He folded his arms on the table and put his head down for a moment. I let him think and went to the sink to load the dishwasher. After a few moments, he pushed his chair back.
“We’ve just started dating. I mean, you don’t mind that I might be gone for months?”
I dried my hands on a towel. “You’ll need to be able to focus on the tour, without the distraction of me.”
“So that’s it, then?” I could hear the frustration in his tone.
“Four months is doable, Ben. And you can—I mean, you could date other people, I guess.”
He stood up, his eyes narrowed. “Do you want to date other people, Debra?”
I threw the towel down as hard as I could. “Right. Because it was so easy for me to start dating you. If it’s hard for me to move on with the most gorgeous, gifted, sweet, and amazing man I’ve ever met, I doubt I’m going to join a dating website and start going out with someone new every weekend.”
He was in front of me in a second, kissing me, pulling me close. My arms went around his neck and I kissed him back. For a moment, the tension in my neck eased, and the warmth of his mouth on mine was like whiskey on ice, melting me. Ben’s kiss started slow and then deepened, and I followed his rhythm, matching his need with my own. My lower back pressed into the edge of the counter, but I ignored the discomfort, wanting the sensation of letting go to last a little longer. When I finally pushed him away, needing to breathe, Ben searched my eyes.
“Is that really how you see me?” he asked.
I sighed. “That’s how everyone sees you.”
“We’ve just started dating. I don’t want to lose you,” he whispered. He cupped my face in his hands and stared at me.
“I’ll be here. You can tune in to hear Miss Lonely Heart every day online,” I said, trying to joke. The truth that he’d be leaving—I had no doubt that four months would turn into longer—and I was the one pushing him to go began to sink in.
Ben, of all people, deserved this chance. He would shine like the stars; I knew he would.
But what about me?
That was always the question.
My eyes darted to the window over the sink and I blinked twice.
“It’s snowing! Look, Ben. It’s snowing!” I grabbed his hand and pulled him to the back door with me. He laughed as we went outside in the freezing cold, no jackets. On the small back patio of Ben’s apartment, I raised my hands and twirled in the lightly falling snow. Ben caught me in his arms, took my hand in his, and slid his other hand around my waist. We danced on the patio, to the music that lived inside both of us.
He danced with me in the snow.
Snowflakes fell, melting on my eyelashes, scattering on Ben’s dark hair.
“If this is even a tiny dream in you, I want you to chase it,” I told him.
He kissed my cold nose, then closed his eyes. “I’ll tell the band we’re going.”
By the third week in November, I wasn’t sure how Ben was juggling his life. The fall schedule at the church seemed packed, and another radio station in Denver had started playing Twenty-Four Tears on the radio, so the band was getting more exposure, especially now that they were set to open for Chasing Summer. He hardly had time to sleep. Karis had decided to go on tour. She said her mother told her she refused to watch her daughter give up this opportunity. Ben had asked for my help in secretly planning to fly Karis’s mom out to San Diego for their first show. He wanted me to go too, but I wasn’t sure I could get the time off.
November sixteenth, I dropped a pile of mail on the island counter but didn’t go through it until that Saturday morning, the eighteenth. I sipped coffee and tore up credit card offers and threw away grocery advertisements. And then I froze, my hand midair, at the sight of a wedding invitation. I withdrew my hand and just stared at the name Witherspoon in the top left corner of the envelope. I jumped up, went to the sink, and poured out the rest of my coffee.
Sara and Luke’s wedding invitation.
I swallowed three times.
How could they send me an invitation?
My breathing started to shallow, and my chin quivered. I walked back to the island, reached for the thick envelope, and made my way to the sofa. I slid my finger under the flap and opened it. My eyes were burning as I pulled out a second envelope.
