Promises you won't cry

Author’s Note

Hi! I’m a French author, so English isn’t my first language. I did my best, but you might come across a few mistakes here and there.Thank you so much for reading, and I hope you’ll enjoy Grace and Eliot’s story. ❤️

Promises You Won’t Cry is a standalone spin-off set in the same universe as my Seasons After You series.

You don’t need to read the previous books to understand Grace’s story, though you may recognize a few characters and references from the original series.

After what feels like an eternity, my mom finally lets go of me outside the airport entrance. Her eyes are shining, wet with unshed tears.

For a split second, I hope she’ll change her mind. That she’ll say we’re going home, that we’ll figure something else out.

Instead, she checks my pockets for the tenth time, making sure I haven’t forgotten anything.

Between the expulsions, the endless meetings with principals, and the late-night calls from the police, I can’t exactly blame her for trying to get rid of me.

So I grab my suitcase and walk through the terminal without looking back. I tug my oversized gray hoodie down until it swallows my hands, my headphones dangling around my neck. My black hair curtains one side of my face; the other side exposes the shaved patch above my eyebrow piercing.

I do glance over my shoulder once, just before disappearing through security.

The look on my mom’s face is almost enough to make me feel guilty.

Almost.

On the plane, I spend most of the flight staring out the window without actually seeing the clouds. Eventually, I pull out my notebook and vomit onto the pages all the thoughts rotting inside my head.

Words. Fragments. Feelings.

Sometimes I connect them until they turn into songs no one will ever hear but me.

I only drift off minutes before landing. When I open my eyes, a flight attendant is gently shaking my shoulder. We’ve arrived.

The first thing I do outside the airport is light a cigarette. I take a long drag, watching the stream of cars, until a black SUV slows down beside me.

My father steps out, wearing that awkward smile of someone who forgot how to be a dad three years ago. His eyes flick to the cigarette between my fingers, then to my piercing, the dark circles under my eyes, and my clothes that hang off me like I’m wearing a tent.

He doesn’t say a word. He just takes my suitcase and pulls me into a hug I don’t return.

The last time I saw him, I was thirteen. I still don’t get why he had to move so far away.

After a beat, he steps back, clears his throat, and shifts his weight.

“We’ve got a meeting with the principal of your new school in about thirty minutes. After that, we can do whatever you want.”

I frown. “It’s Sunday.”

“She made an exception since she’s accepting you mid-year. Your mother insisted you meet her before Monday.”

I clamp my jaw shut. Taking one last drag, I crush the cigarette into the nearest trash can and climb into the car, slamming the door hard enough to rattle the windows.

As soon as we hit the road, I shove my headphones on and crank the volume until my father’s attempt at small talk dissolves into distant static.

When the car stops, I step out and look up. The building towers above me, more castle than school. Towering stone walls choked with ivy, tall dark windows that give the whole place a sinister vibe.

Clearly, nothing good has ever come from a place like this.

I glance at my dad. He’s wearing a nervous smile, fully aware of the effect this building is having on me.

I follow him through long, empty hallways, my boots echoing against worn tile floors while the portraits lining the walls seem to track our movement.

“Pretty amazing, right?” he says. “Kind of looks like Hogwarts. Remember when we used to watch the movies together?”

I turn my head slightly without breaking stride. “An overpriced castle run by old conservatives? Yeah, I’m sure J.K. Rowling would love it.”

He ignores the jab and stops in front of a massive dark wooden door. Before knocking, he glances at me from the corner of his eye and lowers his voice. “You might want to take off the hoodie.”

I look down at the oversized Phoebe Bridgers merch I’ve been living in all day. Instead of answering, I lift my hand and rap my rings against the wood before he can.

A woman with long braids and a smile too enthusiastic for a Sunday morning opens the door almost immediately. She steps aside to let us in.

Her office is spacious and surprisingly modern, a stark contrast to the rest of the building. Floor-to-ceiling windows flood the room with light. Perfectly manicured plants fill the corners, and the warm décor tries a little too hard to make me forget I’m sitting in a school.

We take seats across from her desk. After a moment, her attention lands on me.

“Grace, right?” she asks, flashing a professional smile.

I give a vague nod, leaving my headphones around my neck.

“Your file is… impressive.”

“Thanks,” I say flatly. “I worked really hard on it.”

My father lets out an awkward laugh.

“We’re extremely grateful you’ve agreed to accept her. I’m sure this environment will be exactly what she needs to continue her education under the best possible circumstances.”

My gaze drifts to the small gold nameplate on her desk.

Principal Pickles.

It takes my brain a few seconds to process the fact that a grown woman with a job this serious is actually namedPickles. She catches my stare and the hint of amusement tugging at my mouth.

“I’ll admit, elementary school wasn’t easy,” she says with a laugh.

A breath escapes me as I sink lower into my chair, struggling to hold back the laugh bubbling up. The extra ingredient I’d added to my cigarette earlier definitely isn’t helping.

My dad notices immediately and shoots me a warning look, which only makes it worse.

“Sorry,” he says quickly. “She just got off a very long flight. She’s probably exhausted.”

“I understand,” Principal Pickles replies calmly. “I’d actually like a few minutes alone with your father, if that’s alright.”

Before either of them can say anything else, I stand up and head for the door.

The second it clicks shut behind me, I take a deep breath and let out a nervous laugh that echoes through the empty hallway. I slip my headphones back on and start wandering through what feels like an endless maze of corridors and stone staircases until I find myself outside.

The garden is enormous. Perfectly trimmed hedges. Immaculate flower beds. Symmetrical pathways. Everything looks expensive.

