“I wasn’t emotionally available, do you understand?” he asks, his gaze meeting mine. His tone is gentle, but I can tell that he’s really trying to make sure that I do understand. He continues speaking before I can answer. “Planning pieces of the wedding, talking about our future and where we were going to live and what jobs we were going to get—it all became so much more real than I was expecting. I realized that I wasn’t ready. I didn’t want to settle down right then. I wanted to travel. I wanted to explore. I didn’t want to get stuck. My reservations did not include Kathryn. They didn’t. I just felt this pressure to take my degree, get a respectable job, work and move forward like everyone else—but I didn’t want to. I wanted a break from engineering. I wanted to just have fun for a while. I wanted to be able to do all of those things with her. I didn’t want to lose her; but that’s not what I had originally promised. When it became clear that we were not on the same page, things just started to unravel.
“When you told me about Beckham, it made me think about Kathryn and whether or not we would have made it if I never asked her to marry me in the first place; if I would have suggested a break instead of promising a forever that I wasn’t ready for. I’ve thought about it a lot over the last couple years.”
“Would it have made a difference?” I ask, timidly.
“I don’t know. I can’t answer that. That’s not the path we chose.”
I nod as I let his story settle. I think about Beckham—of course, I think about Beckham—and a chill runs down my spine as the word ready circles around my brain.
Roman wasn’t ready but Kathryn was.
Beckham isn’t ready but I am.
Kathryn was ready.
I am ready.
While our stories are different, Roman loved Kathryn and yet here he sits—single and on a completely different path than the woman he thought he would marry. Will time do that to us? Will it pull Beckham even farther away from me?
“Where is she now?” I try and mask the desperation I feel. I need to know. For some reason, it’s really important that I know.
“Married. They live in California and have a daughter that’s a year old.”
All the air leaves my lungs at once as if someone has squeezed it out of me.
Married? To someone else? Even though they loved each other? Even though she had already planned to marry Roman? She didn't wait? He said wrong time, right girl. Right girl!
His right girl is now married to someone else. They have a child!
“Addie,” Roman says softly, tapping his fingers against the table in front of me, pulling my focus back to him. “She’s happy. I’m happy. Was it hard? Yes. Do I think about it sometimes? Absolutely. Do I regret it? I can’t. I did what was right for both of us at the time. Our relationship is not your relationship.” He moans as if he feels defeated. “I didn’t mean to make you cry.”
I don’t realize that I am until he says it. I reach up and brush away my tears as I mutter an apology, but they don't stop. Hello, public meltdown number seven. I’m practically sobbing by the time our food arrives. Man, poor Kyle. I’ll have to leave him a big fat tip. Thankfully, Roman assures him we’re all set before he can even ask, and then he’s gone.
“Addie, please don’t cry. You’re killing me here. People are going to start thinking I just broke up with you before you could even touch your breakfast. If you had already eaten, I’d suddenly be crowned an eligible bachelor. As things stand, I’m just another pretty jerk who obviously doesn’t appreciate a good pancake when I see one.” I choke out a laugh in spite of myself, amused both by his analysis of the situation and the fact that he just acknowledged that he’s pretty. “Ah, a smile. I bet if you have a sip of coffee and chase it with a bite of that overly-sweet pancake, you’ll be as good as new.”
“Overly-sweet? What do have against a nice dose of sugar?” I hiccup, rubbing the tears from my face.
“I’m more of a salty kind of guy.”
“Hmm,” I hum, taking a sip of my coffee. “So you don’t like sweets at all? Not even for dessert?”
“Not even for dessert. Well, not usually,” he replies, cutting into his egg and potato stuffed burrito.
“Well, isn’t that convenient for your waistline.”
“And my thighs. Don’t forget my fabulous thighs.”
I giggle and take a bite of pancake. As I chew with a smile, I realize that he was right—I do feel better. We ask each other questions for the rest of our meal, tactfully avoiding the topics of Kathryn or Beckham. Again, I find myself thanking God for him. He's pretty good at this friend thing.
