Promise Me Not

Payton

Now, July 4

I never understood why people enjoyed trips to the beach. Who would want to swim in freezing cold water? Anyone who has so much as put their feet in the ocean off the coast of California knows the one thing this sunny state does not have…is warm ocean water. Sure, sometimes it’s less than freezing, but it’s never warm, and don’t even get me started on the sand.

Dare to swim and you’re gifted with a suit full of it, but not only that, you get ratted hair as a bonus, even if the tips never so much as graze the water’s surface. Oh, and good luck vacuuming the bits that make it back to your car with you. No matter how many times you beat your sandals against the curb or shake your towel out, it’s never enough. The sand demons win every time.

So yeah, who the hell would want to spend a single minute at the beach, right?

God, what a prissy brat my mother raised me to be.

Thankfully, my brother is the furthest thing from his mother’s son and showed me what I wasn’t seeing, encouraged me to open not only my eyes but my mind.

Now?

I don’t understand how anyone could ever hate the beach.

To be honest, I have no idea where I would be right now without it.

The waves, while unforgiving, don’t judge.

The sun doesn’t sear you with worried eyes and taut expressions.

The wind doesn’t push for words when you don’t feel like talking.

The sand doesn’t crunch beneath your feet like the eggshells everyone seems to walk on around me. Metaphorically speaking, of course.

Here, there’s no pity for the poor little thing, and that’s exactly what I have become. To everyone.

Poor Payton lost the boy she loved.

Poor Payton never got to finish her senior year of high school.

Poor Payton is a teenage mom.

Poor Payton is a single mom.

Poor poor pitiful me, right? That’s how the song goes?

It’s not as hard as you’d think to avoid your feelings, but how could it be when everyone around tells you how okay you’re going to be? It’s why I like it better when school is in session and everyone is back in their dorms at their respective colleges, leaving the house empty. There’s no one to hover, no one to pretend to be fine in front of when all you want to do is freak the fuck out every now and then—because it’s not like it’s all the time. Or it was, but then it wasn’t.

It is again, though, isn’t it?

Groaning, I rub my hands down my face. God, maybe I am this little lost soul everyone sees me as.

Well, not everyone.

He doesn’t. He sees so much more than the broken girl with a battered heart. He—no.

I squeeze my eyes closed, pushing away the thought. I can’t think of him. It’s…wrong.

Sighing, I force myself to sit up, glancing back at the swing that sways slightly under the giant pergola thanks to the morning draft Oceanside has to offer, even in July. It’s an old, wooden two-seater with lights twining up the chain securing it to the thick beams above—a gift for Lolli from her man. It’s deep and meaningful and theirs, a tangible item of love.

Jealousy whirls through me like a tidal wave, knocking me in the chest and thieving the air from my lungs. She gets to share the most meaningful thing in her life.

I don’t.

I should be happy about that. I have one of the greatest gifts love could ever offer all to myself, a perfectly healthy baby boy, and in some twisted ways only a girl raised by a vicious mother could reason, I am. But that’s the scared, selfish part of me. The part that doesn’t want the cruel world to touch the innocence I can protect if it’s me and me alone, but the reality of it all is I don’t want to. My choice was taken from me in the blink of an eye, and I’m supposed to deal.

I have no choice but to deal.

My eyes fall to the screen of the monitor in my hand, and I smile at the little man who’s sound asleep in his crib, the little plush football tucked under his arm like he was born to hold it.

He wasn’t. His daddy was a wrestler, not a football player, but he’ll never get to tell him about that or teach him his favorite moves.

Deaton will never even get to hear his daddy’s voice.

Tears fill my eyes instantly, and I close them, letting the hot streaks warm my cheeks, the wind quickly turning the heat to a chill, but I don’t swipe them away.

I welcome the guilt that flows through me, the pain and anger and longing. The regret.

The love for the boy who isn’t here anymore is still there, heavy in my heart, as broken and bruised as it is.

A soft click sounds, and my eyes open, falling back on the monitor, and my pulse jumps into my throat in anticipation.

The door to my son’s bedroom opens ever so slowly, and he slips right inside.

I stare with trembling lips as Mason steps up to the edge of the old crib, peeking in on Deaton with an expression so tender it can’t be mistaken for anything but adoration, but when he reaches out, his hand so large it nearly hides all those dark curls as he gently glides his palm along them, his eyes close on a slow, painful blink. His head hangs the slightest bit, and a choked sob escapes me, the heaviness in my heart doubling in size, the weight of another hovering just above the gaping hole Deaton’s death left behind. It presses there like a needle to the skin, eager to slip right through. To break the surface and burrow deeper than it already has.

