16
Rae - Wednesday
I twist my key in the lock of my front door before I remember that there’s no need. Adam should be waiting inside.
He texted me during A&B saying he was coming over with a surprise, so I had to remind him of where I was. He replied that it was okay, and he’d be waiting for me. I smile with anticipation and turn the door knob.
There aren’t any lights on in the foyer, but the kitchen light is on around the corner, and I can hear the faint sound of soft jazz playing. I kick off my shoes and follow the sound.
My eyes fall on a lush bouquet of sunflowers — my favorite — arranged in a vase on the table.
I stop to admire them, feeling the corners of my eyes crinkle with a smile, when Adam appears around the corner. He holds a bottle of wine in one hand and two glasses in the other, and wow, does he look sexy.
He wears a white button-up with the top two buttons undone and his sleeves rolled halfway up his rippled forearms. His face is dusted with the hint of a 5 o'clock shadow and his beautiful white teeth glow when he sees me.
He sets the glasses down, not taking his eyes off of me, and scoops me up in one quick motion. A laugh bubbles out of my chest as he squeezes me tight, and I am happy I chose to wear my new yellow dress to A&B tonight so that I match his finesse.
He kisses me, long and sweet, my stomach fluttering with each movement of his jaw against my fingertips. When he pulls away, I almost feel dizzy.
“Hey gorgeous,” he says.
I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, “Hey.”
I take a few steps back, taking it all in. He’s taken the liberty of lighting candles and placing at least two on every surface — the table, the window sill, the server, and the shelf on the wall.
“Surprise,” He smiles.
I laugh, pressing myself back into his chest, “What did I do to deserve all this?”
“Are you kidding?” He says, “A woman like you deserves this every night. My only regret is not having the time to do it more often.”
I smile and nuzzle into him, “Only ’cause you’re working so hard for us. To take me to Italy no less. How can I complain?”
Adam breaks every rule in the book when it comes to how attractive a teacher is allowed to be. He smiles and pulls my hand into the kitchen.
“I was going to make salmon and asparagus to add to the surprise, but …” He says, extending the last word, “you got here sooner than I thought you would.”
I turn to him and smile. The words to explain how much I love him just don’t exist.
He picks me up and I wrap my legs around his waist. He sets me gently on the counter and I breathe in the scent of him as he trails his hands down my back. He always smells like warm spices — like cloves with a hint of cedar.
My stomach swirls with excitement as I think of the night ahead of me.
But then …
Then I remember.
The two words I circled over and over in my notebook. The way those two words apply to my night. The yellow paint.
I squeeze my eyes shut as he trails kisses up my neck, not wanting to do what my gut is telling me to.
I brush his cheeks lightly with my fingertips, bringing his face to mine. I smile at him, my body aching for his touch, and I force out the words as pleasantly as I can muster, “Honey, can I talk to you about something real quick?”
“Of course, love.” He says, wearing a curious expression.
I glance to the dining room, “Could we maybe go sit down?”
He eyes me carefully, “Yes?”
I hop down from the counter and we take our seats at the dining room table. Maybe I’ve already made too big of a deal out of this. Maybe I should just say “Psych,” and let him keep doing his thing.
“You’re not pregnant, are you?” He says before I can form any words.
“What?” I laugh, “No, that’s not what this is.”
His shoulders relax, “I saw the test wrapper in our trash can …”
I can’t help but smile at his obvious relief, “Not for me, love.”
Recognition dawns on his face, “Ohhh, for …?”
I nod, “But that’s not what I want to talk about.”
His whole posture softens, “Thank God. What’s this about then?”
“Well …” I say.
I really don’t know how I’m going to go about suggesting this, but there’s never been anything I couldn’t talk to Adam about, so I take a deep breath and just begin. “I’ve more or less kind of set a goal for myself.”
He shifts in his chair, listening attentively.
“I’ve been reading a little bit,” I fidget with my wristbands, “and I was just wondering … do you ever think that maybe we spend too much time being intimate?”
He smiles at me, mischievously, “No baby girl. I can honestly say that has never once crossed my mind.”
My cheeks heat as I try to tamp down my desire.
“But don’t you think the idea of waiting until your wedding night is kind of romantic and sweet?”
Adam glances around the candlelit room, “Am I not being romantic enough for you?”
“No, no,” I say, holding up my hands, “It’s not that at all. It’s just that … well, I think maybe it might be kind of nice if we waited until we’re married.”
“Yeah?” His face doesn’t fall into an expression of disappointment. He doesn’t look angry with me or surprised, he simply appears thoughtful. He doesn’t take his eyes from mine for a moment. “Why do you think that?”
I bite my tongue for a moment, sending up a quick prayer.
Lord, give me the right words.
I sigh and reach over for the bag I took to A&B. In it lies my notebook, with all of my Bible study notes on sexual immorality, and tonight's A&B lesson about the yellow paint.
“Don’t laugh at me, okay?” I say, “This actually means a lot to me … to share this with you.”
“Why would I laugh at you?” He says, inching his chair closer to peek at my notes.
