Broken Vows

This is not a romance story. It's not a poor attempt at a Juliet and Romeo retelling either, rather, it is, what most cynics and romantics alike would call a tragedy. That being stated, my story is not unique; there is a large number of women that go through this every year. In the event that it were a novel, it wouldn't win awards, nor would the critics commend it for its originality, after all, I am no one you would know; I am just a common woman, who, in this day and age, has had the privilege to experience the high of being loved unconditionally by a man I love most in this world. Chapter One I sit unmoving, similar to the rock beneath me, and watch the dark sky twinkle with magnificent lights. This does not give me the illusion that time has paused to give me some more time with the guy I've loved for the better part of my life. As beautiful as the sky above me is, I cannot keep my eyes on it for long because next to me, there's a beauty not many have come by, a beauty only a heart that has loved, with all its might and soul, like I have, can understand. Daniel Adams. I look at him now and see all the things that have made so many girls fall in love with him; the medium, naturally wavy and intentionally messy strands of brown hair that breadth over his catastrophic blue eyes with flecks of silver that shoot out bullets of honesty and integrity — eyes that could be beautiful in any shade. The thick eyelashes that ought to be illegal. One could reference the features of Daniel's face using 'moulded from granite' without any hesitation; the prominent jaw, chin and cheekbones. Looking into his eyes I see grace. I see a magic that can only originate from the purest of souls. His look penetrates my soul and turns my insides into jam. It's not just how he makes love to me with his gaze alone. It's the way he looks at me when he thinks I'm not looking. This is when I see a guy who isn't just my best friend but a guy who would walk through fire to get to me. A guy that would die for me, or, less tragic, a guy that would, and always has, put my happiness before his own. He is beauty in its purest form, he's love, he's the truth, he's a dream come true, he's my everyday prayer but most importantly he's everything a girl could ever need. This is the reason numerous girls desire him. But it is for this mass love by beautiful, established, successful older women — that I still don't get why he chose me. Don't get me wrong, I'm not questioning God nor condemning him, after all, he knew when he created Daniel that two years later he'd create me just for the sole purpose of loving him beyond reason. Daniel always says that there is something about me that he can't get enough of. He tells me he can't stay away from me; not that he wants to. He usually says without me in this world his life would resemble the moon that won't allow room for the sun; unimaginable. He's lying against the navy quilt I bought him four birthdays ago when he was fourteen, the dry ferns have no choice but to reshape themselves around the force of his weight. "Beautiful isn't it," I say, and tilt my head back to look at the sky for a second. "Very beautiful," he concurs. But he's looking at me with an underlying passion; the look of love is clearer than words could ever articulate. I smile at him but he doesn't return it. He's just looking at me and then he's eyes fill with moisture. Daniel never cries. Not even when his mother had a death scare. But he's crying now. He's not sad though. My heart swells. Breathe, Clara. "What?" I ask. His fingers follow the outline of my face. He looks at me as though he's trying to memorise the scene and then he lifts my chin a little. He drops his head and I waver, not because I don't want to but because he rejected me once and I'm certain I won't survive the embarrassment once more. He pauses and his eyes meet mine, there's a question there, one I reply to with a nod. Our lips meet then. For the first time. He's delicious. And I'm quite certain he has mystical powers because when he pulls back I'm disoriented and shivering in the stifling heat. I look at him and I feel my face grow warm. He hesitates for a second, leans in like he's going to kiss me again, but then he dives lower and grabs my hand. His fingers are cool as he lifts up my hand and briefly touches his lips to it. "You're a confusing guy, Daniel," I say softly. "Why now?" His is a smile that reaches the eyes where a cloud of of hunger rendering his face too dark is immediately replaced by a spark of humor. I'm grateful because he understands what I'm asking. He brushes something away from my face, a stray strand I assume, my stomach flips. "You're available now. You weren't before." "Available? How?" "You're finally sixteen." My heart quits pulsating for a moment, I'm a tad confused, but when it starts again, it thumps with an overwhelming intensity. It takes half a second for me to understand what he's saying. My brother had, clinging to my hand as his breaths grew wider and longer apart, made me promise not to kiss or share my bed with anyone, romantically, until I turned sixteen. What a strange thing to ask, I don't, and probably never will, understand why he'd wanted me to wait. I'd told Daniel about Amos's last wish. Daniel had been listening. He always listened. The reason he rejected me when I'd tried to kiss him at his birthday party, in front of my family and his, and our friends, wasn't because he didn't find me attractive enough but he