by Amy Clipston
“What does that verse mean to you, Emily?” Jenna asked. “Or how does it make you feel?”
I blanched, a lump forming in my throat. Was she trying to make me cry in front of these staring faces?
“I don’t know,” I whispered, lying through my teeth.
The verse had hit me right in the chest. It was as if someone was speaking to me, but I couldn’t put my finger on whether it was God or my mom. Maybe it was both. No matter who it was, I suddenly felt like I did the day the congregation sang “Beautiful Savior.” I wanted to run and hide, but I couldn’t make a spectacle of myself again.
“Anyone else?” Jenna asked, scanning the class.
Mindy, the girl who’d shared her popcorn with me Thursday, raised her hand and prattled on about God’s love and protection while Zander leaned close to me.
“You okay?” he whispered, placing his hand on my arm. His palm was warm and soft, despite the Gojo he’d used to clean off the grease last night after we’d worked on the car. I absently wondered if he’d used a lot of hand lotion before going to bed.
“Yeah,” I said, clearing my throat and wiping my eyes. “I’m fine.”
“You don’t look fine,” he said, still leaning so close that his cologne tickled my nose. “You want to go?”
“No.” I forced a smile. “I just have something in my eye.”
“Something in your eye,” he repeated. “Right.”
For the rest of class, I held the verse in my right hand while fingering my cross with my left. I couldn’t stop thoughts of my mom from flooding my mind. I wondered again how my mother had kept her faith alive during her illness. How could she pray through everything that was happening to her? I know she read the Bible nearly every night, and she insisted we all accompany her to church on Sunday and even some Wednesday nights before she became too ill to travel out of our little house much. My mother’s faith baffled me. She knew she wasn’t going to make it, but she still believed until the very end.
My mother was still in the forefront of my mind when Zander and I stepped out into the hallway after class. He gave me a smile and started to say something but was interrupted by Whitney.
“I’ll go find Logan and meet you at the car, okay?” she asked me.
“Actually, we have plans,” Zander said.
“Really?” Whitney’s eyebrows careened to her hairline.
“We have to discuss my car,” he said with a smile.
“Right?” “Right,” I said. “We still have to make a plan of attack for the rebuild.”
“Oh.” Whitney looked between us and shrugged. “You kids go and have fun. I’ll see you later.”
Zander and I fell in step on our way down the hallway, and he held the door open for me.
“Did you really want to talk about the car?” I asked on our way to his Jeep.
“Not necessarily. I just didn’t want her and Logan to join us for lunch,” he said, wrenching the door open for me.
“We’re going to lunch?” I asked.
“Yup.” He nodded toward the seat. “Hop in.”
I sat across from Zander in the booth at the Cameronville Diner. The restaurant was bustling with the lunchtime crowd. Families dressed in their Sunday best clogged the booths and tables while servers weaved through the sea of chairs, delivering food. The aroma of burgers and fries filled the air.
“What’s good?” I asked, perusing the menu.
“They make a mean burger,” Zander said, placing his menu on the table.
“Hence the delicious smells?” I asked, looking up and seeing his smile.
He grinned. “Yup.”
The server stopped by, and we both ordered burgers and fries. She returned a few minutes later with our Cokes.
“Tell me about your grandfather,” I said once the server was gone.
Zander swished the straw around in his glass. “He was the most amazing mechanic that ever lived. Or so I always believed.”
“Oh, he’s gone,” I whispered, internally kicking myself for bringing up a sad subject after my own emotional J2A class. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay.” Zander took a long drink and then settled back in the seat. “He passed away about two years ago, but he lived a good, long life. He was almost ninety. My mom is the youngest of five, and my grandpa was in his forties when she was born.”
“Did he live here?” I asked.
He nodded. “He worked at the shop where your dad and I work. In fact, he was the original owner — Jack bought him out a few years ago.”
“So that’s why you said your family has known the owner for years.”
