“Somebody’s jealous.” Malia winks at me, but my stomach feels funny. Brooklyn has a point. Both of those things are highly unlikely.
“No, Malia!” Brooklyn says. “She really thinks God showed up and talked to her!”
Malia looks at me gently. “What you mean is she’s having a spiritual awakening.”
“No.” Brooklyn still hasn’t bothered to get up, but she sure doesn’t mind staying involved in the conversation. “I mean, she talks to the air as if He’s standing right next to her.”
I pretend not to be bothered. I lean in to sniff the flowers.
“Okay, let’s just calm down here,” Malia says. “Brooklyn, hold down the shop for me. Jessie, let’s go to the back room.” She takes my arm.
“Great,” I say, following her. “You always take the crazy one to the back room.”
“Not at all,” she says as we go in. “Just for some privacy.”
“Because we’re getting ready to have a conversation you wouldn’t want to have out in the open.”
Malia sits and offers me a seat. She takes the flowers away from me and goes to the small sink. She takes a vase from under the sink and begins filling it with water. “Sweetie, this does all sound a little strange.”
“Of course it does. I know that. Believe me, it took me awhile to believe God was really talking to me. First of all, you should see Him. Not what you would expect. He’s—”
“Honey, I just wonder. Since this happened when you were younger—”
“Nine, to be exact. That was different.”
“Sure. Of course it was.” One by one, she begins placing the daisies in the vase. “But maybe the stress of hoping to find someone, and then starting your own business, has maybe…gotten to you?”
I feel myself swinging into a low valley. I was feeling so good, and now even my hair color can’t save me. “I appreciate what you’re saying. I do. But I’m fine.”
She returns to the table, setting the vase down, the flowers perfectly arranged. She takes my hands. “There are so many wonderful men out there. There’s one I’d love, love, love to introduce you to.”
“Malia. Please. Look, if Clay and I get together, yeah, maybe it has nothing to do with God. But Clay is here, you know? Wanting to see me.”
“He said that?”
“In so many words, yes.” I touch one of the flowers. “He’s changed. So have I, for that matter. I think it’ll be different this time.” I move the flowers toward me. “I’m not crazy.”
“I know that, sweetie.”
I’m not crazy…am I?
It’s a long morning, but we get two more clients. I celebrate by taking myself out to lunch. I try not to hover too much in the bathroom, but I am a little worried about my hair. As the day goes on, a strange tint seems to unfold, especially under fluorescent lighting. Still, it’s utterly striking. I just have to stay away from chlorine. A small price to pay.
The rest of the day is spent at my desk working—and trying to ignore Malia and Brooklyn whispering in a corner of the shop. I also try to ignore the weird filmy feel of my hair. I’ll need to condition tonight.
“Bye, girls,” Malia says, and I wave as she leaves. “Don’t forget to lock up!”
“We will!” I say.
Brooklyn is lingering. “Hey, what are you doing tonight?”
I don’t even look up. “Clay’s coming to pick me up.”
“Oh.”
The tone of her voice makes me look up. “Why?”
“I don’t know. Thought we could hang out. Maybe call Nicole.” She smiles. Like that’s going to hide it.
I roll my eyes and look back down at my work. “I’m fine.”
Brooklyn comes over and sits on my desk. “I didn’t say you weren’t.”
I nudge her until she gets off. I straighten up the items she pushed out of place. “So you want to hang out with me and my married friend Nicole, who you say oozes so much maternal instinct you’re afraid of catching it?”
“No. No, I like Nicole. She’s very motherly.”
“We’re almost the same age.”
“I know. But she’s just got that quality about her. There’s nothing wrong with that.”
I lean back in my chair and cross my arms. “You think Nicole can talk some sense into me. Is that it?”
Brooklyn puts on the cute look that hooks so many unsuspecting men but is completely transparent to me. “Just thought we could go out and have some fun,” she says. “I need to get out of the house, you know? Go out dancing or something.”