I drop into the grass and stretch out on my back despite the suffocating heat. I focus on the music in my ears, the feeling of grass blades brushing my fingertips, and the occasional breeze cooling my skin before the sun immediately takes over again.

For a moment, nothing else exists. Not this weird school. Not my father. Not the constant feeling that I’m trapped inside a life that doesn’t belong to me anymore.

Then a shadow passes over the light behind my eyelids.

I frown slightly but don’t open my eyes right away. I’m already assuming it’s some staff member about to tell me students aren’t allowed to lie in the middle of the garden.

Except no voice comes.

So I pull one side of my headphones off and crack open an eye.

A boy is standing a few feet away, hands shoved deep in his pockets. His gaze drops briefly to where I’m lying before he tilts his head, curiosity flickering across his face.

“Are you having a heat stroke or something?”

I ignore him, immediately close my eyes again, and slide my headphones back over my ears. I’m way too tired and way too high to waste energy on a conversation.

Then a familiar smell reaches me.

My eyes fly open.

The guy is sitting beside me now, legs stretched out in front of him like he owns the place. A joint rests between his fingers. He stares lazily at the sky before finally turning toward me and holding it out.

I pause my music, pull off my headphones, and take a drag.

“If you’re trying to get expelled,” I say slowly, handing it back, “this isn’t exactly the most creative way to do it.”

A faint smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “I’m not trying to get expelled. I’m just hanging around.”

I glance at him. “You seriously have nothing better to do on a Sunday than hang out at your school?”

He shrugs. “There are worse places to be.”

I’m about to answer when my father’s voice echoes across the garden.

A tired groan escapes me. I make a half-hearted attempt to sit up before collapsing back into the grass.

The guy laughs under his breath. He slips the joint between his lips, gets to his feet, and holds out a hand.

I grab it and let him pull me up. A laugh escapes me when I nearly lose my balance. I adjust my hoodie on my shoulders before holding out my hand.

“Grace.”

His eyes linger on it for a second as if he’s debating whether to shake it. After a brief hesitation, he does.

“Eliot.”

My father’s voice cuts through the garden a second time, sharper now.

I immediately turn away. By the time I reach him, I can already tell he’s annoyed. I walk right past him without slowing down and head straight for the car.

Once I’m in the passenger seat, I let my headphones rest around my neck while he climbs behind the wheel. He’s about to start the engine when he suddenly stops. His fingers remain on the keys as he turns toward me.

“Since when do you smoke?”

I rest my head against the window, still warm from the sun. “Since it helps with the anxiety.”

“Does your mother know?”

I keep staring out the window. “Why don’t you call her and ask?”

“I’m asking you,” he says, his voice firmer.

I close my eyes for a few seconds. The flight. The heat. This conversation that already sounds exactly like every conversation I’ve spent the last few months running away from.

“I’m tired,” I mutter. “I just want to go home and sleep.”

He doesn’t push it. He starts the car.

Neither of us speaks for the rest of the drive. Music continues to pulse through my headphones as the scenery drifts past outside the window. At some point, I realize the landscape has started to change.

A few minutes later, the car slows in front of a house that looks far too perfect to be real. Light-colored shutters. Carefully maintained plants. The kind of Pinterest aesthetic that belongs in an overpriced home décor magazine.

Stepping out of the car, my eyes land on the doormat.

Home Sweet Home.

“Your room’s upstairs,” my dad calls from the trunk. “I hope you like it.”

I walk inside. The entire house is spotless. Everything has its place. Nothing looks lived in.

Upstairs, I make my way down a long hallway until I reach a door with my name on it. When I push it open, I find a room that’s spacious and way too bright for my taste.

The pale walls reflect the afternoon sunlight, making the entire space feel warmer than it already is. An electric piano sits beside a small desk positioned beneath the window.

I set my bag on the bed and slowly take it all in, still trying to understand how this place is supposed to become home.

Behind me, my father drops both suitcases onto the floor with a heavy thud before straightening up, slightly out of breath. Hands on his hips, he studies me with the hopeful expression of someone waiting for a very specific reaction.

“So?” he asks. “What do you think?”

I keep looking around the room for a few seconds before finally turning toward him. “Why did you move?”

His smile falters. “I’ll explain everything over dinner.”

“I’m not hungry,” I say, sitting on the edge of the bed as the familiar anxiety starts creeping into my chest.

For a moment, he just looks at me, disappointed and tired. Then he gives a small nod and quietly leaves the room, closing the door behind him.

I walk over to the piano and let my fingers brush across a few random keys. Soft notes echo through the room.

For the first time since leaving the airport, I feel some of the tension leave my shoulders.

I grab my backpack from the bed and dig through it until I find my notebook. Its pages are filled with crossed-out lyrics, smeared ink, and thoughts scribbled down too fast to stay neat. Between rushed paragraphs and half-finished ideas, a few lines stand out more than the others.

I set the notebook on the piano and begin playing, letting the melody carry away some of the noise inside my head.

A tear slips down my cheek. I wipe it away quickly and snap the notebook shut.

Crossing the room, I lock the door, then pull off the hoodie and sweatpants I’ve been suffocating in all day. My clothes fall carelessly onto the bed.

For a few seconds, I simply stand there in nothing but my underwear. Turning slightly, my gaze catches the small mirror sitting on my desk.

The reflection staring back at me feels almost unfamiliar beneath the harsh brightness of the room. My eyes drift downward despite myself. To the faint marks still visible along my ribs.

Subtle enough that most people would never notice them, but visible enough to remind me, every single day, of the things I’ve never managed to forget.