“Exactly. My grandpa was a mechanic all his life. He started teaching me about cars when I was around six or seven, I guess. He always had a project car in his garage, and he and I would tinker.” Zander glanced out the window toward the traffic rushing by on Highway 29. “My dad used to tell me it was a good hobby but not something I should pursue full-time.”
“Sounds like Chuck,” I said, lifting my glass. “He told Logan the same thing.”
“I asked my dad once why it was good enough for Grandpa and not me, and he said that Grandpa didn’t have options. Back when Grandpa was growing up, he didn’t have the money for college, so he did the only thing he knew, which was cars.” Zander shook his head. “Dad doesn’t understand having a passion for cars. He could never accept that my grandfather was happy with his choices in life.”
I sipped my drink. “My dad is happy too. I mean, of course there are things he wishes he could change, but I don’t think he ever regrets his career choice.”
There was a pause, and Zander’s expression turned serious. “Was J2A too much for you today?”
“No,” I said quickly. Where were some tools when I needed them? “It was okay.”
“You don’t have to lie to me. I could tell that you were …” He paused, as if choosing his words. “You were upset.”
I studied his expression, wishing I could read his mind. “No, I wasn’t.”
He smiled, and my heart fluttered. How corny was that?
“You may be able to hide it from others, but you can’t hide it from me. I think I know you pretty well.”
No, you don’t. “You do, huh?” I gave him a challenging smile. “So what am I thinking about right now?”
The server appeared with our burgers.
“Lunch,” he said with a laugh.
“Bingo,” I agreed, snatching a fry from my plate.
“So, what’s your dream car?” Zander asked as he steered the Jeep into the driveway later that afternoon.
“My dream car?” I asked, twirling a lock of hair around my finger.
“Yeah.” He threw the truck in neutral and jammed the emergency brake before killing the engine. “What one car do you wish you could build? Of course, money isn’t a factor. Pretend it’s free.”
“Oh,” I said with a sigh. “That’s easy. A sixty-nine Camaro.”
He raised his eyebrows. “From the sound of that sigh, I’d guess you came close to your dream.”
“I did. But that went bye-bye along with everything else we had to sell.” I glanced toward my dad’s Suburban parked by the detached garage and thought back to the day Dad had a buyer. I’d seen tears in his eyes when he told me. I knew why it killed him to let it go — he knew how much it meant to me.
“Was it an SS?” he asked, pulling the keys from the ignition.
“No.” I gathered my purse from the floorboard. “I never could’ve afforded an SS. It was just a plain-Jane sixty-nine that needed some TLC. Dad got it cheap off a customer because it needed so much work. I had gotten it back running, and a guy bought it off us just a few months ago. I was going to ask my dad’s friend to paint it metallic purple when it was done, but I never got that far. I did hear it run once, and I actually drove it around the block. That was about it.” I leaned back in the seat and smiled. “I have to say it sounded pretty good too. I did a good job with the rebuild.”
�
�I bet you did. We’ll have to find you another one someday.”
I blinked at his words. They sounded so long-term. Like a commitment to … something. I didn’t know what, but I kind of liked the sound of it.
“Thanks for hanging out with me today.” He pushed his door open and climbed from the Jeep.
I climbed out and met him at the front end. “It was fun.”
“My dad said something about going away for one night to our place at the beach since tomorrow’s a holiday. He wanted to leave yesterday, but he was called in to work for an emergency. My mom insisted we get away since she thinks my dad’s a workaholic.” He shook his head. “It seems silly to go away overnight, but my mom always says we need more family time. If I protest, it turns into a huge argument.”
“Oh.” I tried my best to hide my disappointment. I had assumed we’d spend the rest of the holiday weekend working on his car. “Well, have fun.”
“I’d rather be here working on the car.” He pointed toward the garage. “But I guess the car will be here when I get back. We can start on it Tuesday night if you feel like it.”
