“Oh yes, Jan! They’re just bringing me my lunch.”
I smile, honored that she knows my voice now. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised; she listens to my voice for nearly forty-five minutes every day.
The orderly finishes getting Mrs. Cox settled in front of a tray of food that looks barely edible. She fumbles for a spoon, feels her way around the plate, and grabs the pudding container. Smart woman.
“Happy Valentine’s Day,” I say in my cheeriest voice. “I know it’s two days early, but I figured you’re going to be pretty busy getting settled the next couple of days.”
She sets her food back down, and I love how her face blooms with color. It’s been pale for weeks, so seeing her this healthy sends a wave of relief through me.
The young man finishes his task and nods before leaving the room. I like him the best. He doesn’t try to make small talk like the other nurses do.
“Well, come on and give me a hug,” Mrs. Cox demands.
I walk over to her bed and set down the flowers before leaning over to squeeze her bony shoulders.
“I smell roses.”
“That’s because I just put a vaseful of them on your nightstand.”
She shifts and carefully finds the vase, her fingers sliding up the glass until it reaches the first stem. I made sure they removed every thorn, knowing she would feel all the way to the tip of the flower. “They’re beautiful,” she says after exploring every one of the roses with her fingers. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. I have a card, too.” I hand her the gift I didn’t bother to seal in an envelope and watch as her thumb caresses the heart. It still amazes me how she uses her other senses to compensate for her loss of sight. Watching her reminds me not to take my eyes for granted.
I take the seat next to her bed. She seems so much stronger today, and there’s only one IV still in her arm. “Do you feel ready to leave tomorrow?”
“More than ready. I never thought I’d miss that place, but I guess it’s become more like home than I realized.”
“I’m sure all your friends miss you, too. From what I understand, you are quite the shark at dominoes.”
Mrs. Cox snorts, but I see a smile appear. She isn’t able to play many games, but she can feel her way just fine around a game of Chickenfoot.
“Anyway, I should get started, huh?” I pick up the Bible first, knowing her rules by now. I don’t know why, but the book feels especially weighty today, burdensome almost, as if it, too, is disappointed in me. I gingerly turn the pages, and my hesitation only doubles. I don’t want to read today. Not one word.
“You okay, hun?”
I feel her wrinkled hand on my head. A small pat of affection that makes me swallow back the emotion. “Yeah, I’m fine.”
“You don’t sound fine. Your voice, it sounds heavy.”
I nearly choke at the truth of her statement. That’s exactly how I feel, heavy, as if my time of hiding has come to an end and I’m faced with a truth that’s a constant crushing weight. I sigh and close the Bible. “A friend once told me that no good would ever come from a lie. But I don’t agree. I think sometimes people don’t really want the truth. They want to believe the best in people, and smashing that illusion feels just as cruel.” I don’t know where the words come from; they just spill out of me like a flooded river that can no longer be contained within its banks.
She presses her lips together and contemplates my question. I respect her more for it, for at least attempting to consider my point of view.
“Have you ever been happy in an illusion, Jan?”
I think back to my ex, the greatest misstep in my life. “Yes, for a time.”
“And then what happened?”
I wring my hands in my lap and force myself to go back to that miserable place, the place of heartache and depression. The place that left me all but broken. “Reality shattered it.”
She nods. “It always does.” Her hand moves from the top of my head to my cheek, then to my chin. She lifts my head from its resigned position, and even with her shadowy eyes I feel as if she’s peering into my soul. “Just because you choose not to tell doesn’t mean the truth won’t eventually come out. God is not a God of deception. He may allow it for a time, but ultimately He will reveal His truth.”
A shiver of fear runs through me. I don’t like to think of God that way—as authoritative and demanding. I like the softer version that Aunt Doreen talks about. The one who listens to prayers and loves even the worst of people.
I clear my throat. “I should probably get started or we won’t get to read anything.” Once again I open the book and turn the delicate pages in anticipation.
