“Thanks, dad. Is it okay if I interrupt? I kind of need to talk.”
“Yeah. Is everything okay?”
I don’t know how to answer that question. It’s simple and yet so very complicated. My confusion makes me chuckle and I shake my head at myself. “I don’t know,” I murmur.
“Have a seat,” he insists, nodding toward the chair he has just vacated. I plop down as he props himself up against the edge of his desk. “What’s going on?”
“Jack is going to propose to Claire next weekend.” The words pour out without a second thought. I didn’t know that’s where I was planning to start, but it fits and so I keep going. “Every time I think about it, I kind of freak out. It has nothing to do with Jack and Claire—it’s just that…I know how Addie is going to feel when she finds out.”
“You think she’ll be jealous?” he asks as his brows tug together.
“Yes. But it’s more than that. I mean, I know she’ll be happy for them, but yes—she’ll be jealous. She’ll be jealous and probably anxious and worried about the fact that we aren’t engaged yet. Not even close.”
“Not even close?”
I slump against the back of his chair in response to his question. The fact that he asks means that there’s something wrong with me. His question is proof that I should be ready at this point, but I’m not. My heart feels heavy and I’m suddenly gripped with fear. “Dad—what does it mean? What does it mean that I’m not ready to be engaged?”
“What do you think it means?” he asks with a shrug.
“I don’t know,” I say with a sigh. “I don’t know.”
For a moment, neither of us speaks. I watch as he studies me, leaving myself open and vulnerable for his perusal in hopes that he’ll see something and come to understand something that I simply cannot grasp hold of.
“You’ve been in love with the lovely Miss Grant for years, now. It might have been something I could dismiss when you were younger, because young people fall in and out of love all the time, but you two have grown deeper and deeper in love. It’s no longer something that can be dismissed as a chapter of your life that will pass. Right?”
For a second, I’m disappointed that he asks for affirmation. It would have been nice to be let off the hook for a second. Then I realize that I don’t need to be let off the hook—my love for her is unquestionable. “Right. Dad, she’s it. She’s the one. I know it. That’s why I don’t understand—”
“Hold on a second,” he insists, reaching out to rest his hand on my shoulder. “Let’s deal with one thing at a time. You love her. That has little to do with whether or not you’re ready to get married.”
“What do you mean?”
“Marriage is a big deal. Yes, people do it every day and with far less invested in their relationships than you have invested in yours, but that doesn’t have any bearing on your situation. What matters is not what everyone else is doing, but what you are doing and why. Correct me if I’m wrong, but your mother and I have raised you to appreciate how wonderful and yet how difficult marriage can be.”
He’s right. I don’t even really have to think about it. My parents have been together for a long time—but they haven’t always been happy. When I was twelve, and Kenzie was seven, I remember they used to argue all the time. Sometimes I’d come downstairs in the morning and find dad sleeping on the couch. I had friends whose parents had gone through divorce and the thought that the same thing could happen to my parents scared me like nothing else had ever scared me before. Then one day I asked them, point blank, if that’s what was going to happen to them—to us. They promised me that the answer was no. They didn’t break their promise.
I didn’t understand it then, but I understand now that they needed to invite God in where they had pushed Him out. While that seems like a simple solution, I recognize that it was more than inviting God into their relationship; they needed to make room for God in themselves in a way they never had before. I know that only because I saw it. I know that because Kenz and I are a part of their marriage and so God became a bigger part of our lives, too.
I finally nod to signal that he is correct in his assumption.
“Your appreciation for what marriage stands for is admirable. Your fear signifies that you are not taking your relationship lightly. Remember, Beckham, there’s no reason to rush.”
“But she’s so sure, dad,” I mutter, shaking my head.
“So are you,” he says, squeezing my shoulder. “But there’s a difference between being sure and being ready.” I sigh, disappointed that this conversation isn’t making me feel much better. He reads me well and huffs a sigh of his own as he pulls away from me. He reaches for his coffee and takes a sip before he begins to speak again.
