by Erynn Mangum
Hannah sits on the floor beside me. She doesn’t say anything, but she lifts her eyebrows and gives me a mocking grin.
Ruby sits on the other side of me. Smiles sweetly at Nick and then affectionately at her brother. Then knowingly at me.
Knowingly? What does that mean?
I feel like a square of Saran Wrap. See-through.
Nick takes his authoritative stance at the front of the room. “A couple of announcements before we get started, guys. Peter and Nancy here have some news.” He nods to Peter.
Peter takes Nancy’s hand possessively. “We’re engaged.”
Everyone oohs. The singles like me ooh politely. The singles soon to be married ooh excitedly. The couples already married ooh perceptively.
“We’re getting married on May 11.”
Nick nods. “Other news? Uh, Holly? Your wedding is the what?”
“Tenth of February,” Holly supplies.
“Right. And you’re looking for a couple of volunteers for serving and cleaning up at the reception.”
Holly nods. She’s twenty-three, same as me. Well, almost. She’s got long, straight, thick, white blonde hair and a teensy, tiny waist and always looks like she walked off the cover of Cosmo Girl. We grew up here together, but it’s always been one of those “Hi, how are you? Fine, thanks. Well, bye” friendships. We never clicked. She always seemed decades older than me.
Never more than now.
Luke sits beside her and slips his arm around her shoulders, kissing her lightly on the temple. She dimples.
Nick watches them with a strange glint in his eye.
I know exactly what he is thinking: Gee, that would be nice.
The matchmaker inside me rises to the occasion, and I look over at Ruby gazing at Nick. Seven months or less, I vow to myself.
Thirty minutes later, the buzzer on the oven goes off, and Ruby gets up to rescue the lava cake from all of the salivating bachelors in the house.
“Man, it smells good,” Nick says when he is done preaching. “Let’s eat.”
He is the first one over there. Hannah and I exchange a What-Do-You-Know? glance as he starts helping Ruby serve it instead of digging in.
“Hannah, have you met Ruby’s brother, Ryan?” I ask, turning slightly to include our young guest.
Hannah smiles. Ryan smiles. I smile.
“Nice to meet you,” they say at the same time and laugh politely at the jinx.
Ryan looks over at Nick. “What do you guys know about him?”
Hannah shrugs. “Ask Laurie.”
I tick the points off on my fingers. “He’s nice. He’s a good teacher. He’s very polite.”
“He seems to like my sister.”
I like the protective gleam in his eyes. Good brothers always have protective gleams in their eyes when it comes to their sisters.
I stand up to go get some lava cake, not realizing my backpack has wound around my legs during the teaching. That’s what happens, I guess, when you play with the strap throughout the lesson.
When I try to take a step, I go crashing down to the floor, landing hard on my shoulder.
“Oh my gosh!” Hannah and Ryan, the new Speak Twins, exclaim together.
My fall does garner the attention of the whole Bible study.
I sit up, tossing the offending backpack behind me, muttering that I’m okay.
I will have a nasty bruise tomorrow.
“Wow,” Ryan says, helping me stand up. “Are you okay?”
“Fine.”
“Nice landing, Holbrook.” Brandon walks over with a bowl of steaming chocolate.
My stomach growls loudly.
Brandon grins at me and passes me the bowl. “Eat.”
Wow. Now two people have given me chocolate in one night.
Either this is the last night of my life, or I look exceptionally pathetic tonight. I lick the chocolate off the spoon. “Thanks.”
Ryan looks at Brandon curiously, and I feel the call for an introduction. They shake hands politely.
This has been a polite night.
After Bible study, I walk outside to snow.
Lots and lots of big, fluffy snowflakes drift peacefully from the sky like they have nothing else in the world to do. I love lazy snow. It’s so much better than the teensy, tiny snowflakes that blaze down from the heavens like they are on a life-or-death mission to annihilate the planet.