DR. AND MRS. WITHERSPOON FORMALLY REQUEST THE HONOR OF YOUR PRESENCE AT THE MARRIAGE OF THEIR DAUGHTER, SARA ASHLEY WITHERSPOON, TO LUKE MATTHEW ANDERSON
My eyes scanned the rest of the details. Lily of the Valley Chapel, December twentieth, four p.m., dinner and dancing to follow.
A handwritten letter dropped to my lap and my breath stopped completely.
Dear Debra,
I wasn’t sure whether I should send this—part of me worried that it might hurt you too much. Another part of me felt like I had to send it. And that part won out. I tried to know what to say, but I couldn’t find the right words and finally just decided that there are no right words. I wrote this letter anyway. Please know that I don’t want to hurt you. I don’t want to remind you of things that maybe you’re trying to forget. But I can’t forget. I can’t forget the years we’ve spent as friends. I can’t not invite you to come to my wedding, Deb. I just can’t. I don’t expect you to come. I know how hard that would be. Maybe I’m the only person who has some understanding of what that might feel like.
Do you remember that conversation we had at the lake house the weekend you told us that you and Luke were dating? You sat me down in the blue room and talked to me. I’ll be honest—I didn’t want that conversation. It hurt. Now I know why you had to do that. Why you had to acknowledge how I might have been feeling. Why you had to tell me that you cared and understood. You wanted me to know that you still saw me. I knew you were ecstatic to be dating Luke, but you took that moment to tell me I mattered to you too.
That is why I’m writing this letter. You matter to me too.
I know how much you loved Luke. I also know how much he loved you. If you ever doubt that he did, if you start to wonder if it was real, I know that it was and I know that he loved you. We both know that while some relationships do not last, that doesn’t mean the feelings weren’t real.
I never wanted to take something that was yours. I hope one day you can forgive me for marrying Luke. For loving him too.
I will forever miss the perfect circle that all of us were before last summer. But even if we can’t go back, I need you to know that I pray God will bring you love and happiness and peace and all those wonderful things that you deserve. I will always want those things for you.
And you will always matter to me.
Sara
My hands were shaking so badly that the letter dropped. Hot tears welled up from deep inside me, searing my heart. I drew my legs to my chin and wrapped my arms around my knees. Tears spilled down my face, and the only sounds that broke the silence were the sniffs and gasps of a girl letting go of everything.
I remembered the conversation Sara had referenced. And she was right—I’d been giddy with excitement that I was dating Luke, but also, I’d wondered for the longest time if Sara had a crush on Luke, just as I had. They were best friends. In the end, they were meant to be more than best friends.
I didn’t know how much time passed before the tears subsided, but eventually my legs straightened, cramping from the tension. I reached for the cream-colored throw blanket on the other end of the couch and pulled it around my shoulders. The gas fireplace in the corner of the room was lit, but I still felt chilled. For a moment, I felt an urge to read the letter a second time, but I didn’t. I slid it back into the envelope and pushed it away from me, to the far corner of the coffee table. Then I leaned back into the sofa, and the softness of the blanket warmed me and comforted me. I breathed in and out and considered what I’d just read.
I thought opening that invitation would break me, but something else happened after I’d read Sara’s words. I sensed—I knew—that the tears, the ache, now stemmed from more t
han losing Luke. It was the shattering of that circle. My heart had moved on from Luke. As Sara had said, the love had been real, but I knew it was over now. The pain lingered. I wouldn’t go to the wedding—of course I wouldn’t go. As for forgiving her, that wasn’t currently on my radar, but I could see how I might get there one day.
I didn’t hate her anymore. I didn’t hate him.
This time, when the tears stopped, I felt free.
I did take the letter with me during my next visit with Dr. Clark. She read it out loud and I was brave enough to listen to it a second time. Then she set it down on her desk and seemed to silently read it again. Then she looked up at me.
“First tell me about that conversation between the two of you.”
I did. As best I could remember, in slow detail.
“All right. Now tell me how you felt when you read the letter or how you felt just now, as I read it.”