“Jan . . .” She pauses until I look at her again. How she can tell, I don’t know, but she seems to know exactly when we make eye contact. “God is also not a God of fear. Whatever you need to do . . . He’s right there to help you.”
“Thanks.” My voice is flat, just like the emotion I suddenly feel. There’s different rules for someone like me. I don’t get to call on an imaginary higher being for strength. I have to find it in myself. And right now I’m too much of a coward to even try.
Cameron is working tonight, which allows me to continue avoiding the churning ball of anxiety that’s settled deep inside. Yet the restlessness won’t go away. I can’t sit still or eat. My cabin is spotless; I can’t even mindlessly clean. Frustrated, I grab my jacket and storm out the front door, slamming it behind me. The weather matches my foreboding. The skies are gray and overcast, the wind sharp and gusting, and the temperature has dropped to the high thirties. It’s too cold for a walk tonight, but I don’t care. I need the crunch of dormant grass and the smell of winter to remind me I was never supposed to get attached to this place.
I walk faster than I should, my nose and lips turning numb as I press forward. The wind whips my hair to the side and seeps beneath my layers of clothing. I blow on my frozen fingers, my gloves trapping the heat for seconds before it dissipates. The anxiety has turned to anger, and I feel it bloom across my chapped face. I’m angry with my ex for putting me in this position, and with Aunt Doreen for getting me this stupid job to begin with. But mostly I’m angry with myself for allowing my guard to be so incredibly thin that it crumbled the first time I saw Cameron’s dimples.
My tree appears at the crest of the hill, yet I pass by it, unwilling to cry for Cameron in the same place I mourned over my ex. He deserves more from me than a repeat of breakups past.
I hurry on without thinking, without watching where I’m going except to check the ground beneath my feet. I walk and walk until sweat forms under my shirt and my limbs no longer feel anything but the fire inside. I’m now on the far end of Doreen’s property, past the pretty landscaping and flagstone, past the clearing and into the ragged brush. Shrubbery covers the ground, along with untamed trees whose branches keep catching on the edges of my coat. I break off stick after stick to make a path, determined to get to my destination—Mom’s property.
Another mile and I’ll be at the barbwire fence placed between the two plots of land, the twisted metal a cruel reminder that two worlds this different can never collide without consequences.
I break through the last set of overgrown branches and halt immediately when hammering splits the air. Only a hundred feet separate me from my escape, but it may as well be fifty miles because Dillon stands at the fence line, twisting and pounding barbwire into a brand-new wooden post. His hits are brutal, each one given with more force than needed to do the task. I can feel his anger with each strike; it reverberates through the trees and encircles him like a dark cloud. It’s so intense, I can’t seem to move forward or even backward. He picks up another long nail and repeats the motion, his shoulders tight, his free hand gripping the barbwire as if he wants to make it bleed.
And then his hammer slips, and I gasp just as it makes contact with his knuckle. I feel the curse as much as hear it and instinctively back away so that I’m shielded by the nearest tree trun
k.
Dillon screams into the setting sun like a man in dire agony, and the hammer goes flying into oblivion. Then he kicks and kicks and kicks at the post until the wood splinters and his freshly repaired fence is back in ruins.
But it’s not the only thing that breaks at that moment, and I feel his pain in my heart so fiercely I want to rip it from my chest. My throat burns as his head dips in defeat. Though my sight has gone blurry, I can still see the way his shoulders shake, the way his whole body trembles as if the sobs might crush him right there.
I step back, knowing it’s wrong to share this kind of intimacy without his permission.
Every word Dillon’s ever spoken floods my mind as I flee from the scene I just witnessed.
“See, that’s where we differ. You think telling someone the truth is bad behavior, whereas I think skirting your real thoughts and feelings is the most hateful thing you can do to another person. . . . There is nothing more painful than thinking you know someone, sharing your life with them, and then finding out it’s a lie.”
