“Who is that?” I ask quietly.
Victoria leans close and whispers, “Rachel. Sandra’s daughter. It’s the first time she’s visited the nursing home in months.” Her eyes turn teary, and I find my vision going blurry, as well. I’m reminded of the prayer I said at the hospital, the one I chose to forget because the stakes were too high. To admit prayer works is to admit that God exists, and admitting God exists means that the words in Sandra’s Bible are not just a collection of fanatical writings but instructions for living. And, well, there’s just too many things in that book that would change everything in my life.
I back away from the door, not wanting to ride this train of thought any further.
Victoria tilts her head. “Don’t you want to meet her?”
“No. Let them have their time. I’ll try again tomorrow.” I feel a sob in my chest and move farther away from both the room and Victoria.
Her expression turns to concern, and I know she can see I’m on the edge of breaking down. “You sure everything is okay?”
“Yeah. I’m just tired. I’ll see you tomorrow.” With that, I flee. From the hall, the building, the parking lot, until I’m safely locked inside my car. The dam on my tears collapses immediately after. Head against the steering wheel, I let the river of emotion that I’ve been stifling finally burst forth.
How is it possible to be so happy for another person and so devastated for myself? I’m glad Victoria and Ralph are falling in love again, glad Mrs. Cox’s daughter is in there reading to her, but at the same time I feel as if I’m losing everyone I care about.
I pound my head against the leather wheel, admonishing myself for getting too comfortable. I came here to heal, get stronger, and then return to my old life. The one I felt completely satisfied with prior to moving to Texas.
And now I have no idea how I’ll ever return to who I used to be.
thirty-three
The days pass in slow motion, leaving me too much time to think. Too much time to question all the events that have left me sitting on this same bench fighting heartbreak all over again. I once heard the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again while expecting different results. If that’s true, my life can be concisely summed up in that one tragic word.
I turn toward the sky, even though I know no one’s listening. “Well . . . here I am again. Is this what you wanted?”
There’s no answer except the snap of cutting shears. It gets louder as I strain my ears to hear, and I don’t fight the relief that comes in knowing I’m not out here alone. On my feet once again, I trudge toward the only person who might understand why I’m sitting alone on a Saturday afternoon.
Dillon appears the minute I clear the edge of the reception barn. He’s hunched over Doreen’s barren rosebushes, the ones that run along the back fence for a good twenty yards. I wait to speak until he lets the tool drop from his hand and takes a swig from his thermos.
“What is your obsession with working on the weekends?”
He sets down his drink and smiles at my approach. “I like the quiet, and it’s rare when we don’t have a wedding scheduled.” He says we like he’s part of this place, as if he, too, has part ownership of B&L and the land it sits on. I understand. I’ve been here nearly three months now, and the venue feels like a part of me, as well. “And,” he adds, “it seems to annoy you, which has its own benefits.”
I push at his arm, but I can tell by his smirk that he’s teasing. “So what’s with all the branches?” I ask. There’s a small pile at his feet and another one in the nearby wheelbarrow.
“Pruning time.”
“Already? Aren’t you supposed to wait until it’s warm?”
“Nope. Ironically, Valentine’s is the ideal week for pruning, but I just didn’t feel like doing it then.”
“Yeah, I can see how slicing something that day might have been dangerous.” A white fluffy cloud covers the sun, and I stamp my feet to keep my legs from going numb. Dillon’s wearing a long-sleeved shirt with no jacket, and although he claims he’s ultra warm-natured, I know he has to be cold. “Thank you, by the way. I really appreciate you cheering me up that night.”
“Anytime.” He stretches his arms above his head and lowers them again. “In fact, we should do it again. What do you have planned for June seventh?”
I chuckle. “I don’t know. Why?”
His gaze finds mine, and that same confusing heat I felt on the dance floor returns. “There were three days I was dreading this year. You’ve managed to be at two of them. And despite what this statement is going to do for your ego, I will admit you made them far better than I expected.”