didn't want me to break the promise I made to my brother. This is the reason we've been a couple for something close to a year and we've never shared a kiss. This is the same reason Mama has always been sceptical about him, she often says he's too... innocent, too... clean. Her sharp eyes are always on the look out for any kind of debauchery but Daniel is mature far beyond his age. He doesn't do pot, nor drinks, he doesn't even smoke; something the cool kids at school do all the time (And he's a cool guy too). He even holds down a weekend job at the local Newspaper; Daily News, where he writes angry political columns and sometimes snorts a line that betrays his Islamaphobic desires. He's great with words, often writes me poems with words I can't pronounce (And yes I have to look at the dictionary to know what they mean). His eyes flash to my face and away. They are filled with a blinding sadness. "Don't forget me." I laugh a short, bitter sound, not a cheerful laugh at all. It's the most miserable sound, judging by the grimace on Daniel's face, my boyfriend has ever heard. "As if that's possible." He steps nearer to me, slow and yet urgent, and stands so close that I feel the electronic hum that passes from his body to mine. This doesn't take me by surprise. I'm used to this feeling. In fact, it's one of the things I'm going to miss about us. About our relationship. He reaches for my hand again and takes it, small and cold, compared to his. It feels comforting. I give his hand a tight squeeze. He squeezes me back and eventually settles with running his thumb over my palm. This is nice. Too nice. It's familiar. It's one of the things we do when we're among our friends, sitting around a game of harmless poker. He usually takes my hand into his lap under the table. This, too, I will miss. Another thing we have in common is bad vision. Although his is not at all as bad mine as mine. He can often do without glasses. When he wears his glasses he looks... dope whereas I look ridiculously nerdy. Ugh. He brings his lips to the tip of my nose, while his fingers trace over my lips and trail down to my collarbone, the barest of touches, that, nonetheless, has my heart skipping like a distraught rabbit. He lets out a gush of air and says, "You're my prayer, my everyday dream, my life. I can't fathom how I could've lived without you for as long as I did." When the thickness in his throat subsides, he continues. "I've never seen anything as beautiful as you, it just doesn't exist, I'm certain of it. I will love you until the end of time. That is a guarantee." "I—" I hesitate and he places a finger against my lips. "You don't have to say anything back. I know how you feel. You've shown me you love me since I was ten years old. But there's one question I want you to answer." His seriousness and nervousness is very sudden. I watch as he grimaces, the moonlight flickers off his eyes and for a second they resemble the ocean in twilight. I frown at him. "What's that?" He looks me in the eye then and I realise his palm is sweating. He wipes his hand clean on his jeans and takes my hand again. When he speaks his voice doesn't sound like his own. "I can't promise we won't fight. I can't promise we won't want to get out of this but I promise you love. I promise to try harder to make us work. I promise I won't regret this; will you be my wife?" If I wasn't so distracted by the unimaginable pain of his departure I might have suspected something big was going to happen. The clues, now that I care to reflect back and pay attention, were all there. The constant reminders that he loves me, the smug way our friends and family were looking at me as if they knew something I didn't, the evasiveness of his one word answers when I asked him what he'd like to do for my birthday this year and most importantly the way he'd held me tight this morning and said something that is foggy now however I think I heard; wife, mother of my children, grand kids, planning our future all in one sentence. It's beginning to make sense now. "Daniel, I—" I cut short because there's something in my throat. I clear it and try again. Because I have to say this. I want to say it. For a moment I can't quite see right because of the tears, remaining unshed, hanging low on my lashes. "You're the only man I'll ever love. And besides, I have nothing better to do with the rest of my life." His face breaks into my favourite smile. The tears on his cheeks show a guy besotted with happiness. "That's a yes?" "It's a resonating—" He interrupts me by kissing me again. This time it's different. He's not just kissing me but he's pouring his heart out. He's willing me to feel his love for me. He's saying goodbye because he knows this might be the last time he gets to hold me, this might be the last time he sees me, this might be the last time he kisses me. This might be our last time together. Our farewell. This might be the end. I'll have to wait a year to see him, that is, if he doesn't die while he's there. He releases my lips, but, he hugs me tighter and I hold on to him. At this point, my heart is beating ridiculously fast. I bury my face in his chest and breathe in the scent of him. He smells as sweet as he always had. His skin is as soft as the first time I held him. I wish I could turn back the time. To rewind. To start all over again. It was a happy time back then. When the only thing we worried about was his abusive father but knowing we'd get through it, together. But now the future