He finally continues after what feels like hours but is likely closer to minutes. “I just . . . I’ve felt like I’ve been living a lie with you. Always encouraging you to be honest and do the right thing, meanwhile I haven’t told you about my past. That’s probably partly why this”—he waves his hand between us—“has been so stiff lately. And I’m sorry.” He doesn’t look at me. “I’m sure you’ve wondered why I’ve taken things so slow, and honestly, Paige, it’s because you’re the first girl I’ve dated since I became a Christian.”
Tyler is twenty-five years old. He hasn’t dated anyone in five years?
He rubs the back of his neck. “I’ve been so worried about screwing up, losing control again. And I could never . . .” He looks up, straight into my eyes. “I could never forgive myself if it happened with you.”
He drops his head back down, staring at his hands again, apparently done talking.
I sit there quietly. I look at him. I look at the people casually walking past. I watch the overly pierced vendor selling hats shaped like animals and then look back to Tyler. I think. And I pray.
He didn’t break up with me. Or at least, he hasn’t yet. I hold my hands together tightly.
Oh Lord, what do I say? This isn’t a small deal.
I’m thinking through the particulars, trying to formulate a response that doesn’t sound trite and doesn’t start with, “Why have you dragged this on all summer?” because obviously this is hard for him.
And I pray some more.
Tyler is working the inside of his cheek in between his molars, and I worry about nerve damage there for him.
What do I say, God?
Nothing falls out of the sky with a message. No one taps me on the shoulder and tells me what I should say. The pierced vendor never flashes a reference made out of studs to me.
But the verse I shared with Tori several weeks ago comes back to my mind.
“When You said, ‘Seek my face,’ my heart said to You, ‘Your face, O Lord, I shall seek.’”
Perhaps there was my answer.
I reach for his hand and he latches on to mine, looking up at me, his expression tormented.
“Thank you for telling me,” I say quietly. “And for the most part, I have appreciated you taking this slowly. I haven’t really been a fan of these last eight weeks . . .”
He huffs a half laugh, half exhale.
“But Tyler, as far as your concerns about making the same mistake with me, I think you’re forgetting something very important.”
His blue eyes are studying mine and I squeeze his rough hand. “You’re in Christ now,” I tell him. Quietly but firmly.
He blinks and all of a sudden, this strong, big-shouldered man who has always made me laugh and forced me to think has tears swimming in his eyes.
It doesn’t look like I will be getting a restful night of sleep tonight.
I start like I always do when I fall asleep—lying on my left side, hands under the pillow. Then I switch to my right side. Then I try my stomach. Then I roll to my back and squinch my eyes shut, trying to tell my brain that it’s time to turn off and go to sleep.
I keep replaying Tyler’s speech. Keep seeing the tears that made his eyes seem even bluer. Keep feeling the way he held my hand like he was worried I was going to change my mind and leave.
Ironic when you consider the way I thought the conversation was going to go.
When he walked me to my door tonight, there wasn’t any weirdness left on his part. I gave him a hug. He kissed my cheek and then left, promising to come by tomorrow since I pretty much had the weekend off, except for Sunday school with the youth.
Now, though, the doubts are poking at my brain until I finally throw the covers off and grasp around in the dark for my robe.
I stumble out to the kitchen, put some water in my teakettle, and light the stove under it. Then I go sit at the table and wait for the water to boil.
On the one hand, a part of my brain always kind of guessed this about Tyler. After all, he didn’t come to Christ until college, and someone who is that cute was most likely not lacking in female attention growing up.
Maybe there’s just a difference between guessing and knowing.
The teakettle starts whistling and I pour the water over a decaf Earl Grey tea bag, watching the amber liquid seep out of the bag and into my cup. I look up at the clock on my microwave. It’s nearly one in the morning.
Preslee was always kind of a night owl. She might still be up. And if she’s not, hopefully her phone is on silent.
I find my phone and press the Call button before I can change my mind.