“Sure,” I said, adjusting my purse on my shoulder. An awkward silence fell between us. I felt like he was expecting something. Should I hug him? Did he think we were a couple now? I thought we were just friends, but what did I know?
He smiled. “I guess I’ll see you Tuesday.”
“Have a good trip. Be safe.” I started toward the gate.
“One more thing.” He trotted over to me.
“Yes?” I held my breath, wondering if he was going to kiss me or hug me. The sheer idea of a hug or a kiss from Zander Stewart made my insides warm.
“About J2A,” he began. “I know you were upset by that verse. Don’t stop yourself from listening to the meaning.”
“Huh?” I grimaced, trying to decipher what he was saying.
He grinned, revealing that adorable dimple. “What I mean is, don’t give up on God. If you feel like he’s trying to tell you something, open up your heart and listen.”
“Oh.” I stared at him, dumbfounded. “Okay.”
“See you Tuesday.” He turned and headed for the house.
As he walked away, I shook my head. Dating him was so not an option. I couldn’t stand being his mission project.
Later that evening, I stood in the kitchen and pulled the folded slip of paper containing the verse from my purse. I stared at it, rolling the words over again and again in my mind. What did they mean? Was God trying to talk to me? If so, what was he truly saying?
Deuteronomy 31:6: Be strong and courageous. Do not be afraid or terrified because of them, for the LORD your God goes with you; he will never leave you nor forsake you.
I pulled the words apart and then put them back together in my mind. Glancing out the sliding glass doors, I stared at Zander’s garage. The garage was always my solace, the place I’d gone to think and to escape the stress of my mom’s illness.
Gnawing my lower lip, I debated going to his garage and working on the car without him. He’d given me the code and said I could go in there. It was an invitation. It was permission. And at that moment I needed to go there.
Folding the piece of paper, I shoved it in my pocket and opened the sliding glass door with a whoosh. I passed through the gate to his garage, where I punched in the code, opening the door.
As I stepped into the garage, a calmness rained down on me. It was as if I’d come home. At least, it felt more like home than Whitney’s house.
I ran my fingers along his row of toolboxes, opening the drawers and glancing through his collection of basic tools he needed for projects. I stepped past the car and over to the workbench covered in engine parts that we had stripped down.
After sliding on Zander’s thick gloves, which were huge on my hands and covered my arms past my elbows, I pulled a respirator, and I spent the next hour washing parts. I scrubbed them with a wire brush and the chore was cathartic. I let my mind wander, contemplating my feelings for Zander along with that Bible verse.
At one point, I closed my eyes and tried to pray. I tried reciting the Lord’s Prayer, but the words felt rushed and empty. I still felt a distance between God and me. Was it me? Was I doing something wrong?
After a while, I’d washed a few of the pieces but I felt as if my soul had taken a bubble bath. Although I hadn’t been able to talk to God, I felt like I’d accomplished something. I felt different, but I didn’t know why. I locked up the garage and made my way into the house and back up to my room.
After taking a long shower, I fished the Bible verse from my pocket, plucked the Scotch tape from the bookshelf, and taped the piece of paper to a blank page in my journal. Then I began to write.
Sunday September 4
Dear Mom,
Church was different today. I didn’t cry, but I did get emotional. And it was all because of a verse I picked from a basket during J2A, which is what they call Sunday school here. The verse seemed to speak to me personally. I guess that sounds crazy, but I keep thinking that it was meant for me. There was a reason why Jenna handed that basket to me and not one of the other kids. And when I read the verse, I almost felt like I did the night you died, but it wasn’t exactly the same. But it was powerful, so very powerful.
After church, Zander took me to lunch at his favorite diner, and he told me about how he lost his grandfather, who taught him about cars. They were close, so it had to be difficult for him. It seems that the way he dealt with losing his grandpa was to turn to God and lean on him. I wish I could do that. I wish I could open up to God. But I can’t seem to reach him. I’m going to ask Zander how he got through his grandpa’s death — not just trite phrases, but something real. Maybe he can tell me something that will help me, Mom. Maybe he can unlock something inside me that will help me work through my grief.
