Dad frowned. “Skylar, honey, what are you talking about? You’re wonderful.”
“I’m not, Daddy.” My lip quivered and I bit it steady. “You just think that because I’m so much like Mom and you’re in love with her.”
Dad’s head cocked as if he didn’t understand. “You’re not like your mom.”
I laughed. “Yes I am. Everybody says so. You say so.”
“You may look like her, but you don’t act a thing like her.”
“Are you crazy? I act exactly like Mom. I’m calm, rational, materialistic, and demand perfection of everybody around me.”
“You know who that sounds like to me?” Dad asked. When I shook my head, he smiled. “Me.”
“You?”
He nodded. “To a T.”
“I’m like you?”
“Sorry, kiddo, but it’s the truth. Even your mom thought so. Especially these last couple weeks as you’ve been figuring out how to sew. Whenever you threw out one of your projects because it wasn’t perfect, she’d say to me, ‘She’s your daughter.’ And”—he tapped his finger against my nose—“much like me, you’ll find you can’t give up on being with the person you love.”
I knit my fingers together. “So you think I should give this thing with Connor a chance.”
He nodded. “Your mom and I may have passed down traits to you, Skylar, but ultimately you’re your own person. Our mistakes don’t have to become your mistakes.”
I considered this. “Are you going to keep trying with Mom?”
“Always.” A crease developed between his eyes, just like me when I was on the brink of tears. “I thought maybe you, Abbie, and I could start counseling. Hopefully your mom will join us.”
I squirmed at the thought of answering all those personal questions. “Why do Abbie and I need to go?”
“We have a lot of lost time to make up for. When I think back on the last couple years, all I really remember is work.” He shook his head, his expression saggy with sadness. “I thought I was doing the right thing by working so hard. I always told myself that this was just until I could afford to slow down, but that time never really came. And look at you.” He sighed as he evaluated my face. “You’re not my little girl anymore. You’re starting college in the fall.”
“I’m still here, Dad,” I said, reaching to hug him. “We have lots of time.”
It was a tough call, who of Connor, Chris, Abbie, and me was most uncomfortable. Luckily, the adults were too engrossed in their own boring conversation to pay much attention to our lack thereof.
“Skylar, what are you going to be for Halloween?” Cameron asked, nearly bouncing in his seat. These days, nothing occupied his mind but costumes, monsters, and candy.
“I’m not dressing up.”
Cameron looked at me with horror. “Why not?”
“I’m not trick-or-treating or going to any parties. There’s no point.”
“Mom!” he squawked. “Did you hear that?”
Amy turned an attentive ear to her son. “Hear what, dear?”
“Skylar isn’t dressing up for Halloween!”
She smiled. “Sometimes that happens when you get older. Connor isn’t dressing up this year either.”
Connor and I glanced at each other. I offered him the best smile I could muster, but he looked away.
Cameron speared his baked potato with passion. “I will always dress up.”
I continued looking at Connor, hoping he would look back. Nothing.
And so went the rest of lunch.
How was I supposed to do this, I wondered as I helped clear the table. I’d never approached a guy before about feelings. They’d always clobbered me with theirs before I got the chance.
Connor leaned close as I stacked plates. “Mind if we talk in private?”
That was a good start. “Sure,” I said. “Come on.”
He followed me to my bedroom. I instantly regretted bringing him there. I knew from years of living with my mom what all you could tell from someone’s room. What would Connor think of my canopy bed with sheer white drapes? “A princess bed,” Dad had said last year when it was delivered. Is that what it would look like to Connor too? Would it remind him of all those reasons he didn’t want to be with me in the first place?
Connor burst out laughing. “How do you have a real conversation on this?” He picked up my pink, furry phone. “It’s like a toy.”
I didn’t answer, just continued to watch him poke about my room. He seemed in no hurry to discuss whatever it was that required us being alone. Probably how we should forget all that stuff he said last night and just be friends. I wrung my hands. What should I say if he said that? Should I tell him I’d had a change of heart? That Dad had given me the green light to date him?
Connor peered at the single framed picture in my room, one of Abbie and me. In the picture we’re five and three, dressed to impress in Mom’s cocktail dresses. I remembered how Mom bent over me and brushed my face with powder. I loved how soft it was on my face, how it tickled my nose, how it made me smell like her. We used to have fun together.