A minute later, she answers. “Hi, sis.”
For whatever reason, I just need to talk to my sister right now. I settle in the upholstered rocking chair in my living room, tucking my feet up underneath me, cradling the tea on my knee.
“Hey, Pres.” Sometimes it still amazes me that I can actually pick up the phone and call her.
Preslee has had a long past for being only twenty-one years old.
“It’s late,” she says. “Aren’t you usually asleep by ten?”
“Eleven.”
“Oh yes. Very late.” I can hear the smile in her voice.
“Did I wake you up?” I ask her.
“Nope. I was just sitting here working on the wedding budget while watching My Fair Wedding.”
“Getting ideas?”
“Gosh no. If I had the wedding budget he has, I would elope and use the money to gut the kitchen in my house. What’s up? I’m sure you didn’t just call to see what I was up to at one in the morning.”
I bite my lip, wanting to ask her a question but not wanting to share Tyler’s confession without his permission. I rephrase the question eight times before I finally ask it. “So, when you and Wes were dating . . .” I start and then I stop again.
I should just forget about it and hang up.
“Yeah?”
“Never mind. I don’t know what I was about to ask.”
“Something about me and Wes dating? Did you want to know how long? The ratio of dates to nights of the week? When was the first time we went clothes shopping together for him?”
I laugh. “No. I just was wondering when you finally told him . . . everything.” My voice falls flat on the last word, and I know that Preslee knows my real question.
Preslee did not become a Christian until she was nineteen years old. And considering the moral, Christian home we were raised in, Preslee went about as far opposite of that as she could go.
“Ah. You mean like the substance abuse and the sexual sin?”
Preslee is not one to mince words or beat around bushes.
“Um. Yeah,” I mumble. Meanwhile, I’m all for mincing and foliage.
“Well, remember that Wes was in the room when I shared my testimony with the youth group at the church I was going to,” Preslee said. “And I didn’t really leave anything out. I mean, I didn’t go into graphic details, but I also didn’t portray it as all rosy and pretty. So he knew a lot before he even asked me out. Then I just shared details as we got closer. Some I have never shared with him just because, and Wes agrees with this. There are some things that just don’t benefit him to know. I truly believe I am a new creation. The old is gone. And Wes is completely in agreement with that too. That’s not to say he doesn’t struggle with it sometimes, but in premarital counseling, we’ve been learning that he has to forgive me just like I have to forgive myself. Jesus is bigger than my sins.”
I’m nodding in the dark through this whole speech, even though I’m on the phone and she can’t see me.
“Paige,” Preslee says, her voice gentling. “What is this about?”
“Oh, nothing. I was just thinking about it.”
She’s quiet for a long moment. “It’s good talking to you like this.”
“Yeah.”
“How are things? Are you still crazy with work?”
“It’s starting to slow down.”
&nbs
p; “Good,” Preslee says. “You are too busy. When can I see you again?”
“What are you doing on Sunday?”
“Nothing after church. I’m volunteering in the nursery, though, so if we do something I will likely smell like spit-up.”
“That’s okay.” I used to smell like two-year-olds on Sunday, but when I took the intern job I had to quit so I could be in the youth room every Sunday.
There are days where the differences between the two classes are very, very few.
“Great. Want to meet at that Dairy Queen again?” I ask her. One of the first few times we met at the beginning of the summer when we were finally getting our relationship back on track, we met at a Dairy Queen about halfway between Dallas and Waco. We ended up sitting there for two hours talking on the most uncomfortable bench I have ever sat on. By the time we left, my butt was completely numb.
“Not really,” she says. “I have like a once-every-three-years policy when it comes to Dairy Queen.”
“Well, our options aren’t very good unless you want to drive all the way here again or I can drive there.” I don’t really want to drive all the way to Waco, but I could. Plus then I could see all the improvements Wes has been making to the money pit of a house they bought at the beginning of the summer.