Knowing that I’ll need time to set up Addison’s gift while she’s not around, I coordinate with Avery to come over Thursday night while Addie and Sarah are at work. Thankfully, Jack’s at home to help me carry the large box up the one flight of stairs to the girls’ apartment. It’s not an extraordinarily heavy load, but it’s taller than I am.
“Holy cow,” gushes Avery in greeting. “What’s in there?”
“Let us in and you’ll find out.” She steps aside and guides us to her sister’s room. As soon as we set the box down, Jackson starts to double back to our place.
“Where’s he going?” Avery asks, jerking her thumb over her shoulder.
“To grab the second box.”
“The second box?” I smile as she arches her eyebrows at me. “Okay, now I really want to know what this is. It might be my birthday, but it’s not my present. Open it up!” she demands.
I pull the exact-o knife from the back pocket of my jeans and begin to carefully cut away the box. I want to keep the cardboard intact so that I can use it to cover it back up after we’ve got it all situated. Both girls love birthdays, and any gifts that might come along with the passing of another year, but they are sticklers about not opening any gifts before the twenty-third day of May. Avery must understand my slow and deliberate movements, for she doesn’t rush me.
“Whoa,” she sighs when I finally pull away the cardboard and the plastic wrap, discarding the latter on the floor. “Is that a—?”
“Yeah,” I reply, nodding as I admire the bookshelf for the first time in person. Addie has a thing for spiral staircases. It’s not something she can really explain, she just loves them. She thinks they’re romantic—her words, not mine. In any case, when I found this shelving unit, I knew that it was perfect. It’s actually very simple—a thin, flat beam attached to a sturdy base with oval shelves spaced intermittently all the way to the top. The cool part is that the shelves, coupled one on each side of the twisted beam, are stationed in such a way that when all the books are in place, it’ll look like a spiral staircase made of her novels.
I noticed a while ago how Addison’s bookcase is packed to full occupancy. She talks all the time about how she should invest in an e-reader, but she’s totally old school and appreciates the feel and weight of an actual paperback in her hands too much. I know she houses half of her books at her parents’ house and this new shelf won’t accommodate her entire collection, but it’ll certainly hold the parts of it she’s got here and allow room for growth.
“Shall we start unloading books?” asks Jack upon his return, the small box of new classic literature I ordered her in his hands.
“Yeah. Ave, want to help?”
“Absolutely.”
We empty out her old shelves first and then take it from the room. After we set the new case in its place, we start piling it full of books. Avery and I make sure we put her known favorites close to the bottom, since she’ll always need a chair to access the stack that sits at the top. That’s not a problem today, as we only fill about three-quarters of the available space.
“Is that what time it is?” asks Jack as he picks up Addie’s alarm clock. “Man—I have to run to—uh—pick up that thing. For tomorrow,” he stutters.
It takes me a second, but then I realize why he’s suddenly become tongue tied. He’s talking about Claire. Her flight comes in tonight. “Riiight. Okay—help me ca
rry the old shelf downstairs?” He nods, heading out of the room. “I’ll be right back, Ave.” I’m gone less than five minutes and come back alone. I find Avery sitting on the floor, propped up against the bed, staring up at the books, when I enter. She smiles at me and then pats the floor beside her, signaling for me to sit. She doesn’t have to ask me twice.
“She’s going to love it.”
I know, I think to myself with a sigh. “Ave?” She answers by way of a glance. “Is this going to be a good birthday? Is she going to be okay?”