“You guys look hilarious.” Connor glanced at me. “Am I making you uncomfortable being in here?”
“No.” Ugh—I was trying not to lie anymore. “Well, kind of. I’ve never had a boy in my room before.”
Connor returned the photo to my dresser. “I’m honored.”
I smiled, and then we just stood there.
“I want you to listen to me.” He gripped my arms, holding me there as if I were a flight risk. “You don’t get to drive off and pretend that settles everything. I know you care about me, and I refuse to give up based on some lame excuse about your mother. To you, I realize, it may seem legitimate, but I’ve seen a different side of you this week, a strong side, and there’s not a doubt in my mind that—”
I cut him off by pressing my mouth to his. He drew me closer and his grip on my arms loosened as I relaxed against him.
Connor blushed as he looked into my eyes. “Really? I had this whole spiel planned.”
With his grin and red cheeks, he looked like a little boy, but in a nice way. I pushed my fingers through his auburn waves. “Sorry.”
Connor shrugged. “I’ll save it for our first fight.”
“Oh good. Something to look forward to.”
Connor smiled and pulled me against him. “We have a lot to look forward to.”
24
The dreaded Monday came quickly, as all dreaded days do. Though with Connor to walk beside me, it didn’t seem so horrible. Heather was right when she said people ultimately would prove to be human, but life was sure better when they were around. And even when they disappointed, God wouldn’t. Or so I was learning.
Chris and Abbie walked beside us, carrying on a noticeably strained conversation. Their subjects were too polite, their word choices too careful. With Lance’s apparent eagerness to help with the coming child, I imagined it would be awhile before things between Chris and Abbie returned to normal. Assuming they could.
“Hey, Abbie, wait up!”
All four of us turned and saw Lance jogging our way. I caught the flash of jealousy in Chris’s eyes before he could mask it.
“It’s just not fair,” I hissed to Connor. “Lance treated her like dirt when they were together, and now Chris has to lose to him?”
Connor pressed soothing fingertips into the nape of my neck. “There’s a lot of time between now and the baby’s arrival. A lot could still change.”
“Well, say something encouraging to your brother. He looks horrible.”
“I can hear you, you know,” Chris said in a glum voice.
I glanced at Lance and Abbie, who’d fallen behind us. “You still matter to her,” I said. “And Lance isn’t exactly known for his follow-through.”
Chris shrugged and veered off toward the sophomore hall.
“That was nice of you,” Connor said as he wove his fingers through mine.
“I feel sorry for him.�
�� I shook my head. “Only Abbie would get pregnant and have two guys fighting to take care of her.”
When we arrived at our lockers, Jodi and the rest of the girls were already there. Jodi noted Connor’s and my joined hands. I assumed that in a matter of seconds I’d be wearing whatever her Starbucks cup contained.
Instead, she rolled her eyes. “I know you’re miffed about Eli, but you don’t have to stoop that low.”
If she’d said something derogatory about me, that would be one thing. Messing with Connor was something else altogether. Maybe she knew that.
“Watch it, Jodi,” I said.
Connor touched my arm. “It’s not worth it.”
“Listen to your boyfriend, Skylar.” Jodi strolled past us, the other girls in tow. “Nice pants, by the way.”
I waited until they were out of earshot to say, “I can’t handle another seven months of them.” When Connor didn’t respond, I glanced at him. “Hello?”
He shook his head. “Sorry. I was focused on your pants. Exactly what color is that?”
I gave his arm a playful punch. “Thought you said you liked my crazy clothes.”
“I love your crazy clothes.” He pulled me close and kissed my forehead. “Although I’ll admit they kept me at bay for a while.”
“Well, same to you.”
“Same to me?” Connor looked down at his wind pants and sneakers. “There’s nothing wrong with my clothes.”
“Hmm, I feel our first fight coming on.”
He checked his watch. “Forty-eight hours. Yeah, that sounds about right.”
“How about instead of arguing about your clothes, we take a moment to appreciate that I’ve learned to care about other things. And that you stuck with me through the messy ride.”
“You were worth it,” Connor said, fitting his arm around my waist. “You’re not like any girl I’ve ever known.”
