side, and lean over the bowl to watch. His fingers are focused, nearly mechanical as he loosens the seeds and picks them one by one from the white web of skin that separates sections. Juice has stained his hands scarlet.

“So, what are you making?” I ask.

“Nope.”

“Oh, come on. Tell me. I can smell it—is it pork? I’m starving.” I leave the counter to peer through the glass door of the oven, but he’s faster, blocking my way with his body, pomegranate hands held up in front of him.

I narrow my eyes. I may be able to squeeze past him, but probably not without staining my new top. My new white top.

He shakes his head. “Don’t even try it.”

The whole week has been brimming with this kind of bliss. Just being near Reed, telling him things, taking his teasing, listening to how deep and soft his voice gets when he is close to me—it washes everything in gold. Even watching him do menial tasks like making change and carrying buckets makes me feel like I’m sneaking something delicious.

It’s nothing like that constant anxiousness of being with Chris Dorsey, the feeling of being on show and trying to prove that I like it.

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