“Wow, look guys, it’s snowing!” I yell.
A few people stick their heads out. “Cool,” they say, uninterested, and go back inside.
“But it’s good snow!” I yell again.
No one appreciates the simple things in life anymore. I get a few shrugs.
Brandon comes outside holding a coffee mug. “Relax, Laurie. It’s only frozen water dumping down.” He goes back inside.
I look up, letting the snow hit me in the face, saddened by all the work the snow is doing with no one even noticing.
“Whoa! It’s snowing!”
Hannah waltzes outside, holding her gloved hands out, a huge smile on her face.
There is hope for that girl yet.
“It’s so pretty!” she exclaims.
“I know, I know!” I shout back, even though we are standing two feet away from each other.
She sticks her tongue out. “I heard the first snow of the season always tastes and packs the best,” she declares.
“I think so. The rest of the time it tastes grainy and is so powdery it doesn’t pack.”
I grin at Hannah.
Will wonders never cease?
Instead of immediately turning off the light after I’ve changed into my pajamas, I sit in bed and pull out my Bible.
Ephesians 1, Laney said earlier today.
I start reading, and when I finish with the chapter, I pause.
Wow.
Is it possible to have been a Christian my entire life and not really have even thought about God’s sovereignty?
I turn the light off and snuggle down in the covers. My eyes are shut, my breathing relaxed, but there’s a tight spot right below my stomach.
I have a lot to think about.
Chapter Ten
It’s Monday night. I hold my peppermint mocha closer and sigh dreamily.
Richard Gere and Julia Roberts are about to kiss for the first time.
I live vicariously through my movies. It’s a hobby, a habit, and a way of life.
Bob, the soon-to-be ex-fiancé, is jabbering on as Richard and Julia are swept up in the moment. The phone rings just as Richard gets close enough to kiss her.
You would think he is about to kiss me by the way I react. “Arrg!” I yell, slam the snowman mug down on the coffee table, and jerk up the extension beside me on the couch.
It is against proper etiquette to interrupt the hero kissing the heroine. Movie or not.
“Yes?” I answer it. The snowman on my mug flies for cover from the heat in my voice.
“Uh, Laur?”
“Uh, Brandon?”
“Are you okay?”
“Are you deaf?”
Apparently, he does not know how to respond to that one because he avoids an answer by employing the ask-another-question tactic.
“What are you doing?”
“Watching Richard and Julia kiss.”
He knows me too well. He doesn’t even question that statement.
“Can I come over?”
Huh. Brave boy.
“Only if you let me finish watching them.”
“Okay. Bye.”
I rewind until Julia is walking down the aisle toward Richard in her skirt and denim jacket again.
Richard stares at her.
She stares at him.
He leans forward . . .
Ding dong!
“ARRG!”
“Hey, Laur.”
“Were you outside when you called?”
He doesn’t even a take step back from the wrath of the Wicked Witch of the West. Just saunters in like he owns t
he place, sits in the chair beside mine, and frowns at the movie.
“Yup.”
“Shut up,” I say in no uncertain terms. “Do not speak, do not mutter, do not breathe, don’t even think.”
Once again, I rewind and press the play button. Once again, Julia walks down the aisle. Once again, he stares, she stares, and he leans forward.
They kiss.
I smile.
Brandon gags.
“This isn’t healthy.” He snatches the remote and pauses the emotion onscreen.
But not offscreen.
“Brandon!” I scream.
“Nutsy.” He tosses the remote in the air, catches it, and blows across the top as if it is a gun and he is Clint Eastwood. Then he hits the eject button and Runaway Bride pops out of the DVD player.
“You said I could finish watching this!” I jump up.
“I changed my mind,” he says easily. “Let’s go for a walk.”
I am dubious. “A walk.”
“Yes, a walk. As in, get your coat, Laurie.”
“I don’t want to walk.” If being difficult were an Olympic sport, I would be on the medal stand at this moment.
