Promises and Pomegranates by Sav R. Miller

‘You’ll learn to love him,’ she’d said, and although the context—and
husband—were entirely different, I can’t help the flare of rebellion that
comes at having her be right about this.
I don’t tell Ariana any of this, of course. As far as she knows, my
relationship with Kal is real and has depth, despite whatever vitriol my
parents are trying to spew against us. I assure her they’re being dramatic each
time she brings up the fact that the entirety of Boston seems to think I was
kidnapped, and since she knows how they are about narratives, she usually
agrees and moves on.
And technically, I was kidnapped. They’re not wrong about that much.
But they don’t have the full story, either.
“Every time you call, all we do is talk about me,” I say now, trying to
redirect the conversation so my anxious thoughts cease. “I’m tired of me.
What’s new with you and Stella?”
“Nothing’s ever new with that one,” Ari says, snorting. “I have a recital
in a few weeks, though.”
My heart drops to my stomach. “Shit, you do, don’t you?”
“Yep.” She pops her lips on the last “p,” making me feel like an asshole.
“The Nutcracker, for our school’s Christmas in Spring. Weird time to
celebrate Christmas, if you ask me, but I guess it’s easier to theme that way.”
Guilt pinches in my chest, making me recall all the other recitals I’ve
been to. How I haven’t missed one since she got her first leotard. “I’ll be
there.”
Ariana blinks once. Twice. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”
I don’t know where that attitude is coming from, and can’t help
wondering what’s going on back home that I’m not being told about. And
even though I make the same vow again, meaning it wholeheartedly, it isn’t
until later that I realize how difficult coming through might actually be.
Marcelline has a driver take me to the Flaming Chariot a little while after
my phone call with Ariana ends, us hanging up as soon as Mamá enters the
room and bursts into tears at the sight of my face.
When I climb out of the town car, nodding to the driver that he can leave
without me, I stand on the curb of the bar for a moment, holding my purse
tight to my side as the memory of the last time I was here resurfaces.
The needle puncturing my skin, the way Vincent looked at me like I was
somehow beneath him, the assault that came after.
My throat swells, blocking air as I relive the memories. Goose bumps rise