She shifts positions, turning toward me as she folds her legs underneath her. “I won’t lie to you,” she begins, sweeping her hair behind her ears, “she’ll probably be all over the place. That’s how she is these days. Sometimes, I swear she’s a walking contradiction. She understands why you two are broken up, but she doesn’t really get it. She misses you tremendously, but it’s torture being in the same room as you. She has her good moments, you know? She’s trying to find ways to keep her mind occupied. Sarah and I are both encouraging her to not stay locked up in here all the time, which has been good, but she can still start crying out of nowhere. In short? She’s a mess without you. This, though,” she says, pointing to my gift, “this she will love. And when we go out, if you decided not to come, I know she would probably bail, too. At the same time—will she cry when she opens this? I guarantee it. They won’t be happy tears, either. That’s just where she is right now—all over the place.
“I guess to answer your question, yeah. It’ll be a good birthday.” She laughs and shakes her head at me. “It might not sound like it after everything I just said, but I believe it. It’ll be different, but good. Do you know why? Because she’s still going to be surrounded by people who love her—you included. That’s what she needs right now. Besides, hello, who loves birthdays more than us?”
“No one,” I reply with a chuckle.
“Exactly.” She studies me for a minute and then rests a hand on my shoulder. “What about you? Are you okay?”
I blow out all the air in my lungs as I tilt my head back and rest it against the side of the bed. I wish the answer to her question was a simple yes or no, but nothing seems to be that simple these days. The truth is, I’m probably just as much a walking contradiction as Addison. I’m confused and sure at the same time—confused because I feel like, as I start to dig for answers, I’m getting responses from myself and from God that I wasn’t expecting. Trust issues? I didn’t know I had trust issues. I haven’t figured out if it’s about me trusting myself or me trusting God, but either way, that wasn’t something I was prepared to face.
Yet, in the midst of all of my confusion, I’m now sure that this breakup wasn’t a mistake. It’s something that I need. After what Pastor Doug said, I believe this is something that Addie needs, too—even if neither of us knows why.
“I’m working on it,” I finally manage to answer.
“Good. I can live with that. Now—enough with the heavy. Are you going to hide that thing?”
“Yeah. Guess I should, huh?” I stand up and then extend a hand down to help her to her feet. She accepts my gesture as she hops up.
“Sooo—any idea what Sonny’s got planned for me?”
A grin pulls at my mouth as I position the cardboard around the bookshelf, making sure it won’t move without assistance. “My lips are sealed.”
“Yeah, I thought they might be,” she mutters, folding her arms across her chest.
“He’s going all out, though.”
She squeals and claps her hands and I can’t help but laugh. “That’s what’s got me so anxious! He’s never been excited about birthdays.”
“Well, now he’s got a girlfriend who loves them.”
She hums through a smile. “He’s so great.”
“That’s what I like to hear. Best friend or not, I’ll kick his butt if he hurts you,” I promise.
“I know you will,” she says, wrapping her arm around my waist as we make our way out of the room. “That’s what big brother’s do.”
“You got it.” I give her shoulders a squeeze and follow her as she leads me to the kitchen.
“Know what else big brothers do?” she sings.
“What’s that?”
“They stay for dinner. How does spaghetti sound?”
“Delicious.”
For two nights I get hardly any sleep, my mind too consumed with thoughts of Roman and Kathryn and their broken engagement. Now that I know Roman’s last name, Mr. Holloway and I are Facebook friends. My insomnia leads me to find Kathryn’s profile Wednesday night. Yes, I went there. I so went there. I stayed long enough to click through every picture that is available to view by someone who isn’t her internet friend—and Roman was right. She looks happy.
Her profile picture is of her and her husband; he’s standing behind her and his arms are wrapped around her, his lips pressed against her cheek as she grins. Her cover photo is of the two of them with their daughter—well, their legs and their daughter; she’s standing between them, her little arms stretched up as her parents hold each of her hands. She’s adorable and looks so much like Kathryn, who is stunning. I picture her with Roman and can imagine that they once made quite the handsome pair. Made. Past tense.
Was it John Lennon who said all you need is love? Because apparently that’s not true. At least, it wasn’t true for Roman and Kathryn. It scares the hell out of me that it might not be true for Beckham and me, either. Thus the reason for my inability to get any sleep. That, and the mystery behind the gigantic box across the room.
