When I was six, I pinkie-promised my best friend Noah that we would go to prom together someday.
Twelve years later, he stood at my front door in a navy suit, holding a corsage and grinning like he had been planning the moment his entire life
I was ready to leave.
Then my mother pulled me upstairs, locked my bedroom door, and told me I could go with him only after hearing the truth she had hidden for six years.
That was the moment I knew something was wrong.
Downstairs, Noah was talking to my aunt.
I could hear his voice through the floor.
Mom stood in front of me with her back against the bedroom door.
“You can go with Noah tonight,” she said. “But I need one promise first.”
I stared at her.
“I know. That’s generally how dates work.”
“I’m serious.”
Her voice sounded strange.
“Midnight?”
“No.”