“Maybe another night.”
She stares at me for just a moment longer, but then realizes she must have run out of ideas. “Yeah. Right. Sure. Have fun.” She grabs her purse and is gone. I know she means well. It does seem strange that she’s the one trying to talk sense into me. That’s never happened before.
I decide to start on some filing. I like to file because it’s kind of mindless—and right now I need to think. I go back to last night, after Gwyne dumped Clay, when he and I were having dinner together. There’s an episode in Sex and the City, season six, where Carrie falls in love with a Russian artist. No one thinks he’s right for her, but deep in her heart, Carrie believes he is.
It’s a sudden epiphany. Clay’s my Russian.
I hear a knock. I walk to the front of the store and open the door. There is my Russian, dressed casually in a cotton button-up, sleeves rolled to the elbow, collar standing perfectly straight. His hair is spiky, like he used to wear it. He smiles when our eyes meet.
“Hi,” I say.
“Hi. You ready?”
“Come on in.”
“Oh, thanks.” He looks around. “Didn’t mention it before, but it’s a nice shop. Lots of things to look at.”
“Yeah. We’ve been doing good business here.” I turn, just in case he can’t see the blond. But his eyes are roaming the store. I grab the daisies off the counter. “They’re beautiful, by the way.”
“What?”
“The daisies.”
He looks at the flowers. “Oh. Yeah. Nice. Who are they from?”
I study him. He looks genuinely confused. “I guess I have a secret admirer.” I fluff my hair, but still, nothing.
“Hmm. Does that mean I have competition?”
“Maybe,” I smile, and run my hand over my head.
His eyes widen. “Oh! Love the hair!”
Finally. But I’m not going to let this one tiny disappointment get in my way of a good relationship. “Yeah?” I ask, putting my flirt in high gear. “Just a little something different.”
“No, it looks good on you. Makes you look hot.”
Something catches my eye out the window. Oh no. It’s Him. I can’t make a fool of myself tonight by talking to Him.
Clay takes my hand. “I’m really glad you said yes to this, Jessie. I thought, you know, after what happened…”
Dang, He is so distracting. He puts a hand on the door. It starts to open. Clay turns at the noise, but I turn him back around to face me. I slide my arms around his neck and pull him close. Over his shoulder, God and I look at each other. I expect Him to say something, but instead He quickly backs away and shuts the door.
“It’s all in the past, Clay,” I say, putting my full attention on him now. The next thing I know, I’m kissing him, full and strong and without any hesitation. I open my eyes, just for a moment, and see God out the window as He walks away.
“Who was that?”
“Huh?”
“That?” Clay says, nodding toward the window.
“You saw Him?”
“Yeah. Is that the daisy man?”
I smile. “He’s just a Friend. A protective Friend. Guess that’s why He wanted you to see him.”
“Hmm.” He clasps his hands around my neck. They feel warm. Strong. “You’re safe with me.”
And before I know it, I’m kissing him again.
I’m just about to shut down the laptop and go to bed when I get a text m
essage from Blake. GET ON CAM.
“Oh brother,” I mumble. I’m at my desk on a hard chair, and I’d rather be in my cozy blankets, but somehow I can’t ever say no to the guy.
I log on and up pops Blake’s dimly lit face. He’s moving closer to the cam, and his nose grows long right in front of me, which makes me laugh. However, he’s not laughing. He’s trying to adjust something on his monitor.
“What’s wrong? I can see you fine,” I say.
“You can? You look strange. I’m trying to fix the color.” He keeps glancing up at the screen and back down at the monitor. “Your hair looks green.”
Oh. Yikes. Yeah. Forgot Blake hadn’t seen me yet. “Um. It’s not your monitor. I, uh, tried something.”
He’s staring at me. “Tried something? Like a wig?”
“Like a new me.”
He opens his mouth wide for a moment. “You dyed your hair?”
“What do you think?” Maybe a big grin will help.
His face contorts. “Are you certifiable?”