With each retreating step, Dillon’s pain seeps deeper inside my bones, the gnawing truth no longer deniable. I haven’t just been lying to Cameron. I’ve been lying to myself, wanting to believe I’m not completely selfish for letting this relationship progress under deception. Sandra was right. Illusions are always shattered, and this one is no different. Except for one simple change. This time I will be the one making the choice.
Tomorrow . . . Cameron will know the truth.
twenty-nine
I feel like a dead man walking as I enter the worship center. Cameron doesn’t know I’m coming, nor have I answered either of his phone calls today for fear that if I heard his voice, I would chicken out.
The auditorium is empty, minus the people onstage and whoever is hidden inside the sound booth. I’m grateful for the anonymity and slip into a seat in the very back row.
Cameron, Brent, Darrel, Brian, Nate, and a woman I don’t recognize are huddled around the piano, Brian tapping out two chord options. They go back and forth, each arguing their position, until finally the group comes to a consensus. Cameron high-fives the woman—apparently they were victorious in the debate—and I have to squash a nudge of jealousy. She’s beautiful and has no problem wearing the same type of skinny jeans that nearly chopped me in half. She also has long legs, platform shoes, and wavy blond hair down to her mid-back.
Brent calls to the sound booth that they’re going to try again and then kisses her on his way back to the front microphone. Ah, his wife, Kaitlyn. I should have known.
The immediate relief shames me. I’ve no right to Cameron, not when our entire relationship is built on a lie. And moreover, I need to prepare my mind for the inevitable truth that after tonight, this incredible man will no longer be mine.
Cameron steps closer to the front of the stage, violin in hand, and my heart flutters just like it did the first time I heard him sing. I want to run, but I also want to hear him play one more time before he thinks I’m the devil.
Cameron tilts his head as he lifts the instrument but pauses when his eyes meet mine. I give a hesitant wave, and surprise splashes across his face, followed all too quickly by undiluted excitement. He’s glad I’m here. He wants me here. He has no idea what I’m about to do to him.
He grants me a single wink before placing his violin under his chin and his bow to the string. A single note slides through the auditorium, haunting in its depth and perfection. More follow, and chill bumps fill my arms and legs, multiplying when Brian hits his first chord on the piano. Nate’s drums come next, a soft roll that vibrates across my entire body.
The three of them continue, working together, the music climaxing, then calming until Brent’s voice comes in as the fourth layer, a silky ballad about his King Jesus and revival and seeing His kingdom. Brent pauses, picking softly on his acoustic guitar, giving me only a moment to recover before he sings again, his wife joining him in a harmony so touching the music feels like velvet across the skin. The violin fades, then the piano and the drums. The woman also lowers her mic so all that’s left is Brent’s voice, his lone guitar, and an empty room so full of emotion that I nearly choke on my tears.
The music isn’t just there, it’s alive. I feel it under every inch of my skin, inside my bones, down to my fingertips. I feel its pressure, its demand to respond in some way, as if we’ve become a partnership and I’m failing in my duties. And yet I can’t move, too frozen by the ache in Brent’s voice, by the simplicity of his guitar, by how much can be felt in such foreign words.
The piano comes back in, then the drums, and finally Cameron’s violin. The crescendo has me sliding forward in my seat as if I’m a captive of the music now, willing to follow it wherever it goes. More tears slip down my cheeks, and I don’t even care. It feels like such a natural response that I’m not even embarrassed. And then the song ends, and the silence that’s left leaves me hollow yet strangely fulfilled at the same time.
How could Cameron consider, even for a moment, trading this type of music for Bryson’s?
Brent cheers, and the band claps. They felt it, too, a surge of power so strong that if you bottled it, you could light all of Dallas.
I slide back in my chair, emotionally exhausted, and yet my mind is racing, my thoughts traveling past B&L’s reception buildings and patches of trees. It continues until I’m standing back in the brush and watching Dillon break. I want to reach out, bring him here, let him experience the enormity of what I just felt. And then it hits me. He’s not like me. He grew up in the church.