I can’t let it in.

I can’t let him in.

As if you have a say.

As if it’s not too late…

Eyes locked on the video monitor, I try not to cry as he reaches into the crib, gently taking Deaton’s tiny hand in his large one. He stares down at my sleeping baby boy with the softest yet saddest of smiles written on his lips.

“Don’t tell anyone, but I’m scared, little man,” he whispers. “Your mama’s avoiding me, and I have no idea what to do about it.”

He goes quiet for a moment, and I struggle to breathe, staring at my son’s hand as it opens, his tiny fingers wrapping around Mason’s thumb.

Mason’s lips spread into a wide grin, a soft, quiet chuckle slipping free. “This your way of telling me you won’t let me go?”

A knot forms in my throat, and I lock my hand around my neck.

Suddenly, Mason’s face falls, and he bends, his forehead now resting on the edge of the crib. “Please don’t let me go.”

Gasping, I cut the camera off. I can’t listen anymore. Can’t watch.

I sit there in the sand for a while longer before I dare to turn the monitor back on. My muscles ease when I find no one but my sleeping baby on the screen.

Closing my eyes, I push to my feet, pulling in a lungful of salty air.

I’ve worn many masks over the years, something my mother demanded in her pursuit for a perfect daughter. It will be no different from that…and no different from the one I’ve worn on and off for almost a year now.

But he saw through that mask.

I wince, glancing up over the small sand hill to the large bay window at the back of my brother’s home. My home.

All our friends and their families will be in one spot today. It’s a whole-ass affair that just a few days ago I was looking forward to. Now I wish I didn’t have a part in the decision to make our house the main point instead of saying we should do it at Mason and the others’ place down the beach. That way, I could make an excuse and stay behind. I can’t do that now.

I wanted to visit with everyone. I need the distraction, now more than ever, but the mere thought of laughing and celebrating with everyone has me as nauseated as the morning sickness used to. That’s the thing about grief and the million other emotions flickering through me, though, right? It messes with my mind in a single blink. It can be a memory or a feeling or a sight. A song, a single word, or even a damn snack. Everything is fine, sometimes better than fine…until it isn’t.

Until guilt dirties it, or anger buries it, or fear wraps its vicious claws around and chokes it.

Get a grip, Payton. Everything is fine. You’re fine.

A few more days.

I just have to fake it, stay busy, and then the day will pass, taking the rope around my lungs with it. They’ll go back to college, and I’ll find all that progress I made but seem to have misplaced.

I can do this.

Besides, not much can happen in a week, right?

If my memory were a person, she would laugh in my face.

If anyone knows how bullshit such a thought can be, it’s me.

“What a royal dick move that would be.” Mia grins.

“What dick move are we talking about?”

We squeal, surprised by the intruding voice, and look up as Mia’s ex walks over, but that’s not what has me swallowing. It’s the person who trails right behind him, an easy, not completely genuine grin in place. Still, it adds to his undeniable appeal.

Mason is effortlessly attractive with messy, dark brown hair he keeps trimmed short, and he chooses this exact moment to run a hand through it, accentuating the tapered muscles of his torso that are in no way hidden by the shirt he’s wearing, if you can even call it a shirt anymore. He has the arms completely cut off, the sides slit down to the waist, where his palm tree–covered board shorts lie low against his hips.

He is the perfect specimen with the mind and heart to match.

I look away.

“Your face, Austin. Forcing us to stare at it is a dick move,” Lolli teases, and I know she’s feeling a little buzz. She turns to Mason. “Where’re your people?”

He sidesteps her, walking around the blanket until he’s right beside me, and I fight the urge not to swallow.

“My sister and Cameron should be here any time.” He makes a goofy face, reaching down and snagging Deaton from the saucer chair he was sitting in. He chuckles when Deaton blows little bubbles through his lips, and I can’t help the smile that forms on mine. “But Chase and Brady won’t be back until late tonight.”

At that, I reach for my phone with a slight frown. “Are you sure, because Chase texted me and said he’d be here for lunch.”

Mason freezes, Deaton halfway to his chest, his eyes snapping over to lock on mine. “Chase texts you?”

I don’t know why, but my cheeks flame. Before I can respond, Mia starts talking, but I tune her out and stand, grabbing the baby seat and dusting off the Lamb Chop toy Deaton dropped onto the sandy blanket the second Mason smiled at him.