“I never told you this, but I dropped out of college, once.”
My jaw drops open and my chin falls against my chest as I stare up at him in shock. He chuckles before he continues.
“I guess drop out is a bit of an exaggeration but, after freshman year of my undergrad studies, I took some time off. I didn’t know what I wanted to do and it felt like such a waste of time and money to be in school. So for two years I worked and I played and I tried to figure out what the heck I wanted to do with my life.
“I knew that I wanted to be a doctor before I knew that I wanted to be an anesthesiologist; I hadn’t decided on that until I went to medical school—but the point is, I needed some time away from the pressure of school and my parents and the expectation that I needed to figure out what I wanted to do for the rest of my life. There was never any doubt in my mind that I wanted to go to school. I knew I was smart and I was cocky and confident enough to know that I could do anything I wanted. But at nineteen years old, I wasn’t ready for school. I went my freshman year because that’s what everyone else expected of me. I went back on my terms, when I was ready.”
“Wow. Okay,” I manage, surprised that I never knew this about my dad. “But what does this have to do with Addie and me?”
“Maybe you could use a break, too.”
“Excuse me?” I mutter lamely, sure that I’ve misunderstood.
“You and Addie—maybe you could take some time apart. It might be easier for you to figure things out without the pressure of your relationship.”
I cough out a laugh, not because I’m amused in the slightest, but because his suggestion is ridiculous. “You’re kidding, right? Break up?”
“I’m not kidding, Beck. There’s a reason that the idea of getting married makes you anxious and not happy or filled with peace. That’s something that needs to be addressed. Believe me when I say, it’s easier to focus on you when you’re not worried about your relationship or about Addison.”
“Dad—no way! I can’t break up with her! Do you know what that would do to her? If I proposed today she would say yes, and you’re suggesting I break up with her?” I laugh again, because it’s just too much for me to even conceptualize.
“Don’t you see, son? If you proposed today, as you say, she would say yes. But what if she proposed to you? It sounds like you are not ready to say yes—not because you don’t love her. Your feelings are not in question. If you’re not ready to be married, it would be in the best interest of both of you if you took some time to work on yourself.
“In the Bible, Paul talks about husbands and wives and how they ought to love each other; he says that husbands are to love their wives as their own bodies—he who loves his wife loves himself. If you don’t know how to love yourself, or how to take care of yourself, you’re not ready to take care of her. It’s okay if you need to spend some time figuring that out.”
For a moment, I’m speechless. I’m speechless and afraid—and what scares me is that the thought of being apart doesn’t seem entirely unattractive. In fact, it kind of makes sense in a way that I can’t really articulate…except for the part that this would break her heart.
“Dad,” I struggle to find my words. “I could lose her this way. I can’t lose her. I can’t
.”
“You could possibly lose yourself if you don’t, in which case, you would lose her, too.”
Suddenly, it’s hard to breathe. “Dad…” His name comes out barely above a whisper. My voice is lost as a knot clogs my throat and tears fill my eyes. If I didn’t feel so small in this moment, I’d be mad that I was crying, but there is no room for that anger. “I don’t know what to do. I don’t know that I could do that—be apart from her, risk losing her.”
“Beckham,” he murmurs, reaching out to squeeze my shoulder once more. “She loves you. If you express that this is something that you need, she will come to understand. I know this is a drastic suggestion. I would recommend that you spend some time praying about it.”
“Yeah,” I say with a sniff. For a second, I’m relieved by the recommendation. I don’t have to make any decisions about this now. Who knows, I could pray about it and not feel at peace about it.
But then I feel it—this sense of calm overtaking my fear—and I somehow know that God has been a part of this conversation the whole time.
It’s around eleven o’clock Saturday night when I wonder where the day has gone. Beckham and I are sitting on the floor in his parents sitting room, studying around the coffee table. Kenzie was working on homework with us earlier, but has since gone to bed, along with Dr. and Mrs. Willis. After spending the majority of the day with my parents and Avery, I was able to sneak away for dinner with my second family.