I shake my head, “I know we’ve never been religious … but you know I didn’t grow up that way. My parents brought me up in the faith.”
“I remember.” He says.
“Well,” I continue, “Lately, I’ve felt really overwhelmed. The wedding, my classes, and other things are just really weighing down on me. So I talked to Kaya to figure out what some of her tricks are for handling life the way she does. She just has this beautiful grace about her, Adam. She glows in a way that all of us can see, but she has no reason to be so cheery. She lost her parents when she was young, and recently she’s been diagnosed with some sort of cancer.”
Adam remains attentive, even though I’m rambling. He knows this is how I have to sort out my thoughts.
“Anyway,” I say, “I asked her what her secret is, right? And in a nutshell, she told me that bettering herself spiritually, one thing at a time, helps her stay focused and joyful. She said that she’s seen the areas in her life that God has rewarded her for trying her best, and that when she prays, He helps her achieve her goals. But that it’s not a one-way street. She has to strive for her best to bask in the blessings.”
I look down at my notebook. Before I can talk myself out of it, I pass it to him.
He gently takes it and places it on the table in front of him. I watch his eyes go back and forth across the page, reading carefully through the scriptures I wrote. His eyes settle on the part of the page where I’ve circled “sexual immorality”.
I’m not sure why, but sitting in silence as he reads over what I’ve written — and wondering what on earth he is thinking — is nerve-racking. He probably thinks I’ve gone crazy.
He clears his throat and flips the page over to my A&B notes.
I panic a little bit at the thought of him reading further before I get the chance to explain it myself.
“Those are my A&B notes,” The words tumble out, “And basically the point of the message was that
sometimes the devil can take something that’s meant to be wonderful and twist it into something corrupt, that ultimately harms us — sometimes without us even realizing what’s going on.”
He glances up at me over his smart-looking glasses, and smiles in a way that sends a shiver through me, “I got that, honey.”
I go back to being quiet while he reads through the notes, practically wringing my hands waiting on him to say something.
Finally he closes the book and places it gently in my lap, bringing his handsome gaze back to me.
“Seven months is a long time, baby girl.”
My gaze falls to my lap, “I know …”
He glances back at the book and then back at me, “And you’re sure that’s what you want?”
It’s what God wants.
I nod, though I can’t look at him when I do.
There’s a long pause, and I can tell his eyes are studying me.
“Alright. If that’s what you want then that’s what we’ll do.”
Something in my stomach twists, and I briefly wonder what horrible thing have I done? Seven months is a long time.
I try to offer him a smile, “Thank you … so much. I’m sorry if I ruined your plans.”
He laughs, “We’re still having dinner, Rae.”
His laugh warms me, and I feel like maybe it’ll be okay after all.
“Where’s your skillet?” He says, scooting his chair back and offering me a hand.
I take it and pull myself up.
We continue our date together, stealing kisses and laughing over sizzling, lemon-spritzed salmon.
After he leaves for the night, my bed feels cold and seemingly bigger, but it’s a loneliness I’m okay with. Because overriding that loneliness is a different, altogether stronger feeling: The feeling that I’ve done something good … and that maybe, just maybe, The Creator of the whole world is just a little bit proud of me.
17
Grace - Thursday
I loved everything about today. Marla came by for a follow-up appointment and informed me that the tincture I made for her migraines has been working. She was ecstatic to have finally discovered something that helps her and ordered five more vials. All of my other clients were also happy with their care and gave Hyssop ‘N’ Sage some positive reviews online. The last couple I saw asked me to do my favorite thing, which is create an essential oil synergy for their home that ‘smells like purity’. When someone asks you to create a scent that doesn’t already have a set smell associated with it, you have a lot of creative leeway. So I had a fun day of concocting new scents that could somehow convey the aroma of ‘purity’, and put the finished product in a spray bottle. The couple was thrilled with how it turned out.
It’s days like today that I’m completely in love with my job. So to preserve the magic of this day, I deliberately try to think very little of what day it’ll be tomorrow. Not just a regular old Friday — but a Friday that I will meet with my ex’s lover for a chat. This week has me worn-out on worrying, so I push any thoughts of worry aside for the time being and remind myself that I deserve happy days too.
By the end of the day, all this talk about purification has me on a cleaning kick. My kitchen has transformed into an imaginary stage as I engage in my least favorite upkeep activity: washing the dishes. Grandma Jackie was too old-school to invest in a dishwasher, so ever since I moved in, I’ve had to do all of the dishes by hand. But seeing as though it is a necessary chore, it’s always been my personal goal to make it enjoyable some way or another. I’ll usually listen to a podcast or one of my favorite playlists, but this time, my favorite mix tape blasts from the old-timey radio I salvaged from Grandma Jackie’s things. I belt out every lyric of “Wouldn’t It Be Nice”, despite my inability to carry a tune. Suds and soap slosh around in the sink as I scrub the dishes, sending a few wayward bubbles flying into the air.
Amity touches her nose to one of the bubbles and spazzes out when it pops, sending me into fits of giggles. The cat’s expression of pure disdain is priceless.