A long time ago, I’d let Aaron hypnotize me with this idea, that I was somehow better than the girls around me. I craved distinction, uniqueness. My quest for my true identity led to that horrid night, the one I still had nightmares about.
“Do you think it’s possible to get over big stuff in life?” I asked as we headed toward class. “Like do you think I’ll ever forget what happened with Aaron and really move on?”
Connor drew in a slow breath. “I hope this comes out right. While I hate the thought of anything causing you pain, have you ever considered what might have happened if you hadn’t met Aaron?”
“No.”
“Think about it for a minute.”
I did. A dark life lay ahead of that girl, full of hangovers and superficial relationships. I much preferred what I had now, my life after I got over myself.
“You know, maybe that’s why we’re not allowed doovers,” I said. “The events we’d erase, God uses to shape our lives.”
Connor looked at me with pride. “I like how your life is shaping up.”
I smiled. “Yeah, me too.”
Dr. Prentice flipped on her tape recorder. “How’s the week gone?” Her eyes rested on Dad, then Abbie, then me.
For the last month, we’d sat in the same chairs every Wednesday night at eight while she probed us about our communication, Dad’s work schedule, and any contact with Mom. We were making progress, or so she claimed.
Abbie beamed at Dad. “Dad took the whole weekend off.”
Dr. Prentice smiled. “Wonderful, Paul. And is it getting easier to delegate responsibilities at work?”
“It is. Like yesterday, this meeting came up that—” Dad stopped talking when the office door cracked open. He stood. “Teri.”
I blinked at my mom as she stood in the doorway of Dr. Prentice’s office, and searched for any changes the last month might have inflicted. But she looked the same as always—a smart outfit, just the right amount of makeup. Did we look the same to her? Or could she see all the tiny changes that had taken place in the weeks of her absence?
Mom glanced around the room, left eye twitching ever so slightly. “I’m sorry I’m late. I meant to come earlier, but . . .” Her words trailed off, and for a moment, she and my father looked at each other.
He pulled out a chair for her. “You’re right on time,” he said. “We’re just getting started.”
Acknowledgments
Over the course of several years as I wrote this book, many people influenced its creation.
First, my husband, Ben, who took lots of walks with me around Westwood while he helped me figure out exactly who Skylar was. He read every draft of this book along the way and was critical to the accuracy of my baseball and tire-changing scenes. He also indulged several research trips to Sheridan’s.
My family and babysitters, without whom I wouldn’t have time or energy to sit at my desk every day—Steve and Beth Hines, Reta Hines, and Ann and Bruce Morrill. And Chris Morrill, whom I draw my brotherly experiences from.
McKenna Noelle made it possible for me to write pregnancy with authority and prompted a major rewrite of Abbie’s story.
The beautiful character of Amy Ross is a composite of the fabulous ladies who used to gather with me on Wednesday mornings back in Orlando—particularly Christy Kirven, Amy Etchison, Lucretia Head, Jan Cochran, Tricia Phillips, Julie Leffler, Deidre Anderson, and Elaine Gallman.
I’m indebted to Erica Vetsch, my first writing friend, who suggested I join ACFW. She’s been here to encourage me every step of the way.
My three writing buddies—Mary Proctor, Carole Brown, and Roseanna White—who’ve made the journey so much more fun than when I wrote all by myself. Particularly Roseanna, a “kindred spirit” whose opinion I’m addicted to, and who makes sure I get all my commas and periods in the right places.
My agent, Kelly Mortimer. She consistently goes above and beyond her professional duties. Kelly pushes me to do my best and represents me and my stories with fervor and energy. She’s living proof of how rich the rewards are when you obey God’s calling for your life.
And of course the whole team at Revell. Their enthusiasm for Skylar’s story has made it easy for Skylar to belong to everyone, not just me. Specifically Jennifer Leep, a champion for this series, and Jessica Miles, whose attention to detail touched my heart.
Thank you all for your invaluable help in making this book possible.
Stephanie Morrill is a twentysomething living in Overland Park, Kansas, with her high school sweetheart-turned-husband and their young daughter. She loves writing for teenagers because her high school years greatly impacted her adult life. That, and it’s an excuse to keep playing her music really, really loud.
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