is uncertain. I'm no longer sure what fate has in store for us. I'm no longer sure I'll ever see him alive again after tomorrow. I need more time with him. But I'm hopeless. I can't stall time. I can only make the best of what I have left with him. He pushes the thin straps of the dress from my shoulders. I stand ramrod straight when I hear it drop to the ground, my heart kicks into my chest, then I dip my head and cover my breasts that have grown a ridiculous comic-book size. My hands tremble. He lifts my chin. "Hey. Look at me, please." I look at him. He's giving me that special look again. It's an intense moment. His fingers trail from my waist to my ribs. A shiver rolls through me and heat spreads through me with a sudden surge. "I—I've never done this before. And I... um... I don't know if I can meet your expectations." "Don't be silly, Clara," he says softly. "I'm only ever sharing this with you. Here—" he pulls a ring from his pocket and slips it into my finger "—I'm as new to this as you are." I recognise it immediately. Somehow this makes me want to cry again. This is the ring I fell in love with two years ago when we were window shopping. I would look at it every time we were in the mall until one day I got there and it was gone. Daniel had promised me I'd see it again, I wasn't hopeful. The odds that someone I know would've bought it weren't good. When I'd told him this, he'd taken my face between his large hands, looked me in the eye and in complete earnestness said, "I promise." I had no choice but to believe him. I mean, he always, always lived up to all his promises. I just didn't know that he'd spent all his savings for it. That he'd always known he was going to ask me to marry him. You can do this, Clara. I hesitate for a second and then take a huge breath. My hands are still trembling when I unbutton his shirt and remove his jeans. My heart's beating too quickly for it to be healthy. We just stand there, staring at each other for a moment. He pries my hands off my chest and shakes his head, awe in his eyes, "You're so beautiful, Clara. I can't wait to see you walk down the aisle." We'll probably have to wait at least two years to get married since I'm still underage but I can't believe he's going to be my husband. This... guy. This kind soul. What could I have possibly done to make God bless me in such abundance? It'll take some getting used to, but I'm afraid, Daniel is not the kind of guy anyone gets used to. He's just so... so... My hand then moves towards him without my will, just to touch his cheek, to feel his skin under my fingertips. Beneath my fingertips his skin is smooth and delicate, it seems to flow, and almost glides under my trembling touch. Just like it always had. The scars from his childhood catch the moonlight, and I run the tips of my fingers against them. He's beautiful. The image of what perfection should look like. He closes his eyes and inhales sharply. "I want to love you tonight," he says, slipping his fingers through my hair. For a few seconds he concentrates on what he's doing and then he locks them tightly into my hair. "Can I do that?" My lungs burn and I try not to think about tomorrow when I'll have to say goodbye. An array of unpleasant emotions like fear and dread ambush me. I nod and he proceeds to give himself to me all through the night, under the stars, in the meadow we've met at every day for the past eight years, and for a moment the heartache is gone. He continues to bury himself deeper into me while dawn begins to crawl up on the western horizon. I have no control over the sun. I'm only able to watch, hopeless as it hales me into a day that I've been dreading for quite some time. The morning finds us curled up in each other's arms. My eyes flutter open to find him looking at me. His fingers are tangled deep in my hair and when our eyes meet, he presses his lips to my forehead. I wrap my arms around his neck and he helps me to a sitting position. My body is sore in all the right places and I look at it, the evidence of our love making doesn't show on my dark skin but I can still feel where he dug his fingers in my hips, I can feel the bite mark on my shoulder when he closed his teeth around my flesh to stop his groan as he came. "How does it feel? You'll be gone in a couple of hours," I say. I don't know why, but I feel an unbearable pain whenever I think of this. The smile he gives me doesn't reach the eyes and his voice is dead when he says, "Yay, Afghanistan here I come." Both his Basic Training and AIT were done two weeks ago. He looks at me and the softness in his eyes is overwhelming. "Sweetheart, I—" I interrupt him by planting my lips to his, gently, and for a tiny wisp of time, we both freeze. I am surprised by the desire that shoots through me, the hot, uncontrollable need to have him inside me again. I part my lips slightly and take his bottom lip into my mouth. He kisses me back then, tenderly at first until the passion stifles, wrapping us in a war of lovers. I touch his face, brushing it softly with my fingers. He pulls back and kisses my cheek, my jawline, I feel his quick breath travelling down my neck, fingers digging into my hips. I smile. Everything feels hot — his lips, his tongue, his fingers — like the two of us are standing directly under the sun. His tongue traces a pathway down my neck, between my breasts and all the way to my stomach. He pushes me back against the quilt and hovers over me, just looking at me. "Make love to me," I plead.