When I finish the dishes, I grab the mop nearby and begin slathering the floor with the natural cleaner I made this morning. The slippery socks I’m wearing are fully intentional, as I don’t see any other way for a person to mop than to spin around and slide along the floor with your dashing, wooden-stick of a dance partner.
As the song fades to an end, I dip the mop low to the ground with a flourish and blow my adoring fans a kiss. If not for the song ending, I never would have heard my phone ring.
I pause my mix tape and go over to my cell, sliding the ‘accept’ icon without checking to see who it is.
“Hope there’s a good reason you’re interrupting my jam sesh,” I smile, wondering whether I’ll hear Rae’s voice in reply or Aunt Kim’s.
“Wow …” is the reply I get, “You picked up,”
My heart falls all the way into my stomach at the sound of his voice. Deep, soft, and unwelcomingly familiar.
“Jayden,” I say, sinking to the floor, “What’re you … why-?”
“Can you come get the door?” He says.
It takes me a minute to process.
“The door?” I say, “My door?”
“Yeah.”
“You’re here?”
“Yeah.”
***
“I tried knocking,” He says as I open the door.
“Yeah …” I say, running my fingers through my hair, “I had some music going.”
“I heard,” he smiles, “The Beach Boys, huh?”
My cheeks redden and I suddenly feel self-conscious in my oversized t-shirt and capris, which evidently are covered in patches of soapy water. This is not how this was supposed to go.
I was supposed to look perfect the first time seeing Jayden after the breakup. The ideal meet-up scene consisted of me walking down Broad Street in some pretty high heels, a short red dress, and a pair of Gucci sunglasses with my hair falling glamorously down my chest. The ideal scene did not occur in my house, wearing no makeup — or a bra for that matter — with my hair restrained by a bandana.
“Can I come in?” He says.
“No.” I shift, holding my place in the doorway.
“Grace,” He takes a step forward.
“What?” I take one back.
“Please.”
While my heart remains in my stomach, old feelings for Jayden rise up into my throat and choke out any words of rejection. I step helplessly aside, a slave to my own emotions.
The tension in his jaw slackens as he steps across the threshold and I shut the door. I’m frustrated with myself for granting him any feelings of relief.
“Make it quick, Jayden.” I say, “What do you want?”
He holds my gaze, unsmiling, “Wow. You really must hate me.”
I raise my brows, as if to say, you think?
He sighs, “I want you to hear me out, Grace.”
Keeping my arms crossed and my eyes trained, I remain silent.
His eyes wander over to my collection of herbal plants spilling over the windowsill and he half smiles, “You have no idea how much I’ve missed you.”
My brows knit together at his statement and I feel the knot in my throat bob when I swallow. He has no right to barge in like this. No right to make me feel anything.
Keeping his gaze on me, he takes a seat on my couch, motioning for me to sit down next to him.
I don’t move.
An expression of hurt flashes briefly behind the screen of his light-colored irises at my dismissal.
“What’s it going to take for you to believe me when I say that?”
I unfold my arms, throwing them up in frustration, “I don’t know at this point, Jayden. You’ve lied to me so much, I don’t know how you expect me to believe a word you say anymore.”
He buries his hands in his hair, nodding down at his lap, “I guess I deserve that.”
My face heats, and my anger suddenly overrides every other emotion, “You guess?” I ta
ke a step towards him, “You deserve that and more. You don’t even deserve to be in this house, on my couch. How dare you come back here after what you did. After all of my questions you wouldn’t answer — and say you miss me no less.”
“Grace —” He starts.
“No.”
He stands suddenly, closing the space between us. His eyes bore into mine with an intensity that burns. “I came here to answer all your questions, if that’s what it takes. I came here to remind you what a good thing we had and can still have.”
I try to step away from him, but his hands catch my hips and pull me back.
“Listen, Gracelynn.”
His use of my first name stills me. He’s only used it over serious conversations.
“My relationship with Hadley was obviously against all of my better judgment and it never should have happened. But it did, and now all I can possibly do is try to make it better with you.”
He’s so close, I can feel the warmth of his breath on my chest. The musky scent of his cologne mingled with the smoke of his last cigarette.
Could he really mean what he’s saying? Moreover, can I bring myself to match the meaningfulness of his words with the face I’m looking at? The one who stared emotionless at me while tears streamed down my cheeks, blackening them with running mascara? The thought makes my body go slack and I wriggle away from his grasp.
I turn my back to him, willing myself to focus on what to say next. Instead, hot tears snake down my cheeks as I remember the bits of joy I used to feel with Jayden, and how at one point, our memories counted for nothing in his eyes.
I can’t say anything right now. I don’t want my voice to crack. If I speak, even if my eyes are red rimmed, my voice needs to be strong and resolved, so he gets the memo that I really am done this time.
But then, the persistent and insatiable part of my heart tugs at me to ask him the questions he wouldn’t answer before, and to find comfort in his willingness to answer them now. It would be so easy to fall right back into his open arms and let him hold me the way he always used to. To listen to his whispers of love and regret as he strokes my hair with his strong fingers. Our memories wouldn’t be for naught after all.
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