“Well, you’re going to.” He eyes the mug with the hidden snowman. “How many cups have you had so far?”
“One.”
“Liar.”
“Five.” I blink innocently at him. “It could be hot chocolate, for all you know.”
“For all I know? Nutsy, it was I who went with you in fourth grade to talk to Principal Carlson about putting the instant cappuccino maker in the lunchroom. Trust me. I know it’s hard caffeine and nothing but in that cup.” He shakes his finger at me throughout this little speech.
I stick my tongue out at him. “It was not fourth grade.”
“Fine. Sixth. Get your coat.”
I do what he asks, not because I want to but because if I don’t, we’ll be having this conversation all night, and I’m tired.
“It’s dark outside,” I announce.
“Really? Oh my gosh! What ever shall we do?” he yells in fake abandon.
I pull one sleeve of my coat on. “There’s a good chance of snow.”
“Wear gloves.”
Two sleeves on. “Dad will say I’ll catch my death.”
“Your dad is at the church.”
I zip up the coat until it is squashing against my thyroid. “If I get sick and die, it’s your fault.”
“Fine. I’ll arrange your funeral. Let’s go.”
He opens the front door, and the icy cold Colorado air has both the scent of snow and of someone’s fireplace.
I inhale hard and suddenly I’m not mad anymore. Take warning: Frosty air can do that to you.
Or maybe it’s the five cups of peppermint mocha.
Either way, the Wicked Witch moved north and became the Good Witch.
Brandon inhales and exhales hard, his breath standing out against the frosty air. “Cold winter nights will do you good every time.”
“Where are we going?” I ask.
“I don’t care.”
We wander in the direction of the little park a few blocks away from my house. Brandon is quiet most of the way.
Then he suddenly bursts.
“What do you think about God’s sovereignty?”
I look at him, blinking, a tad weirded out that he and I are both thinking about the same thing. “What do you mean?”
He twists his hand around as if the words are floating in the air. “Do you think God planned everything beforehand? Or do you think we have some choice?”
“As in, if I go to college it’s because God planned it, not because I chose it?”
“Right.” His voice carries a sense of relief. “What do you think?”
It is my turn to use the ask-another-question ploy. “What do you think?”
He quiets again. Shoves his hands in his pockets. Bites his lip. “I don’t know. I’m confused.”
I’ve never known Brandon to be confused about anything. Brandon is my conscience. My decision maker. Ever since I can remember, he’s had an exact plan for his entire life.
Which is probably why these words scare me a little.
“Maybe you should, you know, talk to Nick or something,” I say, fidgeting. “Or Laney.” Laney seems to understand it. Much more than the snippets I’m mulling over.
“I’m going to. I’m meeting Nick tomorrow for coffee. I just wanted to use you as a sounding board before I went.”
It isn’t the first time I’ve been his sounding board.
“You mean like Romans 9 kind of stuff, right?” I ask.
He looks at me. “Sovereignty isn’t just in Romans 9. It’s throughout the Bible.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“So you never told me what you think.”
“I don’t know, Brandon. It’s . . . it’s kind of a hard concept.” I pause. “If God’s in complete control, why do bad things happen to good people?”
“Laur, if Romans 3:23 is correct, there are no good people.”
I concede. “True.”
There is a long silence. I push my gloved hands into my coat pockets. I look up at the moon, and I suddenly feel very, very small and insignificant.
It is not a nice feeling.
I shrink closer to Brandon, which makes me feel even smaller. I can see my breath and I’m smelling someone’s fire, but it doesn’t bring any comfort.
Something deep in my gut is still amiss.
If I have the power to change something, doesn’t that take power away from God? And in Ephesians 1:19, Paul said something about God’s incomparably great power.
“Hey, Brandon?”
“Hmm?”
My thoughts are jumbled. “For God to be God, wouldn’t He have to be sovereign?”
“My thoughts exactly, Laur.”
