Every Vow You Break - Peter Swanson Page 0,1

streak” on the off chance she’d luck out, but there were too many things: a movie, a kind of fish, and several companies, even one in San Francisco, but it was for a catering place that looked as though it had gone out of business.

She considered her options. Simply not answering him felt like the right thing, but somehow she knew he’d try again. Reluctantly she decided to send a reply, something as impersonal as she could make it, letting him know that his feelings were one-sided. She began to construct the email. Should it be dismissive? She didn’t think so. The last thing she wanted to do was piss this guy off. The message should be nice yet firm, unmistakably a brush-off. She also wanted the email to underplay what had happened between them in California, just in case someone else read it. There was no reason for her to confirm what had transpired. She grimaced to herself, realizing that she was acting like a criminal. She wrote:

Scottie, it was so nice meeting you. Yes, my wedding is still on. Three days away, and I can’t wait. Thanks for thinking of me, and take care.

She read it over about ten times, finally deciding that it struck the perfect middle ground between being nice and making sure that he got the message. She took out the “so,” worried that it might sound a little too positive, and hit send.

Twelve hours later there was no reply.

She told herself that was the last she’d hear from the stranger she’d slept with on her bachelorette weekend.

“How many men have you slept with?”

“Excuse me?” she said. “That’s none of your business.”

“But it’s part of what we’re talking about, right?” he asked, leaning back slightly, reaching for his glass of wine.

They’d been talking about marriage, or, more specifically, Abigail’s upcoming marriage—three weeks away, exactly—and how she could only admit to being ninety-nine percent sure—“ninety-nine-point-ninety-nine, really”—that she was doing the right thing.

“It’s not necessarily part of what we’re talking about,” she said, reaching for her own glass of wine, even though it was empty. He picked up the bottle to refill it.

“Well, that’s like saying that sex isn’t part of marriage,” he said.

“Have you met my parents?” she said. It was more of a joke than an actual observation. Her parents were separated; their version of a separation, anyway, which meant that her dad had moved into the small studio apartment above the garage.

“My guess is you have very little idea about what your parents get up to, or don’t get up to, in the bedroom.”

He’d filled her glass too high, but the wine—a Pinot Noir—was delicious, and she took a long swallow. Slow down, she told herself, although she was also telling herself that it was a bachelorette party (it was her bachelorette party) and even though all her friends had disappeared somewhere in the haze of the previous hours, she was still entitled to drink some wine with the blue-eyed bearded guy wearing the vintage flannel shirt and the wedding ring. He was very Californian, she thought, with his bright white teeth, and some kind of braided leather bracelet with a green stone pendant, but she wasn’t holding that against him. They were in California, after all, on a terraced patio surrounded by an olive grove. Abigail moved her Adirondack chair a little closer to the dying fire.

“That’s probably for the best,” she said.

“What is?”

“Not knowing what my parents get up to in the bedroom.”

The man said, “That’s a good idea.” Abigail didn’t know exactly what he was talking about but then he stood, lifted his own chair, and moved it closer to the firepit. “We’re the only ones left out here,” he said.

“You’re just noticing that now?” she said.

“I can’t take my eyes off of you,” he said, but in a mocking tone.

“I don’t even know your name, do I?” Abigail said, worried, as soon as she’d said it, that he’d already told her.

“If I tell you, will you answer a question?”

“Sure. Why not?”

“You already know the question.”

“How many men have I slept with?”

“Right. How many men have you slept with?”

CHAPTER 2

Abigail Baskin lost her virginity to a visiting actor at her parents’ summer theater in Boxgrove, a small town in western Massachusetts. She was seventeen years old, and the actor said that he was twenty-two. A few years later, however, she’d looked him up on IMDb after he’d gotten a couple of small roles on television, and discovered that he’d probably been