“Of all my wonderful traits, that’s the one you see?”
Still no laugh. “You hate blondes.”
“No, that’s not true. I just didn’t understand them. This is helping. Truly. I mean, you should see how people look at me.”
“I bet.”
I bat at the air to shoo away the conversation. “It’ll grow on you.”
“I doubt it.”
I quit the smiling tactic. “Okay, look, I’m tired. Can we discuss my hair color tomorrow?”
“Wait, I’m not finished. What’s going on with you and Clay?”
“Your mother. She told you?”
Blake holds up a hand. “She’s worried about you.”
“No need to worry. Truly. I’m very happy.”
“That’s what worries me.”
I pull my hair back in a ponytail. “I know, it’s a lot of change to take in. Blond. Happy. But trust me, this is a good thing.”
“No, Jessie, it’s not. Clay doesn’t love you. He doesn’t even care about you. He’s rebounding. How can you not see this?”
“What difference does it make to you?” I lean back in my chair, all huffy-like.
“I can’t care that my best friend is making the biggest mistake of her life?”
“Please. Aren’t you being a little overly dramatic? It’ll grow out.”
“Stop joking around.” Blake tries another adjustment on his monitor. “Clay is bad news. He always has been.”
“Look, we’ve both grown. It’s been three years. A lot can change in three years.”
“If you never listen to me again, please just—”
I hear a noise behind me. A tapping. I turn and there He is, sitting on my bed with my purple pen in His hand.
I turn back to the monitor. “I gotta go. A man is here to visit me.”
“What? Wait!”
“Bye-bye.” I turn off the monitor and turn in my chair, ready to thank God for my own personal happily ever after.
eighteen
God is tapping the pen, staring at me as He sits on the corner of my bed. It’s the kind of stare that would make a normal person feel uncomfortable—sort of like the guy with no social skills. Except it doesn’t make me uncomfortable. In fact, if He weren’t looking at me, that’s when I’d start getting nervous.
I nod toward the pen and smile pleasantly. “Thank You,” I say quietly. It’s weird, but suddenly I want to show Him a lot of respect. “Really. And honestly, I would’ve never seen this coming, which is what’s so cool about it.”
He doesn’t say anything, and I feel kind of awkward. Like I’ve done something wrong.
“Glad You brought that.” I point to the pen. “I need You to write a few adjustments.”
“Adjustments?”
“To Clay.”
Ding. Like my microwave just sounded, an IM message pops up, and I glance back to see it’s from Clay. I briefly wonder if God would stick around if I took a moment to shoot him a quick message. But God is holding the pen out to me. “You can use this pen to jot down candidates from E-Unity Equally Devoted, and Calvary Café.”
Ding. Another reminder that Clay is waiting on me to reply. I try not to worry about it. One thing I’ve learned: don’t be at their beck and call. Except I don’t think that rule applies to God.
“Why would I need those sites? I have an appropriately available man IMing me right now.” The words sort of stick in my throat for a second. “The one You set me up with.”
God doesn’t respond. My eyes are drawn to the pen, loosely dangling from His fingers. Why does this have to be so difficult? I turn and jam my thumb into the power button on my computer, and it blinks off. I’m going to pay for that tomorrow, when my computer will demand to know why I didn’t shut it down properly.
I stare back at God, who is also, apparently, wondering why I’m not doing things properly. His way. I give Him a confused expression, but really, I know…He should keep the pen.
“Keep it,” I say, pointing to the pen. “Sorry.” My eyes lower.
He is silent.
“You know me by now,” I say, looking back up, trying to study His expression. “This comes as no surprise to You.”
“Indeed.”
Indeed? Why is He being so quiet? Usually He has a lot to say on the subject of me. So I decide to change the subject.
“Why did You make Yourself visible to Clay at the shop?”
No answer.
“But You wouldn’t show Yourself to my sister? When I needed You to. Really needed You to.”
Again, He just sits.
