After the Rain

by Bruce, Brandy

  “I don’t doubt it one bit. People are drawn to you, Debbie. Always have been. Tell me about your new friends.” I proceeded to tell her all about Paige and Ben. I added in Milo for an extra person because two seemed a little embarrassing after she’d just said people were drawn to me. I made sure to tell her about the gorgeous scenery and the excitement of working downtown every day.

  “Colorado sounds wonderful, Debbie Ann. I might have to come visit you out there.”

  “You’re welcome anytime, Nana.”

  “I’m glad to hear you’re doing well. We’ve been … worried, honey.”

  Don’t cry.

  Twenty-eight years old and my chin was quivering. I closed my eyes and held the phone away for a second. “I’m much better.” Except for the tremble in my voice.

  “Are you lonely, Debra?”

  It was getting harder to breathe. “Sometimes.”

  “Listen to me. I learned a long time ago that we’re all lonely sometimes.”

  Even Sara and Luke? I wondered.

  “You can be in a crowded room and feel lonely. There were days when I was stuck at home all day with three small children, and I’d never felt lonelier. Your grandpa and I would go to church and sing hymns, standing in a full congregation, but at times I still felt alone. It’s not so much about who you’re with as how those people make you feel. I drink my coffee alone on the back porch every morning during summer, and I just listen to the birds, and I feel perfectly at ease. Just me and God. There’s something about being at peace with yourself. It helps with being lonely.”

  I tried to swallow the huge lump that had formed in my throat. “I’m working toward that, Nana.”

  “You’ll get there. Sometimes there’s too much noise around us to even think, and we need to be alone, if only to hear that whisper in our heart, telling us who we are.”

  All the emotion had made my nose start to run. I sat up straight.

  The truth was that I’d had a revolving door of friends while growing up, but never felt truly close with anyone. It didn’t seem to matter. I loved being around lots of people and working and saying yes to any and every activity. I’d joined the group in Texas, thinking it would be the same. People to hang around, girlfriends to shop with—what I’d found was a circle of friends that wanted to do life with me, whether that meant crying together or laughing over pizza. I’d felt close to Addison and Lily and Sara and Luke and Jason and Sam in a way that felt deep and real. Finding that again felt impossible. And risky.

  “What if I’m not quite the same girl I was, growing up in Minnesota?”

  There was quiet for a moment; then her warm voice drifted in my ears. “Take it from a woman who turned seventy just this morning, honey. Knowing who we are takes years. Twists and turns and mistakes and growth. You’re a woman. We’re complicated creatures. There will be moments when you lose yourself in passion, and times when you find yourself in love. Days you want to freeze time, and nights when you’ll cry until you can’t breathe. None of them are wasted.” Nana inhaled and I could almost see tears in her eyes as she spoke to me. If I needed to hold her, I knew she needed to hold me too. “You become the woman you want to be, Debbie. I’ll love that girl, no matter who she is.” States away, she gave me what she could. Her words held me.

  After we said goodbye, I went down to the gym for an hour, then came upstairs and put in a load of laundry. Still thinking of Nana, I found my DVD copy of My Fair Lady, curled up on the sofa, and hummed along to every number.

  Around one thirty Sunday afternoon, I was sitting in the passenger side of Ben’s jeep. Luckily he had the top off and it was far too windy for conversation. Mixed emotions of both regret for agreeing to go and pleasure for being out on such a clear, gorgeous day kept swirling around inside me. I ended up just inwardly yelling at myself to get a grip and enjoy the hike. Ben seemed easygoing enough that I figured if I asked him to take me home, he’d just do it.

  We drove about thirty minutes out of town to a popular hiking spot. I climbed down from the jeep and shook back my windblown hair, trying not to picture what it must look like. I shaded my eyes and looked up at the climb before us.

  “You ready?” Ben asked.

  “I’m ready.”

  We hiked in silence for a few minutes, but we weren’t alone. People walked ahead of us and behind us. The sounds of conversation and laughter surrounded us. Once we hit our stride, Ben started telling me all his favorite hiking spots in Colorado, then his fishing spots, and then conversation shifted to his job at the church.