Ah. That was actually kind of sweet. “Well, I was going to head back to Georgia around then, but I suppose I could push my plans back a few weeks.”
“Good.” He goes back to his methodic task, not offering any more details on what event is to take place come the seventh of June.
I could ask, but the last thing either of us need is a tumble back into the past, or worse, to find ourselves emotionally connected like we were on Valentine’s Day. So instead, I squat down and watch him work. “Any more run-ins with the stumbling trio after I left?”
“Thankfully, no. But I did snag an invitation I couldn’t refuse.”
“Really? From who?” I’m going for nonchalant, but it comes out with a bite that makes Dillon’s lips curl into a smile.
“Easy, tiger. They know I’m taken.” He winks, and I open my mouth to protest but he keeps talking. “My dad’s cousin said I could use his hunting lease whenever I want. I’m thinking I might take him up on the offer.”
“Oh. Well, good.” I don’t know why, but I feel a twinge of sadness at the thought of his not being out here. “When do you leave?”
“Not really sure. I figured I’d just let the wind guide me.” He shrugs like it’s no big deal, but I see the change all over his face. His mouth is relaxed, his eyes soft and absent of the weariness I’ve come to expect. I wonder if it has something to do with that night by the fence. As if releasing all those emotions allowed him to embrace life again. Or maybe the relief is just from making it through two exceptionally hard days.
“I’m really glad you’re going,” I say with all sincerity.
He turns his head. “Tired of me already, huh?”
I can tell he’s deflecting, yet for some reason I don’t want to let him. He’s come too far. We’ve come too far. I lay my hand on his forearm. “You deserve to be happy again.”
“I’m trying.” He clears his throat, and I drop my hand, feeling a little silly now that the moment has passed. Dillon picks up a spare set of work gloves and holds them out. “Wanna help?”
I take the gloves with trepidation. “Won’t I mess it up?”
“Nah, it’s easy. I’ll show you where to cut.”
“Okay . . . but Doreen better not come hunt me down when her prize rosebushes don’t bloom in the spring.”
He shakes his head. “You worry far too much about the little things . . . and far too little about the big things.”
“Stop it.” I grab the extra pair of shears he offers and point it at him. “We’re finally getting along. Don’t pick another fight with me.”
He lifts his hands in surrender. “Okay. I take it back.”
“Good.”
He shows me how to grip the branch, how far down to cut, and the correct angle to hold the shears. I do a couple under his supervision, and when I pass the scrutiny, he goes back to the bush he was working on.
Five whole minutes pass, but I can’t get his statement out of my head. I pause before cutting. “What did you mean by that? Me not worrying enough about the big things?”
He pauses but doesn’t look up. “Don’t forget who you’re talking to, Jan. You know better than to ask questions you don’t want the answers to.”
I scrunch my nose, annoyed but not at all surprised by Dillon’s warning. “Just tell me.”
He sighs as if he can
’t believe he has to explain it. “You are an incredibly intuitive person. No one can deny that. You see things in people no one takes the time to notice, but you also use it as an excuse to pretend you know people, when in truth you’re just guessing. I’ve told you this before, and I’ll say it again—you can’t truly know someone from far away, no matter how complex your brain is.” His gaze zeroes in on mine, and I feel alarmingly exposed. “Have you ever allowed someone to know you? And I mean really know you?”
He watches me, waiting for a response, yet doesn’t seem surprised when I don’t give him one.
“I want to,” I finally say, but then wonder even as the words fall out if it’s true. “It isn’t easy for me.”
“It isn’t easy for anyone. Trust is never without risk. You are surrounded by people and yet you choose to exist completely alone. How is that any better?”
I swallow because it’s all I can do to keep from crying. He doesn’t know what it’s like to be disappointed by people over and over again. To love and then be abandoned or forgotten. “My world has been a lot darker place than yours.”