I tucked my feet into the cushion on the couch and relaxed a bit, taking my time with my thoughts. “I think ... I think I needed to hear her say she was sorry, and she finally did. I probably couldn’t have heard her before now.”
Dr. Clark nodded her agreement. “Do you need to hear Luke say he’s sorry?”
I exhaled and asked myself the question again, silently. Then shook my head. “He already did. That night he broke up with me. He apologized over and over. We spoke once after that, and he apologized over and over then too. But I knew he was only sorry for hurting me. Not necessarily sorry for the breakup. I think I know why. His parents’ divorce—his perspective and fear when it came to commitment. He wasn’t sure about us. And Luke was sure about everything. So for him not to be sure about us ... I should have known that it couldn’t work.”
“What are you sure of, Debra?” Dr. Clark asked.
“I’m just trying to be sure of myself,” I answered in a small voice. I cleared my throat. “And when—if—I fall in love again, I want someone who is sure of me, sure of us.”
“Are you glad she sent the letter and invitation?” Dr. Clark questioned.
Was I?
I hadn’t expected to be invited, yet ... now having been invited, I realized that I’d needed to be. If only to be included. If only to know I wasn’t forgotten.
I needed to know I mattered. And Sara, perceptive Sara, had known and understood.
“Yes,” I answered. “I’m glad. I thought I needed resolution from Luke—but I was wrong. I needed it from Sara.”
“Do you think you can forgive her? Forgive them?”
I blew out my breath and tucked my hair back behind my ears. “Yes. One day. Not today, but someday.”
Dr. Clark nodded. “You seem lighter, Debra. Do you feel lighter?”
“I feel like maybe I’ve let go of the anger. So even if there’s still some hurt, especially over the broken friendships, I don’t know ... I feel ready to move on.”
“Does Ben factor into this?” Dr. Clark asked. I pictured Ben. I didn’t want to be rescued. I didn’t need some prince to save me. I’d given up on fairy tales after Luke. Even the best of guys could make mistakes and change their minds.
But Ben, in a small but significant way, had brought me back to life. Stirred desire and hope—things I thought I’d lost forever. Ben, with his frustration and honesty. Ben, his voice like a river, flowing in and around me, breaking over rocks and trickling over pebbles, smooth and straight, then fierce and powerful, like white water crashing, then slowing, easy and calm. Ben, reaching me like a song I wanted to hear on repeat.
“I think this is me, ready to move instead of standing still. Ben might be part of what I’m moving toward. Even if he isn’t”—my voice strengthened, that freedom spreading through my body like truth—“I want to keep moving.”
Dr. Clark smiled and slid those leopard glasses onto her face. She tucked Sara’s letter into the envelope.
“Excellent news, Debra.”
Chapter Twenty
All you need is love.
The Beatles
As Thanksgiving closed in and Paige went up to the mountains with her parents and siblings for vacation, I decided to finally go in for the consult about the paired home. After work the Tuesday before the holiday, I went in for a meeting. The woman I’d first spoken with, Denise Shumaker, met me at the door, with a broad smile and firm handshake. She handed me a bottle of water, and I took a seat across from her, a mahogany desk between us.
We talked money and financing—all discouraging topics—then we walked through the model together. Denise pointed out everything that was an upgrade and explained what the more basic house plan was. A few nice upgrades—like granite countertops and hardwood floors in the kitchen—were standard regardless, which made me very happy. Even without a lot of the extras from the model, I liked the floor plan.
Most importantly, if I were able to buy a place, it would be mine. I’d pick the cabinets and countertops and floors and paint shades. I would choose the exterior stone and color. Every piece of the house would be a reflection of my own taste.
When we sat back down at her desk, she pulled out a large map of the new neighborhood plans, showing me which lots were available.
“These”—Denise pointed to a row at the back of the left side of the neighborhood—“will be ready in about six months. End of May.”
I swallowed and nodded. End of May. When my lease was up.
