Chapter Twenty
Training
I managed to stay away from guys for the rest of the semester, although I briefly dated a Mormon guy named Drew over the summer. He was about to leave for his two-year mission. He was a nice, quiet guy. One time I brought him some homemade chocolate chip cookies, and he ate three or four. Then he ran to the bathroom and threw up.
“Are you sick?” I asked him through the bathroom door.
“No, I’m fine,” he said.
When he was done, he washed his hands and then joined me on the sofa.
“Did you just barf up those cookies?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“Oh, no! Was there something wrong with them?”
“No! They were great.” Then quietly he added, “I just get really nervous around you.”
I didn’t believe him. There was something wrong with the cookies. When I got home, my parents were asleep. I went to the kitchen, opened the Tupperware with the cookies, and ate as many as I possibly could to see if I would barf too. I think I ate nine cookies in two minutes. Then I waited. I felt fine, just really stuffed. I was sure that I would get nauseous soon. I walked to the downstairs bathroom and knelt by the toilet. Nothing. I was totally fine. Except now I was wired on sugar right when I was supposed to go to bed.
Great, he really was just nervous around me. I ate all those cookies for nothing.
I sat there by the toilet, wondering if I should try to make myself barf to relieve the pressure on my stomach. I leaned over and put my finger in my mouth. I tried to do it, but I just couldn’t. Even though I knew I would feel better if I threw up, I couldn’t bring myself to do it.
When Drew left for his mission, I mailed him a fresh batch of homemade chocolate chip cookies.
In July, Paul got married. I wasn’t invited.
I made it through that summer. Bianca and I volunteered with the church youth group mentoring high school girls, and I worked at Macy’s in the women’s department. There was something very relaxing about folding clothes and helping sweet old ladies choose coordinating outfits.
At the beginning of my sophomore year of college, I wanted to do something crazy, something that was challenging and would boost my self-esteem. I decided to train for the LA Marathon. I had heard from a chapel speaker that anyone could do it. And when Tyler was training the year before, he had encouraged me to try. He was so sure that I would be able to do it that I almost believed him.
The only problem was that I needed to find someone to train with me.
Dante, the athlete from the fitness center who reminded me of Paul, overheard me talking to Tiahna about the marathon while I was working out in the gym one day.
“I’ll train with you,” he offered.
“Um—I don’t think you want to train with me. You are way faster than me.”
“Really. I’m not a long-distance runner. I think it would be great.”
We started running together every night. Soon we were running five miles a night, then nine miles, in addition to longer runs on Saturdays. Before long, we knew everything about each other. I even told him about Paul.
The day after Christmas, five months after Paul got married, I ran 14 miles by myself, from my house to Bianca’s house, where I showered and got ready to attend the young adult church service at my home church. Bianca and I drove in her little Civic and picked up Kai. We arrived late to the church service. I went to the restroom to get a drink of water.
I walked through the double doors of the church and looked for Bianca. She hurried over, and as soon as she had a chance, she whispered the news: “Paul is here. Do you want to leave?”
I should have known he would be there. A darkness tried to sweep over me, but I quickly brushed it away.
“Oh, it’s cool,” I responded, to ease her tense expectations. I thought I would be fine.
My contentment meant her relief, and we strolled into the candle-lit room. There must have been about a hundred people there. Kai quickly pulled chairs over for us to sit together, and we joined the crowd of young Christians. I allowed myself to sink into the sounds and vibrations of the instruments, and I closed my eyes and tried to focus, in spite of the news Bianca shared.
I really was OK. Until I saw him. I still had radar to spot him in any crowd. He was in the front, praying for the hurting people who shared their testimonies.
I continued to peek at him throughout the service. Suddenly, I saw her red hair. It occurred to me that he was sitting next to his wife. Then I couldn’t keep my eyes off the married couple. Furthermore, his parents sat to her right and she talked occasionally to his father.
Ouch. Why did I still care?
Gloom and self-pity overwhelmed me. Why did I feel hurt? Why did I feel physical pain when Morgan wrapped her arms around his neck and he held her waist? Why did I think it should be my waist he held? Bianca must have sensed my pain. She held my hand and didn’t let go. I thanked God for her. She knew everything I went through. She knew my struggle had nothing to do with logic and all to do with unbearable emotion, uncontrollable attraction, and spiritual misery.
We left as soon as the service ended. Normally, I would have stayed, caught up with my old church friends, and taken down a few phone numbers. Not that night. I couldn’t leave fast enough. I felt a chill over my body that could not be warmed. I felt an emptiness that could not be filled. I felt betrayed by a man I cherished and by a God of faithfulness.
After Bianca dropped me off at my house, I walked into the kitchen and put my head down on the counter. My mom asked me what was wrong, and I mentioned, casually, that I still felt bad when I saw Paul.
“What? He has a wife!” she exclaimed, as if four words of intense disapproval would clear my head. I knew I couldn’t talk to her about it. I went upstairs and wrote in my journal.
The worst part is that I still desire to have a future with him. I fantasize that we will meet in the future, both widowed, searching for companionship. He will see me and know instantly that we were created for each other. We will get married, serve God together, travel, and finish our lives together. I dream of the day when he will know he should have married me, and he will hold me tenderly in his arms.
Because I knew the idea was selfish, stale—and impossible—I felt frigid as I wrote it down. It was wrong. So much of what I desired was wrong. What could I do? Ignore it? It plagued me daily. Pray about it? Yes, but I had done that so many times. I was still sick. My stomach hurt more than ever.
I needed a solution.
Lord, you know I want to be over Paul. I need to leave this in the past. I need to wrap it up in a huge package with a fancy, shmancy, shimmery, gold bow, and leave it behind me. God, I do this tonight for my own good and for the sake of my relationship with my future husband. God! Hear me and have mercy on me. I am desperate.
Goodnight to My Thoughts of You Page 21