“If that’s the case, then it should be really easy for you to see the pockets of light.”
I immediately think of my aunt, of Sandra Cox and her consistent faith, of Ralph and Victoria and how they fought to stay together, of Cameron, despite the sharp pain it brings, and even Dillon when he’s not driving me crazy. “I do see the pockets of light.”
“Then why do you insist on staying in the darkness?” He leans closer, conviction coating every word. “I get it. I’ve been there. Been angry at God, abandoned everything I was raised to believe. But I’ve found my way back, and I know if you would just let your guard down for one second . . . you would see what I do.”
I know his words are meant to bring some religious epiphany or to incite a tear-filled response that will force me on my knees and make me forget all the hardships in the past. And emotion does come, but not sadness or guilt or even surprise that Dillon seems to have found his faith again.
No . . . this time, the only emotion I feel is blinding hot rage.
“You say those words as if my life has been a choice. Like I asked for a dad who couldn’t care less if I’m even alive. Or for the only decent stepdad I had to leave the house and never call again. Or maybe I could have decided to simply ‘step out of the darkness’ when my second stepfather backhanded me after beating my mother.” I stand, my voice trembling. “Or when Stepdad #3 came into my bedroom drunk and handsy, pretending I was my mom. You’re right, Dillon. Shame on me for not figuring it out.”
He gets to his feet, but I back away before he can approach.
“And where do you get off lecturing me? You’re divorced. You gave up.” I see him flinch. Still, I don’t care that my words are cruel. I don’t care about anything right now but making the gut-wrenching pain go away. “You talk about finding a strong man, but you’re no different. You’re exactly like them. All of them. And I am sick and tired of everyone trying to shove me toward a God who has never once bothered to intervene.”
My angry words hang between us, my chest rising and falling so fast I can audibly hear each intake of breath. And for once, Dillon doesn’t seem to have anything to say. Well, good.
I throw the shears I’m still holding to the ground, followed by the gloves I tear off my fingers. “You’re right, Dillon. I shouldn’t have asked.”
Now it’s my turn to leave.
thirty-four
I storm through my cabin door, still shaking. My cheeks sting from sprinting against the wind, and my ankles ache from nearly falling twice in my rushing back home. I head straight to the bathroom and viciously grab three tissues for my running nose. No tears have fallen. I’m too angry for them. But as the adrenaline fades, I feel the sobs creeping up like a stealth army approaching the battlefield.
I stare at my red, blotchy reflection the same time I hear my front door slam shut. Why it surprises me that Dillon followed me home, I don’t know, but it does. In the months we’ve known each other, I’ve said many things that should have hurt him, but only today did I succeed.
He’s on the couch with his back to me when I muster the courage to enter the living room. I know he hears my approach because his shoulders tense, yet he doesn’t turn or even acknowledge my presence. Not even when I lower myself to the seat cushion next to him.
Elbows on his knees, Dillon stares at the floor, his head lowered. “I didn’t give up,” he says, unmoving.
Remorse bombards my chest as I study his hunched, defeated position. “Dillon . . . I—”
The shake of his head cuts me off. I guess that’s fair. I had my chance to speak. Now it’s his.
“Rebecca and I grew up together. Our parents were friends; our circles linked everywhere. Church, school, athletics. And I never once thought of her that way, until one day I did, and this spoiled, crybaby girl became a beautiful, poised woman. We dated my junior and senior years, and it was nothing life-changing but we had fun together. Understood each other. But when we got accepted to different colleges, it was never a question what would happen. We were young and we both wanted to experience life before settling down.”
Dillon doesn’t move, but I scoot back and find a more comfortable position on the couch. I don’t want anything distracting me from the story I’ve been waiting to hear for months.