  “You’re the worship leader at a church and the lead singer of a band,” I said, trying not to huff. While working out had been pretty much my only pastime for the last few months, the Colorado altitude was no joke. “Is it hard to be both?”

  Ben shook his head. “Not exactly. I’m not expecting the band to hit it big and start touring.”

  “You don’t want that?” I asked.

  He lifted one shoulder and dropped it. “I’m not saying that. Music is a huge part of my life. And yeah, it would be a dream come true to get signed and hear my stuff on the radio and all that. But my life direction changed course a while back. I stopped making decisions that were solely based on what I wanted to do, and I started searching for a purpose that felt more real. Leading worship is fulfilling for me. I feel like this is where I’m supposed to be.”

  “Do you love it? Like you love being in a band?”

  “Yeah, I do. It’s about more than me. When the band plays, the spotlight is on us—when I lead worship, it’s not about me.”

  When the band plays, you are the spotlight. I kept those thoughts to myself.

  “Did you have a church you went to back in Texas?” he asked. To be fair, he couldn’t know he’d just endangered his life by bringing that up.

  “Yeah,” I answered, trying to think of a subject change. Thoughts of Luke and Sara’s engagement started to swirl through me and I got quiet. Here I was, thousands of miles away, trying to piece together a new life for myself, while they enjoyed their happily ever after. I supposed I’d made it easy on them. I left. Addi and Lily and Sam and Jason were probably brimming over with congratulations and happiness for Luke and Sara.

  I tried—really, I did—to slow down my rage and pivot to other thoughts. “You said you’ve been leading worship for two years. What did you do before that?”

  Ben stopped, opened his water bottle, and took a drink before answering my question. “A few different things.”

  Sara would be trying on wedding dresses and the girls would be twirling in bridesmaids’ dresses—all while pretending I didn’t exist. They’d all moved on like I was nothing to them.

  Something inside me snapped.

  “Why are you here with me?” I rested my hands on my hips. “You’re the worship pastor. The worship pastor is always part of the popular crowd at church. You should have lots of people clamoring for your time, right? You’re one of the cool kids. Probably always have been.” My words rushed out, bitter and angry, and to my embarrassment, I couldn’t stop them. “I’m nobody. You shouldn’t waste time on me. I’m sure you’ve got lots of friends and people—girls to hang out with. I can tell you now, I’m not that interesting. You should be with all those perfect people, who go to church and act like their lives are perfect. And only hang out with people just like them. People who all speak the same churchy language. I used to speak that language and now I hate it. I hate it!”

  Tears were pooling in my eyes and I couldn’t breathe.

  Oh God. I think I’m going crazy. Maybe my mom was right, maybe I’m seriously depressed.

  Ben tightened the cap back on his water bottle. He looked at me, no words.

  “I’m okay,” I said brusquely, trying to actually be okay.

  Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.

  He tapped the water bottle against the side of his leg. “What I’m hearing from you is that you used to believe and you don’t anymore.” His tone was curious, nonthreateni
ng. I folded my arms.

  “No. Yes. I don’t know.” I inhaled through my nose, then looked back upward toward the top of the trail. I wiped my eyes. “I still believe in God. I’ve tried not to, but I do. But we’re not on speaking terms.” Then I looked back at Ben, daring him to say something cliché. He just nodded. He pointed up the trail.

  “There’s a bench at the top, waiting for us. I’d like to sit on that bench and talk. Want to keep going with me?”

  My heart rate slowed just a little. “What if someone else is sitting on the bench?” I asked.

  He smiled. “We’ll make do, I guess.”

  We started slow, walking side by side. “I’m sorry,” I whispered finally. He didn’t say anything. “I know,” I continued, my voice raspy. “I seem crazy.” And then I wanted to talk. I desperately needed to talk to anyone who cared enough to listen. A tear dropped from my eye and I brushed it away.

  “You don’t. Not to me.” His voice was tender and quiet, like we were alone, not on a busy hiking trail.