I am a new house kind of a person. I don’t buy into any of this character crap. To me, a house exists to provide shelter and conveniences with zero to little upkeep.
“I can come back there. I think I’m going to register in Dallas since y’all actually have a Crate & Barrel. If I drive up right after church, I could be there by lunch. Want to have lunch with me and then help me register?”
“Register what?”
“Stuff. For the wedding? Dishes? Appliances? Stuff like that?”
“Oh. Right.” It was too late for me to still be awake. “I need to go to bed.”
“Yes, you do. I’ll text when I’m leaving on Sunday. Have a good night, Paige!”
“Night, Preslee.”
I hang up, set my empty cup in the sink, trudge to the bedroom, and I’m out within seconds.
* * * * *
I wake up at eight o’clock to my phone buzzing with a text.
MY MOTHER RAISED ME TO BE COURTEOUS. YOU WILL BE HAVING COMPANY IN 30 MINUTES, SO CONSIDER THIS YOUR WARNING.
It’s from Tyler.
I roll off the bed and stumble to the bathroom, gripping the countertop as I squint blearily at the mirror. I’m hoping it is just the sleep in my eyes making me look that bad. Otherwise, Tyler should have given me way more than thirty minutes to get myself presentable. My head pounds and I immediately blame my less than eight hours of sleep. I cannot function on little sleep. I’ve never been able to. Preslee stole all those genes from me.
I will be a terrible mother of a newborn.
I start by brushing my teeth while I turn on the water for the shower to warm up, then try to lather up as quickly as humanly possible while still giving myself some time to wake up.
Forget courtesy. “A rushed shower equals a crappy day.” That’s what my mother taught me. And she’s right.
I hop out, dry off, run for some clothes, and end up picking skinny jeans, a button-down red camp shirt, and gray flats.
I’m blow-drying my hair when I start to worry about the outfit, per my usual ways. Do gray and red even go together? If I switch to my red flats, is that too much red? Are camp shirts and skinny jeans even in style still?
All of the sad issues that come with living alone and having no one to ask these mysteries.
I brush on my makeup and the worrying turns to bigger things. Tyler’s confession. What if he acts all weird today? What if I act all weird today?
I grip my eye-shadow brush with both hands and stare into the mirror. What if I can’t get past it?
Wow, that sounds self-righteous.
I take a deep breath.
Lord, really, I am really going to need some help today.
Short, frequent prayers are becoming the new thing for me, apparently.
Tyler shows up exactly forty-five minutes later, which is typical Tyler. If I ever have to be somewhere on time with him, I always tell him it starts fifteen minutes earlier than it actually does.
I like being on time. I really like being early, but Mom informed me once that not only does no one enjoy an early guest, she’s had homicidal thoughts when they show up fifteen minutes early and she isn’t even dressed.
My mom tends to operate more on Tyler’s time, though.
I open the door and he’s standing there in khaki cargo shorts and a polo shirt, slinging his keys around his finger. His hair is a mess of crazy blond curls; his blue eyes are sparkling. “Hey,” he says, and something about the way he says that one word makes the whole morning better, mood and all.
This. This is the Tyler I know and really, really like. All worries are melting away like a jar of coconut oil in my grandmother’s un-air-conditioned home. Gran didn’t even know that coconut oil was usually in a solid state.
I smile all brightly at Tyler like I just woke up all sunshiny and pretty like this, instead of telling him how it took several days’ worth of makeup and a fairly loud pep talk, which may have included one of the more inspirational passages from Ecclesiastes to get into a decent mood.
There is a time to laugh!
“Want to join me for some breakfast?” he asks.
“Probably.”
He grins.
We drive to a little hole-in-the-wall place that specializes in pancakes and omelets. I order the short stack with a side of bacon. Tyler gets the meat-lover’s omelet with extra bacon and hash browns on the side.
The man is a cardiac arrest waiting to happen.