I close my eyes and hurt for him all over. Maybe the agony I witnessed was more than the loss of a mom and a wife. It was the loss of an entire way of life.
My resolve strengthens as I watch the six bandmates discuss Sunday morning’s set. I have plenty of regrets in my past, but keeping Cameron from this life and his place within it will not be one of them. He deserves the truth. Deserves to be the one to make a decision either way about the two of us.
Brent dismisses the group, and Cameron sets his violin in its case. He says goodbye to his roommates. A minute later, he emerges from the backstage doorway.
I stand, fidgeting with my purse while my pulse kicks up two notches.
“Hey! What are you doing here?” He doesn’t stop when he reaches my row. Instead, he pulls me into a hug and lifts me off the ground. “What did you think?”
“Incredible. Really. I’ve never heard anything like that before.” I ease away, even though I want to hold on longer. “Is that the song you’ve been talking about?”
“Yes,” he says in a relieved sigh. “Brent’s scrapped it from the set three times now, and finally . . . it’s right.” He lifts his hands to my face. “You must be our good luck charm.”
I place my hands on his and move out of his grasp before he kisses me. “I can pretty much guarantee that’s not the case.” I glance back up at the stage, where Brent and his wife are still engaged over a sheet of music. I don’t want to do this with an audience, and besides, admitting I don’t believe in God while standing in a place of worship feels far too sacrilegious for my comfort level. “Could we go into the hall or somewhere more private? I really need to talk to you.”
“Is something wrong?”
“No. I mean, yes, but . . . please, not in here.”
His eyes narrow as his mouth moves into a confused frown. “The bridal suite is right outside. I have the keys.”
It takes every ounce of self-control not to groan. Wedding venue, honeymoon cabin, now the bridal suite? I’m pretty sure getting married is out of the question, because I have now cursed every location that is supposed to come with a positive memory. “I guess that’ll work.” I ease from the row and cross my arms so he can’t take my hand.
Cameron seems to register every one of my movements, and his face grows more and more somber with each physical rejection. He points to the exit doors. I lead, though I have no idea where I’m going until we both spill int
o the hallway. He passes me then, stops at a door ten feet down, and pulls out a ring of keys. His hands tremble, and it takes two attempts before the key slides in and turns. Cameron holds the door open for me. I pass, careful not to touch him, and walk inside the dim room. He hits a switch on the wall, and a huge chandelier floods the space with soft, warm light.
“Wow.”
Cameron remains by the door while I stand in the center of a formal seating area with two Queen Anne chairs, a luxurious curved couch, and a chaise lounge. A vanity mirror hangs in an adjacent room, floor to ceiling, framed with intricate gold etching.
“It’s a little much for my taste, but the brides seem to like it.” His voice is monotone now, and gone is his earlier excitement. He bites at his pinky nail. “So, what’s going on?”
I meet his eyes for only a brief second before I have to turn away. I’m not ready. Not yet. Instead, I focus on the lush mauve carpet, searching for a distraction. It comes in the form of a side table. The piece is off-balance, sloped to the right as if unstable. My gaze follows downward, and sure enough, the back two legs show a jagged thin line across the wood. Glued, put back together, and shoved in the corner so no one would notice. “I bet this room holds a lot of secrets,” I say absently, imagining what kind of brawl did the damage. Maybe a father and son-in-law. Maybe two bridesmaids fighting over the same guy. Maybe a bride and her mother.
“Jan, why are we in here?”
I look up then, willing my mind to stop the loop it’s on. If I’m not careful, I’ll get so obsessed in the origin of the damage that I’ll neglect the entire purpose of coming in this room to begin with. “Do you want to sit?”
Cameron’s head falls back, and I hear a small thud when it hits the closed door. “Not really.”
“I’m sorry. I’m not doing this well at all.” I have no idea what to do with my hands, so I set my purse down on the oval coffee table and opt to wring them in front of me. “First, you need to know I think you’re amazing.”
Love and a Little White Lie Page 19
