Our Promise

He refrained from touching me, even though he easily could have—there was a valid excuse for it. Instead, he stooped down to gather my scattered papers before the wind could snatch them away. He retrieved my satchel from the pavement and inquired about my well-being. He positioned himself between me and the bustling street as I dusted off my hands and struggled to suppress the knot of frustration lodged in my throat.

All he did was wait. It struck me as peculiar, as if he would wait indefinitely.

AUGUST :

The windows of the shops lining Avalon Street are adorned with adhesive sandcastles, flip-flops, and smiling suns. Bed-and-breakfasts bustle with guests, while boats speckle Mirror Lake like stars in the sky. Coffeehouses overflow with university students, and both tourists and locals amble through downtown clutching ice-cream cones or sodas. Children, their skin bronzed by the sun, scamper along the pathways leading to the shore.

"Sorry, miss," apologizes the shaggy-haired attendant at the outdoor drink stand, flashing a sheepish smile. "We're fresh out of lemonade."

Naturally. I push a damp lock of hair away from my forehead and glance once more at the chalkboard menu.

I arrive home, greeted by the sight of our cozy two-bedroom apartment situated above a line of shops, overlooking Avalon Street. The wrought-iron balcony adorned with vibrant potted plants brings a comforting sense of relief.

Despite the blister forming on my heel, I quicken my pace. As soon as I step into the building foyer, I release the grocery bag, kick off my shoes, and collapse onto the bottom step of the staircase. Taking another gulp of iced tea, I feel sweat trickling down my spine.

"Hey, beauty."

The deep, masculine voice reverberates through me, and I glance up to find Dean standing at the top of the stairs. His dark hair is tousled, his shirt slightly rumpled with sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His tie hangs loose, and the top buttons of his collar are undone, revealing the sun-kissed V of his throat.

A mixture of warmth, both spicy and sweet, washes over me as I gaze at him. Dean effortlessly embodies the combination of a brilliant professor and a handsome hunk, never failing to stir my senses.

"Hi," I murmur, ducking my head as I take another sip of iced tea.

As the sun begins its descent, the scorching heat persists. My pantyhose cling tightly to my body like shrink-wrap, the elastic band digging into my waist uncomfortably. My toes throb from being confined in heels all day, and although I refuse to look, I'm certain there are sweat stains forming under the arms of my silk blouse.

"Alright. I'll have an iced tea, then," I concede, sliding two dollars toward the attendant and accepting the plastic cup. With a straw inserted, I take a sip. I'm not particularly fond of iced tea, but the cup's chillness and the liquid's coolness provide relief for my parched throat.

Surveying the outdoor seating area, I find every table occupied by groups of people savouring their beverages.

With my grocery bag in hand and my satchel strap adjusted, I trudge along the sun-baked street, feeling like an exhausted schoolteacher amidst the carefree, leisurely summer crowd. My ponytail slips further from its loose clasp, more strands of hair adhering to my neck with each step.

"I thought you were working late," Dean remarks as he descends the stairs and retrieves my satchel.

"Yeah, well," I begin, feeling a lump form in my throat. "I got fired."

"Fired?" Dean's expression shifts to concern as he sits beside me on the step, reaching out to brush my hair away from my sticky neck. "What happened?"

"There was a mishap with the printer for tonight's opening. They got the names of some of the major donors wrong, despite me sending the information twice via email and providing a hard copy. Mr. Hammond still blamed me," I explain, feeling a sense of frustration bubble up within me. "I hate sounding like a victim, even if it's the truth."

"That's not fair, Liv. Wrongful termination—" Dean begins, but I interrupt him with a dismissive wave of my hand.

"Forget it, Dean. It wasn't that great of a job anyway. Hammond was always nitpicking about mistakes, which I did not make," I assert, feeling a mixture of defiance and resignation.

"Want me to go have a word with him?" Dean offers, his tone tinged with protective anger.

"Kind of," I admit, feeling a flicker of amusement at his gallant suggestion.

"Come here," Dean says softly, pulling me closer as he wraps an arm around me. Despite feeling hot, sweaty, and likely less than fresh, I nestle against him with a contented sigh. The reassuring solidity of his chest beneath my cheek brings me a sense of calm.