Silence again. We reach the park.
“So what else did you want to talk about?” I ask, needing to change the subject.
He shrugs.
“Do you think Richard and Julia will get together in the end?”
He gives me a look that makes me wish for a camera. I giggle.
“You need a life, Laurie.”
I spread out my hands. “I have a nice life.”
“Because I’m in it.”
“Oh, you’re a funny boy. I think I’ll keep you around as my court jester.”
He frowns. “Do I have to wear those little shoes with bells on them?”
“Why not?”
“Sneaking up on you will be harder.”
“Then I’ll live longer.”
He knuckles my head, and after we get home, we both have a peppermint mocha. I cave in and we watch Rocky.
It is just like we are fourteen again.
But my gut continues to stay off-centered.
Tuesday morning I walk into work, and Tina Braxton and Kyle Medfield are there.
Perfect, radiant, and two-dimensional.
They smile down from their place of honor on the main wall across from the receptionist desk.
I moan.
“Morning, Laurie.”
“Hey, Hannah.”
She frowns at me. “You look blue.”
“I’m wearing red.”
“Wearing red makes you blue?”
“No. What are they doing here? I don’t remember another session for them.” I hook my thumb toward the picture.
“Like it, huh?” Hannah rolls her eyes. “I know, I know. It’s a great pick-me-up during the day. I can sit here and think, ‘Gosh, I didn’t put on any makeup this morning; I must look awful.’ And then I get to see that.”
Tina’s eyes sparkle just so as she looks at me, and I know the portrait somehow embodies the spirit of that evil queen on Snow White.
Who is the fairest of them all?
“You, Tina,” I say, bowing from the waist, arms outstretched.
“Uh, Laurie?”
I frown. Either Hannah’s voice is significantly lower since
last I saw her, or we have a stranger in our midst.
I whirl.
Ryan Palmer stands there with the expression of someone who has just seen a smoked salmon stand up and sing “The Star-Spangled Banner.”
There I go with those fishing analogies again.
“Ryan . . . hi,” I stutter. “How are you?”
“Were you really . . . ?” He stares at me another second, and I guess he recalls the Oreo fiasco because he doesn’t finish his thought.
“Is Ruby here?” he asks.
I shrug. “I don’t know. I just got here myself.”
“She’s here,” Hannah says. “Studio Four.”
“Thanks.” Ryan gives me one last look and walks down the hall. After he disappears in the studio, Hannah dissolves.
“That was hysterical!” she screams, gasping for breath between the extremely overdramatic gales of laughter.
“Good grief, Hannah, it wasn’t that funny.”
“He looked at you like . . . like . . .”
“Yeah, yeah. Shut up.”
She grins at me instead. Her blue eyes are spotlighted by the powder blue sweater she wears, and though I can’t see her legs behind the desk, I’m fairly certain she’s wearing jeans again. Her hair bounces around her shoulders in reckless waves.
Forget Tina.
How is it I end up working with the fairest of them all?
Ryan and Ruby come out of Studio Four, Ruby’s arm casually around her brother’s waist, his around her shoulders.
“Are you coming tomorrow night?” Ruby asks Ryan.
He sends me a sidelong look. “I think so. I’m supposed to guard the chocolate.”
I cross my arms over my chest. Hmph. Well, there are ways to get around guards.
“Got a pistol?” Hannah asks.
“No, but I’m fairly good at darts,” he says. “Think those will work?”
Rats. Now it’s an armed guard. Still plausible. Look what happens in those all-too-realistic movies like Disney’s Robin Hood. Three armed guards, a locked gate, and a talking snake. And Robin still manages to get all the gold, all the captives, and his life. Not to mention the girl. And to stray from the subject, exactly how long did Maid Marian’s ring last? Flowers don’t make good engagement rings.
Anyway, chocolate will be a cinch after all that.
“Bring the darts,” Hannah instructs. “Ever seen any Old West movies?”