  “My boyfriend broke up with me. That sounds trivial, but I loved him. I still love him. I think I’ll always love him. He’s ruined me.” I gasped for breath, my heart rate accelerating again. “I thought we would get married. Every day we were together, I knew my future was supposed to be with him.”

  We reached the bench, which was empty, and sat down. Ben rested his arm on the back of the bench, behind me.

  “Tell me,” he said simply.

  I cried—after months of my tears having dried up—they were pouring out of me again as I told him the story, sparked by my anger at the engagement. I told him all about the group of seven friends who meant everything to me. Who I missed so badly that my heart couldn’t heal. Me and Luke coming together, falling in love, then falling apart. Him choosing Sara over me. All my dreams shattering. Running away to Colorado to escape the people I’d loved. Now, living so far from family and friends, sometimes the loneliness made it difficult to move at all. I even told him about Miss Lonely Heart, about how at first it felt therapeutic but now some days it felt toxic. It kept the pain always present. I shared how my parents thought I was depressed and called me, worried, every week.

  When it was all out, laid bare between us, when the tears subsided, Ben leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. He was quiet for a couple of minutes. Then leaned back.

  “Before I took the job at the church, I worked at a youth camp. I was the music director. I’d been working there for about three years. Before that, I worked at this place up in the mountains. I ran rafting tours during the summer and taught skiing during the winter. Before that, I lived with Jane.”

  I blinked. Hadn’t seen that coming.

  He took a deep breath. “I grew up in a good family. My parents are great. They still live up north of Denver. My dad is retired now. I have a good relationship with both of them. But when I hit college, I just ... wanted to try everything. I wanted to play music and party. So that’s what I did. Then I met Jane. We were inseparable from the first night we met. And we partied a lot. I have no idea how I even passed my classes. I loved her. I did. But it wasn’t a healthy kind of love. Not selfless. More like destructive. Then one day she told me she’d been pregnant, and she’d had an abortion the day before. It made sense to her; she wasn’t ready. Neither was I, she pointed out. We weren’t ready.”

  He looked at me, and the pain in his eyes was enough for me to reach over and squeeze his arm.

  “I grew up the day she told me that. We had a fight and basically ripped each other’s hearts to shreds. The next morning, I moved out. She didn’t try to stop me. We couldn’t keep going as we were.” He sighed. “I went to a friend’s house—his name is Cooper. We’ve been friends since elementary school. He’s a pastor of a church now, but back then he was in seminary. I slept on his couch for a month. And he helped me process and get some clarity on my life. Then one of my dad’s friends got me a job at a river rafting place up in Breckenridge. I rented a basement apartment and worked as much as I could. But I missed music. Music has been it for me since high school. I needed to play again. I went to a little church up there and worship music started to fill the emptiness in me.

  “Coop helped me get the job at the camp. And that was perfect. I was singing worship music, helping kids focus and hopefully avoid some of the mistakes I made. Then the worship pastor thing came open, and again, Cooper called me. He’s friends with Eric, the pastor at Rock Community. I didn’t really want it, but I’d started to feel like I couldn’t spend my whole life at camp. This seemed like an opportunity to move forward. And it’s been amazing. Then I reconnected with Bryce and we started talking and decided to pull together a band. We started playing in Bryce’s garage, and it felt good. We formed Twenty-Four Tears.”

  “Where did the name come from?” I asked him.

  “I don’t know. It just came to me. When I left Jane, I drove straight to Cooper’s. I cried for what felt like a whole day straight. Then I breathed again. That was seven years ago. I was just twenty-three years old. Right out of college. Listen, Debra.” He looked me straight in the eyes and leaned a little closer in. “If there’s a popular crowd at church, I could not care less about being part of that. Don’t get me wrong. I’ve got great friends at Rock. And the staff there is real—they want to help people. But, yeah, you’re right. There are cliques everywhere. At church. On staff. Sitting in the pews. There are people judging people. People who only want to be with people who are exactly like them. That’s not my scene.