I turn to Mason again, an excuse of Deaton needing a change on the tip of my tongue, but Mason has already spun on his heels, headed for the water’s edge. He drops onto his butt right there, shifting my son so he’s standing between his bent legs, his little feet pressed into the wet sand.

Deaton’s face is in my line of sight, and when he smiles wide, shoving his hands in his mouth because he’s so excited he doesn’t know what else to do, a low laugh leaves me. I suck in a deep breath, set the things back in the sand, and move to join them, because how could I not?

Nerves fire off in my stomach, but I count through it, doing all I can to keep myself from running with my tail between my legs.

Mason doesn’t look up as I lower beside the pair, but when Deaton turns his smile on me, stomping his feet and sending little speckles of wet sand all around, he laughs and glances my way.

Our eyes meet, but he swiftly averts his gaze.

After a moment, he asks, “Think he’ll be too cold if his feet touch the water?”

That’s right. He hasn’t gotten to see him enjoy the water yet this summer.

I shake my head. “No, he loves the water, even as chilly as it is.”

“Yeah?” Mason grins but keeps his attention on Deaton as he spins him so he’s facing the ocean. Mason shifts, walking on his knees the three feet forward to where the waves die out against the sand. “Okay, little man, here it comes.”

I bite back a smile at the uncertainty in his tone. When Deaton jolts, his eyes bugging wide as a small, surprised whine escapes, Mason panics, tugging him straight into his chest and looking to me in, well, panic.

A laugh leaves me instantly, and slowly Mason relaxes, a low chuckle pushing past his lips.

“Here.” I reach out.

Mason holds on to Deaton a second longer, almost like if he hands him over, he has no idea how long it might be before he gets the chance to hold him again, and it’s heartbreaking.

It’s your fault, Payton.

Hesitantly, he passes him to me. I turn Deaton to face me, and when a wave comes, I make an excited little sound, widening my eyes and opening my mouth wide.

Deaton tenses from the cool water but just as quickly starts stomping his feet, fighting to bend at the waist so he can slap at it with his palms. I hold him back at first but end up setting him on his butt between my legs so he can play for a few minutes.

“He’s a total water baby,” I say, though I’m not sure why I’m whispering. “Bath times are his favorite times.”

When I look at Mason, he’s not looking at me. He’s smiling softly at my son, and a heavy sense of longing washes over me.

“Look how strong he is now, sitting up all by himself,” he notes, reaching out to splash at the water with him.

“Yeah.”

He must hear the happiness in my voice, because he looks at me then, an agonizing tenderness in his gaze. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

“No.” My denial is too fast. Too rushed. Too loud.

“I’ve been here four times this summer.” Mason’s brown eyes hold mine. “You were gone every single one of those times.”

“My internship at Embers Elite is demanding and⁠—”

“And you wrapped that up in May, freeing up your schedule until it starts again at the end of summer.” He studies me. “We talked all about it…when you were still taking my calls and answering my messages.”

My lips clamp closed, and I swallow. A gust of wind kicks, and a piece of hair falls into my face. Instantly, his hand lifts, but as if he didn’t even know it was happening, he frowns and drops it back to his lap.

A heavy ache settles in my bones, and I don’t know if it’s because he was going to touch me or because he didn’t.

Clearing my throat, I push to my feet, taking Deaton with me. “I should get him cleaned off and⁠—”

“Payton.”

“—inside so he can take a nap and⁠—”

“Payton.”

I all but run back toward the house, bypassing the others and happy to find the kitchen empty when I tear through the back patio door into the house, but before I can close it behind me, Mason’s hand slips in, gently easing it back open. Leaving him there, I hurry toward the bathroom, looking for a place to set Deaton down.

Mason appears, pulling him from my hands, and I drop to my knees, turning on the bathtub and securing his bath seat in the center.

I don’t look at him as I take Deaton from his hands and strip him down to nothing, sliding him into the plastic seat.

Mason doesn’t leave. He bends, grips my chin, and turns my head toward his, frustration drawing creases to the edges of his depthless brown eyes.

Tears prick my own, and at the sight, whatever he wanted to say dies on his lips.

He stands and walks away, and it’s not until I hear the soft click of the slider door that I fall to my ass, burying my face in my hands.

He’s right. I am avoiding him, and he did come here three times this summer. According to the messages I left on read, the only reason he came…was for me.

My eyes fall to Deaton, who plays happily in the warm water, and I know that’s not right.

Mason didn’t come home for me.

He came for us.