Zander went to his beach house with his parents, so I went out and worked on the car a little bit. I felt stirred to go after reading the verse I attached to this page. Working on the car helped me clear my head, but it didn’t help me reach out to God. I was sure I’d be able to reach him in the garage. What am I doing wrong? Is something wrong with me, Mom?
I tried reciting the Lord’s Prayer — nothing like starting with the basics — and it felt forced. But I felt something while I was in the garage. I’m not sure what it was, but it felt good. Still, that verse changed something inside me. I don’t know what it is, but it’s something.
Yawning, I closed the journal and placed it on the nightstand. Snuggling down under the covers, I wondered if Zander was having fun with his parents at their beach house. I couldn’t imagine how it felt to have two houses, two addresses, two places to call home.
I rolled onto my side, and the verse from J2A seeped through my mind again. Closing my hand over my mother’s cross, I wondered what verses were her favorites. With that thought on my mind, I fell asleep.
chapter twelve
So you had fun at your dad’s?” I asked, sinking into the seat across from Chelsea and pulling out my lunch bag. Chelsea shrugged. “I guess so. The sad thing is I missed the twins. My mom said she had a hard time putting them to bed at night, so she thinks they missed me too.”
I shook my head and fished my sandwich from the bag. “Wow. That’s cool that you’re so close to them. I bet they’ll always feel like your sons rather than your brothers.”
She popped a fry into her mouth. “Probably. I guess that sounds weird, huh?”
“Not really. I mean, there’s a huge age difference, so it really makes sense.” I opened my bottle of water.
“What did you do this weekend?” Chelsea asked.
“Not much,” I began. “I just hung around —”
Before I could complete my sentence, the chair kitty-corner to me spun around with a whoosh and a body appeared in it. “Hey,” Zander said, leaning on his elbows on the table. “How’s it going?”
Chelsea and I exchanged stunned expressions.
“Are you slummin
g, Stewart?” Chelsea asked. “Or are you lost?”
“Neither, Morris.” He snatched two fries from her tray and stuffed them into his mouth. “I was just wondering what Curtis is having for lunch, but yours looks much more appetizing.”
Chelsea gave me a grin so wide I wondered if her pearly white teeth would fall from her mouth.
He took another fry and looked at me. “Your lunch is boring.”
“She has that every day: turkey sandwich, apple, and a bottle of water. Sometimes she substitutes a pear for the apple.” Chelsea scrunched her nose. “It’s very boring. The only color is in the red apple.”
“You’re right. It’s not a very exciting lunch,” he agreed, taking another fry off Chelsea’s tray.
“Would you two please not talk about me as if I’m not here?” I said. “You sound like my grandmother.”
Zander reached for another fry, and Chelsea swatted his hand. “Go get your own, Stewart!”
“Fine, fine.” Zander stood. “I’ll be right back.” He looked between us. “Want anything?”
“No thanks,” I said.
“Get me more fries,” Chelsea said.
“I’ll be back.” He took off toward the kitchen.
Once he was out of earshot, Chelsea leaned over the table and smiled. “You’ve been holding out on me, Emily!”
“No, I haven’t.” I was certain my blushing cheeks told otherwise. Why did I always have to blush? It was impossible to hide my embarrassment when my cheeks were the color of cherries!
“I want info and I want it now!” She smacked the table with impatience. “What’s the deal? Did you guys get cozy while I was gone?”
“We spent some time together,” I said with a shrug, hoping to be nonchalant. “We worked on his car a little, sat together in church, and went to lunch. No biggie.”
“Are you kidding? That’s huge!” Chelsea’s eyes were wide with excitement. “So are you dating?”
“No. We’re just friends. That’s it.” I bit into my apple.
“That’s more than friends if he spent that much time with you,” Chelsea said. “I think he likes you. I mean, likes likes you, Emily.”