He grins across the table at me as the waiter leaves, and it’s like the entire summer didn’t happen and we are back in that first couple of days after he asked me to be his girlfriend. He’s reaching for my hand and talking about how today is going to be such a good day, and he is completely back to normal.
I, on the other hand, am not.
I force a smile on to my face and half listen to his chatter about how glad he is that his projects at work are lightening up and my work load is getting a little more manageable and watch him fiddle with my fingers. Meanwhile, I can’t stop thinking.
About Preslee and Wes, about forgiveness and the orange shag carpet that used to cover every floor except in the kitchen at Preslee’s new house. I think about my ex-boyfriend Luke and how he walked in and declared me to be a prude way back in college, and then I start to worry that maybe worse than that, maybe I’m one of those Pharisee Christians who can’t see their own sin and can’t accept sin in others either.
The waiter brings our food and the fragrance of freshly cooked pancakes is wafting up into my nose. Tyler holds his other hand out and then grasps my hands tightly on the table. “Lord, thank You for this beautiful girl and for this breakfast feast You have given us. May we focus on You today. Amen.”
Tyler’s prayer brings me back to the present and I reach for my fork, pushing my snowballing thoughts away for now.
“So how’s Layla? Not too much longer for her and Peter,” Tyler says after he swallows a bite of omelet.
“Five weeks.” I nod. “She’s stressing out.”
Tyler shrugs. “Eh. People get married every day. She’ll be fine.”
“Don’t ever talk to her while she’s in labor.”
Tyler laughs right as his phone chimes in a text. He pulls it out of his pocket and then looks up at me. “It’s a dinner invite from Rick and Natalie for us.”
“For when?” I feel bad shoveling my pancakes in my mouth like I’m Keira Knightley’s character on Pirates of the Caribbean going after that turkey leg, or whatever it was Barbosa offered her, but I am hungry and pancakes are not nearly as good cold. I usually eat my breakfast pretty quick after waking up. It’s been almost an hour and a half now since my alarm buzzed this morning.
“Today at five,” Tyle
r answers me. “Wanna go? We could go try to catch a movie before then. Or go do something else.”
I nod. It looks like I’ll be spending the day with Tyler.
I’ve had worse Saturdays.
We finish our breakfast, Tyler pays the waiter, and then we drive to a little fishing pond a little ways away. There are dads with their sons, teaching them how to fish; couples with their dogs, tossing Frisbees and tennis balls; a group of teens laughing over an early picnic lunch, backhanding footballs over the blanket.
It’s a beautiful morning. The humidity is low and it’s starting to actually feel like fall.
Tyler chatters without stopping. It’s like he’s trying to fit eight weeks of conversation into this morning. He tells me about his sister, Stef, and his new nephew. “Kamden Mitchell,” he says, lightly shaking his head.
“What’s wrong with his name?” I’m watching a couple with a black Lab puppy whose head is bigger than the rest of its body, except for its feet. The dog is completely awkward and the girl is just laughing at him, which makes the guy laugh as well and kiss the girl’s forehead.
Ah, love over a dog. How poetic.
“Kamden? No offense to Stef, but Kamden just isn’t a name that strikes me as a football player.”
“So? Maybe Kamden wants to become something other than a football player.” I nod pointedly to Tyler. “Maybe a software engineer.”
He thinks about that and then shakes his head. “He won’t be allowed.”
“Stef have something against engineers?”
“She is antitechnology.”
I did not know this about his sister. I frown and look at him. “Like how much is she antitechnology? Like she doesn’t like video games or she doesn’t have electricity?”
He grins. “She has electricity. Are you kidding? Stef can barely go twelve hours before she feels like she needs to take a shower.”
“Huh.” If I showered more than once a day, my skin would crack and fall off my body in ways that only the scientists on Bones could figure out. And I live in a state that is like a rain forest when it comes to the water-to-oxygen ratio.
I will never be able to move from Texas.
“She doesn’t like computers and she’s definitely against video games. Sometimes she’ll watch TV, but mostly she just likes to read. Or cook.”