After dinner, Beck and I played with Kenzie for hours on the Wii before we convinced her that we really needed to do some studying. She wasn’t too disappointed, since she had homework she could work on along side of us, and mama Willis made us snacks to indulge in while we worked. Up until now, I’ve been able to hold onto my focus; but I’m starting to get tired, so I’m easily distracted. Every time Beck moves, my eyes travel in his direction.
I promised myself that I would be honest with him about the feelings that I’ve been struggling with lately, but today has been such a lovely day that I almost don’t want to talk about them at all.
I’m pulled from my thoughts when his gaze flickers up to meet mine and I’m caught staring. A smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth and it ignites a warmth in my belly that seems to spread. Suddenly, talking is the last thing on my mind and I imagine a few other things I’d rather be doing. I smile when he sets down his pencil and crooks his finger at me, beckoning for me to come closer. I obey and, as I crawl toward him, his hands find my waist and he pulls me into his lap.
“Hey,” he murmurs, his eyes devouring my face.
“Hey.”
Silence settles between us and while I want to kiss him, something stops me. His eyes can’t seem to get enough of me and I like the way it makes me feel, so I hold back. He reaches a hand up and slips his fingers into my hair as he gently holds the back of my neck. His touching me makes me want to touch him, so I do, reaching up to rest my hand around his cheek. He leans into my palm and my desire to kiss him escalates; again, I stop myself. This tender moment deserves to be savored.
“I have to tell you something,” he says softly, his tone indicating that he recognizes the fragility of this moment.
“Okay,” I whisper.
“It’s a secret.”
A smile tugs at my lips as I caress his cheek with my thumb. “I can keep a secret.”
“Jackson is going to ask Claire to marry him.” As he speaks the words, he looks me straight in the eye. His statement has me frozen and for a moment I don’t know what to think. “He was planning on buying a ring this weekend. That’s why his mom is in town. He’s going to propose next weekend.”
“Wow,” I manage. I pull my eyes from his as a mini battle rages inside of my head. On the one hand, I’m thrilled for them. They make each other happy and it’s great that Jack wants to commit himself to Claire forever. On the other hand, I can’t help but wonder why Beckham isn’t ready to do the same with me.
I shake my head, trying to remind myself that I’ve already decided that I trust my man and that it’s better if we operate under his timing. I’m not going to go back on that, no matter how much I want to, because my mom was right—he needs to take the lead on this one and I cannot rush him.
“She’ll say yes,” I say, breaking the silence. “I know she will.”
“Yeah, I think you’re right.” Another moment of silence passes between us, this one more awkward than the last. “Look, babe, I know that I—”
“Stop,” I insist, placing my fingers over his lips. I know what he’s going to say—at least, I know what he’s going to bring up. I don’t want to hear it. I don’t need to hear it. The fact that he’s willing to broach the topic at all confirms that I don’t have any reason to doubt him. “We don’t have to talk about it, love. I’m okay. I promise. I trust you and I trust our love and…we don’t have to talk about it.”
He doesn’t fight me. Instead, I watch the features of his face change. He furrows his brow and he fixes me with a stare and I can’t tell if he’s confused or trying to hold back what I assure him we don’t need to discuss. Either way, I pull my fingers from his lips and run them across his brow as if to smooth away the creases. They don’t go away, but they no longer worry me when he tells me that he loves me.
“I love you—”
Before I finish speaking, his glasses are off and his lips are pressed against mine. For a second, I forget to breathe. My heart beats faster with excitement. It makes me so happy that he can still surprise me the way that he does and illicit this yearning to be consumed by him.
