Promises We Meant To Keep (A Lancaster Prep Novel)

THE PAST

I’m lying in my bed, Spence next to me. He’s long and lanky and so incredibly warm. Despite the furnace-like heat radiating from him, I’m shivering, yanking the covers up to my chin to ward off the chill, but it’s no use.

I’m cold to the very bone.

“Hey.” He slings an arm around me, his sleepy voice lighting me up inside. “You’re shaking.”

“C-cold,” I admit, snuggling closer to him.

Late at night, he comes to my room at Lancaster Prep, and we lie in bed and hold each other and talk. In between all the kissing, that is. Can’t forget the kissing.

He’s trying to get it to progress further and there’s a part of me that wants that. That wants him.

And then there’s that other part of me that’s terrified to take it beyond kissing. To do so means we’re getting closer, and when you get closer to someone, you shouldn’t have any secrets.

I have a ton of them. Every one of them would have him running away from me. And I wouldn’t blame him.

That’s why I keep my secrets to myself. And why I won’t let him take what we have any further. It’s scary.

He scares me.

No, my feelings for Spencer scare me. I have never cared for someone beyond family members, and most of the time, I can barely tolerate them.

“Part of your problem is you’re so skinny,” he admonishes, making me feel terrible. “You’re not eating, are you?”

I cling to him, my eyes sliding closed when he wraps me up in his arms. “I’m never hungry.”

“Have you told the doctor this?” He knows all about my doctor visits with my mother. Though I don’t think he realizes just how many times I go, or how many I see.

“Yes,” I lie, my voice muffled against the solid wall of his chest. Every part of Spencer is solid. Real. Grounding. There is no one else who makes me feel safe. Not a single person in this world but Spence.

“I’m worried about you.” He runs his fingers through my hair, and I note the concern in his voice. He cares. Probably too much.

It doesn’t matter. I’ll take whatever bit of concern and feeling he has for me and savor it always. I’m not sure how much longer I’ll be in this world, and I’m afraid these moments are drying up. Soon I’ll be gone.

And Spencer will move on.

The idea is too painful to contemplate, so I shove it from my mind.

“Can I admit something to you?” I ask him, my voice hushed in the quiet stillness of the room.

He rolls us both over so we’re lying on our sides, facing each other. “Tell me.”

I take a deep breath, wishing I could spill all of my real secrets.

My mother hates me.

Controls me.

Pretty sure she’s trying to kill me.

Instead, I say something else. Something inane and expected of the flighty, reckless Sylvie Lancaster.

“When I get married, I want to wear a red dress.”

I can feel him smile. That’s my favorite thing about Spence. When he’s happy, he lets the whole world know it. He doesn’t hide his emotions like I do.

“I don’t think your mother will approve.”

“That’s the point.” I lift my head, so I can look into his dark eyes. “I’d wear red to make her angry.”

“How about black?” He lifts a brow.

I shake my head. “She’d expect that. She’d probably even pretend to like it. Red though? She’d hate it. It’s one of her least favorite colors.”

“I never see you wear red.”

“Because of my mother.”

“She controls what you wear?”

She controls every single aspect of my life.

I don’t say that.

“I stumbled upon a photo one day on the internet. This beautiful blonde woman sitting on a chair surrounded by a group of debonair men all in morning dress. Proper coats and top hats and silver cravats. She was wearing a gorgeous, vivid red dress with a matching red veil. Clutching red roses and green ivy. Red roses in her hair. God, it was stunning.” I clamp my lips together to shut myself up. I’m rambling. And he doesn’t care. Not about stuff like this.

Especially wedding stuff. He’s sixteen. I’m fifteen. We are never getting married. I don’t even think I’ll make it to twenty.

“Who was the woman?” he asks after I remain quiet for at least a minute. “Getting married?”

“Some British woman who married a pop star in the mid-eighties. It doesn’t really matter who it was, it’s just—that dress. Someday, I’m going to get married, and I’m going to wear a replica of that gown,” I say fiercely.

“Even if your mother hates it?”

“Especially if she hates it.”

His fingers slip beneath my chin, tilting my face up so his mouth can settle on mine. The kiss steals my breath. Not because of its intensity, though that is unmistakably delicious.

There’s emotion there. A depth I don’t think I’ve ever felt before. The kiss is like a branding. An imprint on my soul. Dramatic and perfect and sweet and wonderful.

I could die happily after a kiss like this.

Spencer pulls away first, slowly. Almost reluctantly. He touches the corner of my mouth, his thumb a gentle brush against my skin, and I open my eyes to find him watching me, his dark gaze burning.

We’re young. I know we are, but I feel so much when he looks at me like that. As if I’m his everything.

“If we were to get married, I’d want you to wear a red dress.”

I laugh, needing to break the seriousness of the conversation. “We’re not going to get married.”

He’s quiet.

“I’ll be dead before I graduate.”

His thumb presses against the seam of my lips, effectively shutting me up. “Stop saying shit like that. You’re not dying, Syl.”

“Believe what you want.” I know the truth, is what I want to add, but I don’t.

“We’re all dying, but that’s a long way out. You’re only fifteen.”

“And here you are, lying in bed with me, trying to feel me up.” I’m teasing, desperate to change the direction of our conversation.

His mouth lifts in a crooked smile. “You like it.”

“Too much,” I readily agree, leaning into him, my mouth on his, but he presses his hand on my shoulder, stopping me.

“Just—don’t talk about the dying stuff all the time. Freaks me out,” he says, his voice soft.

I stare at him, hating that he wants to take that away from me. It’s the only thing that gets me through it. Making light of my situation. It’s either I joke about it or drown in my worries every time I’m alone, which is far too often.

“You’re not dying,” he continues, repeating himself. “I know you’re not. The doctors will figure out what’s wrong with you and they’ll fix the problem. Your mom is trying her best.”

I want to laugh. Trying her best, indeed.

To kill me.

There’s no more laughing or arguing or protesting. Instead, I kiss him, drowning in his taste, the stroke of his tongue, the sensation of his hands sliding up and down my body. I lose myself in him, knowing that I’ll find myself soon enough.

And I’ll be miserable all over again.