  “As for being perfect, I’m about as far from perfect as you’ll meet. Honestly, I’m just as comfortable up on stage in a smoky bar, singing and playing my guitar, as I am onstage at church, asking God to meet us where we are. I’m more comfortable in the bar, actually. Why am I here with you?” He turned to face me on the bench, placing his arm on the back again. “When I met you at Percival’s, it seemed like you were hurting. I only recognize that because I’ve been in that kind of dark place. Then you show up at church, and it’s like God put you in front of me again—”

  I opened my mouth to protest but he held up his hand. “I know—you’re not on speaking terms. Totally fine. I am, though.” His tone was unpretentious and he left the words there. I relaxed. “I didn’t want to miss my chance to tell you that I want to be your friend.”

  My friend.

  My eyes filled back up with tears.

  “You sure you have room for me? Even if I’m not on speaking terms with God? Even if I don’t want to go to church?” I asked. His face softened, and he stared at me in that way again, like he was searching for my soul.

  “Yes and yes and yes.”

  I wiped the runaway tears from my face. “I don’t think I’m very good friend material these days, Ben. You seem like a good guy. Less hypocritical than a lot of church people I’ve known. Maybe you’re trying to save me. That won’t work. This is the best I can do right now.”

  “Debra,” he said, his voice soft and smooth, almost like a song, and I bit the inside of my mouth at the sound. We both heard a dog barking somewhere on the trail. “I can see you’ve been hurt. I get that.” He stood up abruptly for a moment, stared out at the view, then sat back down. That dog was still barking somewhere in the distance. “I used to dream sometimes that I had a kid.” Ben’s voice cracked and he stared off at the mountains. “A boy actually. He looked different every time. Sometimes he looked just like Jane.” He drew in a sharp breath and then looked at me. “I’ve never told anyone that. Except Cooper.”

  I felt the urge to reach over and take his hand but I didn’t.

  “So trust me—I know something about profound hurt.”

  And he didn’t belittle mine.

  “I’ve got room for you, Debra.”

  Chapter Six

  There are bridges you cross you didn’t know you crossed until

  you’ve crossed them.

  Wicked

  The following Wednesday morning, I leaned into my m
icrophone after a traffic update and Hollywood gossip segment. Andy pointed at me to take the lead.

  “To all our KGBL fans, we’re going to be out at the music festival in Denver September sixth. The lineup of artists is amazing; there will be fantastic food—it’s going to be a great time. We want all of you to stop by our booth and say hi.”

  “This is your chance to meet Miss Lonely Heart in person,” Andy cut in. “Come party with us, you guys. We’ll have T-shirts, water bottles—”

  “We welcome cookies, by the way,” I added.

  Andy nodded. “Absolutely, we accept gourmet cookies. Stop by, bring cookies if you’re so inclined, and meet us in person.”

  “But keep your expectations low,” I instructed. “You know what they say—people go into radio for a reason.”

  Andy guffawed. “So true. People always meet me and say, ‘You can’t be Andy!’ And I’m like, ‘Why not?’ And they say, ‘Andy has hair. I know he does.’”

  I giggled.

  “Too bad I can’t borrow some of Debra’s hair.” Andy smiled. “You guys, Miss Lonely Heart has crazy hair.”

  I fingered the ends of my curls. “It used to be long. I cut it after the breakup.”

  “Typical,” Andy said with a snort. “What is it with dumped girls chopping off their hair? Like it’s liberating or something. You’re back on the market! Think about what you’re doing. When Lana and I got back from our honeymoon, I came home from work maybe two days later, and she’s got this pixie cut. I’m like, ‘WHAT?’ She just shrugs and says, ‘It’s too much work to fix it.’ She gets the marriage license; off goes the hair.” Andy snapped his fingers.

  “Go, Lana!” I cheered. “Will she be at the festival?”

  Andy adjusted his headphones. “Yeah, Lana and Timmy, the child who stays in his terrible twos even though he’s four. They’ll be around.”

  I laughed out loud. We talked a lot about Timmy, Andy’s adorable son who also tended toward being a terror. Cute, though. And regardless of his joking, every time Lana and Timmy stopped by the studio, Andy was like a magnet for Timmy. The kid beelined to Andy’s arms.