He pries my mouth open with his tongue and I’m lost. He pulls me closer and I hold him tighter. This kiss, his touch, it’s dangerously passionate, but I don’t want him to stop. And he doesn’t. I bask in the electricity that seems to be building between us. As our intimate moment continues, I feel this desire to be even closer to him—to feel his skin and to have him feel mine. As if he’s inside of my head, my wish is granted and his fingertips find their way under my shirt and his hands splay across my back. His touch is warm and I need to be closer to him still. My own hands find their way under his clothing and my fingers trail their way up his sides. He’s so warm—and I need to be closer still.
We should stop. I know we should stop—but I can’t. I just can’t. So I don’t. Neither does he. Thank God—neither does he. I lose track of time as he kisses me desperately—his hands everywhere, my hands everywhere—and then suddenly he pushes me away. We stare at each other, breathless, and I know he’s reached his tipping point. We don’t speak. Words aren’t necessary. Instead, we catch our breath, we remove our hands from underneath each others clothing, and we simply stare at one another. I marvel at his blue eyes, unobscured by his glasses—a sight I so rarely see, except in blissful moments like these.
When we’ve both managed to gain control of our breathing, he tentatively grabs hold of my face and draws me close to him again. His lips find mine, but this kiss is different. It’s tender and sweet and full of love. Then, suddenly, I understand. I didn’t want to talk about marriage, about our future. I told him we didn’t need to, but he needed to. This is our conversation.
Since my first final isn’t until Tuesday, my parents convince me to stay another night at home. It was hard to argue when my dad insisted that he missed the sound of my cello. He practically begged me to work on my recital piece well into Sunday night. I intended on putting in the practice time anyway. Plus, Addison was able to catch a ride back to Fort Collins with Hammy, and my mom promised Tex-Mex for dinner, so I really couldn’t say no.
When Monday morning rolls around, I sleep in. I vaguely remember my parents both popping in to kiss me goodbye before they head to work, but I don’t get out of bed until nine—pure bliss. I shower, make myself some breakfast, and pack my car, happy to hit the road knowing that all of the morning’s rush hour traffic should be gone. The two hour journey passes with the musical overtures of Brahms and when I pull into the parking lot of my apartment complex
, I feel both relaxed and eager for a run to bring some life back to my legs.
It isn’t until I’m stepping out of my Civic that I notice Sonny a few spots over climbing out of his car as well. Grayson is pretty darn hot all on his own—but his ’67 gunmetal gray mustang certainly does not hurt. He inherited the classic car a couple of years ago, when his Uncle Charlie passed away. The inside is completely refurbished and Sonny treats the vehicle like it’s his baby, so the outside always looks shiny and new. I have to take a moment and remind myself to keep breathing when he spots me, smiles, and starts heading my way.
I’ve missed him. We don’t usually see each other every day, but I haven’t seen him since last Thursday and it suddenly seems like it’s been a lifetime.
“Hey, Ave. Welcome back.”
“Thanks,” I say with a grin. I move in for a hug, as if my body has a mind of its own, and he stops me, his hands finding my shoulders and keeping me at arms length. My smile slips as I look up at him. Before I have a chance to register the full impact of his rejection, he offers an explanation.
“I’m sweaty,” he warns me. It isn’t until he says so that I realize that his hair is pulled up into a messy bun-looking-pony and he’s wearing a pair of gym shorts and a sleeveless shirt that is indeed damp with sweat. “I just came from the gym. Needed a break from studying so I thought I’d do some lifting.”
“Oh, I see,” I reply, wondering if his sweat is really a deterrent for me.
“I’ll owe you one. Two, even.”
My grin comes back.
“If you’re not doing anything in a couple hours, I’ll come find you after I come back from my run,” he assures me.
“You’re going on a run?”
“Yeah.”
“Can I come?” I ask before I think it through. Man, I need to get a grip. “Actually, that’s a silly idea. Sorry. Never mind.”
“Why is it silly? Of course you can come.” He rubs his thumbs back and forth across my shoulders and it’s then that I realize that he’s still touching me. My cheeks warm and I force a breath in through my nose before I answer.
The Promises We Keep (Made for Love Book 1) Page 6