Tonight—or is it morning yet? Have I slept?—I found a huge cardboard box covering something up when I walked into my room. When I turned to seek out Avery, I found her already leaning against the doorframe of my bedroom. She smiled and nodded at me and I knew immediately who it was from. My BMW. I will admit that the idea of the gift made me excited—because I love birthdays, mine or anyone else’s, and because it came from him—and it pushed my fears of Beckham and I splitting up for good to the side, a little bit. Only a little bit.
I look at my alarm clock. 1:37. It’s officially my birthday. And since I can’t sleep…
I stand and hurry to flick on my light before I head to the huge box, which is probably a good three feet taller than me, and carefully move it out of the way. I gasp as I look at my books, towering over me like a floating spiral staircase. I lose my hold of the cardboard and it falls backward, flopping across my bed, but I hardly notice. My heart is beating wildly and I can’t tell if I want to laugh or cry. Not surprisingly, I end up doing both.
It takes me a few minutes to spot the books I don’t recognize and when I see the bindings of the hardback classics—Fitzgerald, Austen, Dickens, Tolstoy—I clap my hands around my mouth and cry harder. I’m filled with so much excitement and so much longing that the two emotions are struggling to exist in my little body. I have to let myself cry for a few minutes in order to get a grip. When I’m finally able to take a deep breath, I wipe away my tears and find a smile. I also spot a card sticking out between Great Expectations and Anna Karenina. I snatch it, suddenly feeling incredibly impatient.
The front of the card reads Happy Birthday. The inside is blank, except for two lines scribbled in Beckham’s chicken scratch writing. I chuckle at the sight of his script, remembering all the times I teased him about how hard it is to read his handwriting; I tell him all the time that he’s already got one doctor-like qualification he can add to his resume and he didn’t even have to work for it. All jokes aside, though, I can read his note just fine.
I bite my lip, hiding my grin from no one, as I sink to my knees. I’m overwhelmed with relief. His words, his gift—this moment shatters any doubt in regards to our future. Without even knowing it, he gave me the best birthday present I could ever ask for. I love the bookshelf and the fact that he knows me so well that he can get me a gift like this—but that’s not the best part. What matters more is that he gave it to me in the midst of everything that
sucks between us. And he didn’t write love, BMW—he wrote I love you. It’s a declaration. It’s the declaration that reminds me and assures me that Beckham and I are not Roman and Kathryn.
He loves me. No, I don’t get to hear it every day. Yes, that’s what I’m used to and that’s what I want—but that’s just not where we are right now. That doesn’t mean it’s not true, though. This proves it. I can keep panicking and worrying and doubting and wearing myself out trying to convince myself that I’m not going to lose him, but that’s just exhausting and unnecessary.
Trust me. Trust the God who guides me.
Those were his words. And I do trust him. And I do trust God—God, I trust You. I’ve been completely self-centered and totally lost in myself for the past couple of weeks. I’ve shut You out, only speaking to You when things seem okay. Yet, if I think about it, You’ve been with me this whole time trying to hold my hand. You’ve surrounded me with people that are going to help me get through this and I’ve been taking it for granted. Well, I won’t anymore. Thank You for being my Comforter—even when I don’t deserve it. Thank You for the support of my friends and my family. And thank You for Beckham.
I shake my head and cough out a humorless laugh as I realize that I haven’t prayed for him since we broke up. I’ve been that concerned with my own heartache and my own frustration toward the situation and toward God. Right now—isn’t Beck the one who needs the support of my prayers? Just because we aren’t together now doesn’t mean that I should be any less invested in encouraging him to be the man that he wants to be. The best way for me to do that is to pray for him. Pray for the wonderful man that I love so much—the wonderful man who loves me.
The Promises We Keep (Made for Love Book 1) Page 18
