Today's Promises (Promises #2)(2)

But enough of all that.

I’m brought back to the present when I hear Jaynie drop something in the bathroom. Scrubbing a hand down my face, I’m torn over how best to help her. It’s hard to help someone, I’ve found, when your own life is a freaking mess.

I hear Jaynie tearing open a candy bar, and I mutter, “Fuck.”

Rolling to my back, I rest my arm over my eyes. I’ve eaten plenty lately, but my stomach, as if on cue, begins to rumble. It’s like all this thinking about starving has reminded me of what it actually feels like to go days without food.

We are still both so f*cked-up. Will we ever heal?

“Fuck it.” I throw back the quilt and head toward the bathroom. “Jaynie…” I rap on the door, once, twice, three times. “Let me in. Please.”

The door opens slowly, revealing my broken girl. She stands before me, a half-eaten candy bar in one hand and chocolate smudged all over her chin.

“Busted,” I say. I’m trying to tease her to lighten the mood, but it sounds lame and pathetic.

“Sorry,” she mumbles.

I reach out and, using my thumb, wipe away evidence of her binge. “Don’t be silly. There’s no need for apologies. I was only kidding around.”

“All right, Flynn.”

When my stomach growls again, there’s no hiding I’m in the same boat as her. We’re like Pavlov’s freaking dogs, I swear.

“Hey,” I say softly, “think you could spare one for me?”

Smiling for the first time since I caught her red-handed—or chocolate-chinned, as it were—her deep green eyes sparkle.

Pulling me into the bathroom, she says, “Just get in here, Flynn.”

We spend the next ten minutes gorging on chocolate. And the reason is simple—when you’ve lived the lives we’ve lived, all within eighteen short years, you don’t take chances.

You cover your bases. You live prepared. You eat when you can since you never know when the food might run out, or when it will be withheld from you.

The bottom line is that you absolutely must be ready for things to turn bad, because they always f*cking do.

“Hey, can I have another?” I ask as I polish off candy bar number three.

Jaynie hands me five more and then wisely suggests I look for a spot to hide four of them.

“You know,” she says, shrugging, “in case my stash ever runs out.”

“I’ll find a good place,” I promise her. “And then I’ll let you know where it is.”

“You do that, Flynn,” she replies, her eyes holding mine. “But after you tell me, don’t let anyone else know where you hid them. Like…ever.”

I nod, agreeing to her terms. Hell, it makes perfect sense.

What can I say—old habits die hard.





Jaynie



Bill Delmont, who saved my ass the night I showed up at his door sopping-wet last October, has turned out to be a godsend.

Bill understands the downtrodden since he’s led a rough life of his own. He was once homeless, but the tide eventually turned for him. He now calls himself a successful businessman. And he is, too; he owns the sandwich shop in Lawrence where Flynn and I work.

He’s a really good man, the kind of guy who makes it his ongoing mission to give back. That’s why he was quick to give me a job at the Delmont Deli, only an hour after I arrived.

He helped Flynn when he got here, too. In fact, it was the very next morning, during a big, delicious breakfast Bill had prepared, that he offered Flynn a job manning the counters and cleaning up around here.

Flynn accepted. He and I divvy up shifts, usually working on alternating days. We were hoping to work together to make double the wages, but a sandwich shop this small, located in a tiny West Virginia town, is not nearly busy enough to justify two employees behind the counter at any one time.

It happens sometimes, but not on any regular basis.

That’s why this afternoon, while I’m working my shift, wiping tables in the front of the shop, Flynn is at the counter in the back, perusing the local want ads in the newspaper.

Bill offered Flynn use of his computer to conduct a search for higher-wage and more-hours employment, but he declined. He believes he’ll have better luck with the local paper.

When I asked Flynn why he thought the paper would be a better option than checking online, he told me, “Not too many guys searching for the type of work I’m looking into have access to a computer. Some companies post jobs online, sure, but a lot of the local places know that to get a ton of applicants, they better damn well invest in a good old-fashioned want ad.”

“Makes sense,” I replied, nodding.

After I finish wiping down the last of the tables, up by the big picture window facing the street, I head to the back of the shop.

Plopping down on a plushy chair behind where Flynn is still perusing ads, I ask, “Any luck?”

Spinning his stool to face me, he rubs his hands down his face. “Eh, I don’t know. There aren’t as many listings as I’d hoped.”

“No good leads, then?” I ask, deflated.

“Actually,” Flynn says, perking up, “I did see an ad for a pretty decent construction job. It’s Monday through Friday, nine to five. Good wages too, babe.”

“Well, that sounds promising,” I cross one jean-clad leg over the other. “Where is this promising new job?”