“My senior year of college was when they were getting ready to build the new sanctuary at Grace Community. Everyone was so excited. But for me, the building I knew and loved from childhood was getting torn down to make room. The pastor sent out a newsletter inviting us to the groundbreaking, where they’d have some demoed bricks available if we wanted a piece of our history. So I went, and there she was . . . standing with her arms hugging her body and sentimentally crying for the end of an era.” He shoves both hands through his hair. “I should have let that be it. One shared moment. But the next day I called her. And then the day after that. And soon we were back together. Older, wiser, and more willing to give up our dreams to be together.”
He looks up at me, and the tears pooling in his eyes make me want to rip my tongue out and slice it apart for being so callous.
“We were married the summer after graduation. June seventh.” He looks back down at his feet. “As much as I loved her, and I did, it was a hard match. I had grown up an only child in a male-dominated household. Even my mom wasn’t very girly. Rebecca was the youngest of three girls. She was femininity at its core and used to getting her own way. But we made it through that trying first year, and then the second. And after that, I thought, okay, this is going to work. And it did, or at least I thought it did for six years. And then Mom got sick.”
His voice trembles when he mentions his mother, and I yearn to reach out and offer some kind of physical comfort. I don’t, though, because as much as I want to ease his heartache, I also know that Dillon wouldn’t be telling me these things if he didn’t want to, and the greatest gift I can give him right now is to let him finish.
“The next five months are a blur to me. I remember them sitting me down and I remember hearing the word cancer. But everything else is a movie reel of robotic movement. Survival. First to support Mom and then to keep my father functional when he had no desire to live.” Dillon pauses, takes a deep breath, and seems to get his emotion back in check. “And through it all, Rebecca was there. When I’d spend hours at the hospital with my mom, she didn’t complain or demand I come home. And then after the funeral, she kept our lives running while I worked seventy-plus-hour weeks to keep the business afloat. I remember thinking how lucky I was.” Now his voice turns curt, anger smothering every syllable. “So incredibly lucky to have such a strong, loving wife who could step up like she had during the darkest of times.”
I watch as his jaw flexes, watch as his fists release and his anger fades.
“It was three months after we buried my mom that Dad finally came back to us. That day is the first really clear memory I
have in that entire season. It was a Saturday, two in the afternoon. He came to work and told me to go home. He said it’s time for him to stop being crippled by grief and to find a way to live his life without her. He said Mom would tear his hide apart for letting me shoulder all the burden this long.”
I can’t help but smile because Dillon sounds so much like his dad that I nearly look around the room for him.
Dillon stretches his neck back and forth like he has to work up to telling me the next part of the story. And since I already know the ending isn’t a happy one, I brace myself for what’s coming next.
“I picked up flowers on the way home. Tulips, because they are her favorite. Her car was gone, but I knew she had a nail appointment that day, so I figured she’d be home soon enough. The house was immaculate when I walked in, which was very unlike her, and I still to this day wonder why she bothered. Especially when her Dear John letter left me bleeding all over our polished wood floors.”
He stands and laces his hands over his head. Even pacing in front of me, Dillon can’t hide the fact that this next part still cuts him deep in the chest. Finally, he stops moving and his arms fall.
“All that time I thought she was a saint, she was having an affair with her old college boyfriend. Supposedly they had reconnected on social media and had been talking for over a year at that point. She’d been unhappy for a very long time, she said, and could no longer live a lie. She’d planned to leave me before Mom got sick, but once we got the news, she said it seemed too cruel. But then I guess her lover—” he grinds his teeth, then relaxes his jaw—“finally gave her an ultimatum. Him or me.” He shrugs one shoulder like his words aren’t the most heinous I’ve ever heard. “She chose him.”
He sits back down, facing me now. “I followed her to her parents’ house. Spent the night on their porch trying to get her to talk to me and work it out. I told her I could forgive her, told her we could go to counseling. Begged her not to give up on us.” His voice gets deeper, his gaze nearly holding mine hostage. “I fought and fought and fought, every day, until she signed the divorce papers. And then I did what my dad did and tried to find a way to move on without her.”
Love and a Little White Lie Page 22