“She thinks I’m crazy. And she’s telling other people that I’m crazy. Doesn’t that bother You? It’s not just my reputation on the line here. You’re involved.” I try to say it sweetly. And really I do care about His reputation.
“I asked you to do something and you didn’t do it.”
He’s talking about the Laundromat. I feel bad, but mostly I’m relieved He’s speaking again. “I know. Seriously, I just forgot. I got caught up with—” I look away. It just doesn’t seem like He’s going to understand this. I feel myself choking up a little. It’s confusing me. “He’s giving me hope in the ‘finally.’ My ‘finally’” I hope to see some acknowledgment of my pain. “I’m talking about Clay.”
“I know who you are talking about.”
“Isn’t this what You want? Hasn’t this been our goal all along?” I’m shocked, but I actually have a tear rolling down my cheek. I swipe it away.
“Seeing what you want tells me a lot.”
“What does that mean?”
He moves off the side of the bed and walks a little closer to me, now leaning against my window. “You want to be married so badly that—”
“Yes! What woman doesn’t?”
God watches me and then speaks softly. “If I let you get married right now, you’d be divorced in six months.”
I stand up. “That’s not fair. Why are You saying that? I would never take marriage that lightly. I understand that it’s a commitment. A covenant.”
“You don’t know compromise.” His tone is quiet. Serious.
“I can compromise.” I fling my arm toward the door. “Brooklyn’s living here, isn’t she?”
He steps toward me. “Even with us—and there is an us, by the way—you don’t compromise. You fight Me all the time.”
That stings. Hard. It’s like He’s picking on me. Picking me apart. Seeing all that is bad about Jessie Stone. I fold my arms. “No, I don’t. I’ve done what You’ve told me to do.”
He raises an eyebrow.
“Most of it.” I am about to go sit on the bed, but first adjust the chair I was sitting on so it is nicely aligned with the desk.
God comes over and taps the closed laptop so that it is perfectly aligned on the desk. “Not without complaining.”
“Yes, well, I’m not Go—” Okay. Better not go there. “I’m not perfect.”
God cracks a smile
. “Jessie, you’re going to marry a flawed human being.”
“And I’m okay with that,” I say, smiling. I climb on the bed and sit cross-legged in the middle. “Seriously. There was a day that I thought I had to find Mr. Perfect. But now I’m totally fine with flawed and challenged.”
He sits on the edge of the bed and looks directly at me. “You’re not ready.”
I stop at His words. It’s me? I kind of always imagined that it was the other party involved, that maybe God was doing some work on him.
Since a very early age, I’ve had what I call slow emotional combustion. It starts out with a slight emotive showing. A tease, really, because what comes after it is frightening—and that’s putting it kindly. It’s never a surprise that it’s coming because it honestly feels like it’s crawling straight out of my belly, up my esophagus, and using my tongue as a launch pad. However, this rarely happens when people are around. I have enough self-control to keep it directed at a pillow or my mirror or something like that.
But not this time.
“I’m not married to You!” I yell. I squirm away from His hand that is reaching out to me in comfort. “And You know what? I wouldn’t marry someone who treats me like You do!” I cover my mouth because I can’t believe I’ve said it. Yeah, I’m thinking it, but normally I don’t come right out and say what I’m thinking.
God seems relatively unaffected. He’s not tense or even shaken. He just looks determined. “No, I don’t always do what you want. Welcome to marriage.”
I push my wrists up against my cheeks, trying to get the tears to stop. “Oh? So this is marriage boot camp, is it? Without the benefit of the sex part, of course.” I clasp my mouth again. This is so weird. Now I’m complaining to God that I’m not having sex? I have seriously lost my mind. I peek through my fingers, which are now covering my eyes.
“I’m aware of your frustrations.”
Wow, He’s a gentleman. I mean it. At the very least I really opened myself up to some horribly witty joke there. He’s so sensitive, but in all the wrong areas. “My frustrations.” I sniffle. “You just don’t care about them.”