“I’ll be perfectly honest with you. These spots won’t last long. New housing is booming in Denver. And this location is close to the Tech Center and not far from the light rail for people who work downtown. Now, more spots will open up. We’re building all the way through here.” She waved her hand over the map, indicating the whole region of the new neighborhood. “But if you’re looking to have a place ready in May, these would work for you. Because of location, resale will be no problem. A lot of people are investing in these homes for rental purposes later as well. You have some time to think it over, but keep in mind that they’ll go fast.”
I promised to think about it and get back to her. I walked through the model once more alone before leaving, and it was impossible not to get excited. The bedrooms were, of course, larger than the teeny space of my apartment, and I could envision hanging my vintage musical posters in the bedroom; maybe making the second room an office or music room. I would want to unpack in a space like this.
I left and swung by Starbucks to grab a latte on my way home. I’d been preapproved for a loan, but that didn’t ease my mind regarding the monthly payments. To me, we were talking about huge numbers I would be attaching myself to. I hadn’t mentioned to Paige or Denise the fact that my savings had basically been a gift from my grandfather. He’d passed away two years before and, in his will, had left both me and my brother each a sum of money. If I bought the paired home, I’d be using that sum as a small down payment. The money was mine, of course, and investing it in a home of my own seemed like a good plan. But Dr. Clark had been right—it was a big decision and I felt the weight of it.
Later that evening I sat cross-legged on my bed, my laptop in front of me as I searched homes online. Every house I looked at only made the newness of the paired home more appealing. Ben called and I shoved the laptop aside and stretched out.
“You’re invited to Thanksgiving at my parents’ house,” he told me.
The sound of wind pounding on my windows distracted me. “Ben, Thanksgiving is the day after tomorrow.”
“I know. Can you come with me to Fort Collins?”
“Why are you just now asking me?”
“You told me you couldn’t go to Minnesota. I just assumed you would come home with me.”
I shook my head but smiled. “Next time, let me know more than two days in advance. I’d love to spend Thanksgiving at your parents’ house, but I have to work. I’m the newbie at the radio station and there’s no way I’m getting a holiday off.”
“We can leave right after your shift. Be ready. We can be there in less than two hours. In time fo
r dinner with my parents.”
“But you probably want to stay the night. I’ll have to work Friday as well.”
“Then we’ll drive back late Thursday night, and no doubt you’ll sleep all the way back.”
I bit back a chuckle. “Are you sure?”
“I’m sure. My parents want to meet you.”
My first Thanksgiving in Colorado was spent driving to Fort Collins on a crisp, clear, but freezing-cold afternoon. We made it to Ben’s parents’ home by three o’clock, walking into a one-story house that smelled deliciously of turkey and cornbread. I wondered if holidays usually consisted of just the three of them, because there were no other relatives coming over, and Ben’s parents, Connie and Jonathon, seemed thrilled to have me join them. When we walked in, I handed her a homemade chocolate Bundt cake that I’d made and she thanked me over and over.
Connie had set a beautiful table, complete with candles and a fall bouquet of flowers. Ben’s dad prayed over the meal and then we ate. I had second helpings of everything. After the meal, Ben and his dad went out to the garage to see some project his dad had been working on, and I helped clear the table.
“Everything was delicious, Connie,” I said honestly. She set a pot of coffee to brew and turned to smile at me.
“It’s just so nice to have you here. Ben’s told us quite a bit about you. And it’s been so long since he’s wanted to bring anyone home.”
Well, that made me both sad and relieved.
“We used to have more family in Colorado, but my sister and her family moved to Iowa a few years ago. Now holidays can be kind of quiet, unless we travel. Since he’s a worship pastor, Ben usually needs to stay close to home for holidays. And I don’t like to spend holidays away from Ben. He’s—he’s our only, you know?” she said, her voice wobbling a bit, which broke my heart.
After the Rain Page 22
