I never thought that my promise to stay away from the question why would spill into this aspect of my life, but over the last few weeks it has. Over the last few weeks, I’ve received rejection letters from seven schools. To be honest, I’m trying not to take it personally. Getting into med school is hard, but with every rejection, it becomes more difficult for me to stay objective. It also becomes more difficult for me to trust what God is doing. It becomes more difficult to steer clear of my desire to know…why?
I volunteered at the hospital earlier this evening and I think the timing of my shift was no coincidence. When I got home, my seventh rejection letter was in the mailbox. I only have one school left to hear from. I’ve been asked to provide secondary applications to only two schools—which, at this stage, I’m incredibly thankful for—and I’m beginning to think that my final rejection will arrive any day now. As my chances of continuing my education next year grow slimmer and slimmer, I can’t help but wonder what next if not school? And it scares me, a little, because I know what I want to do. My shift at the hospital came at the perfect time. It’s been a long week and mid-terms are right around the corner; everyone is stressed out and, for me, waiting on rejections doesn't help. But spending some time in the environment in which I’d like to immerse myself, it was a good reminder that I have chosen my path. Whatever setbacks I might face, I won’t change my mind. Even still, there’s this small voice inside of me that’s telling me it’s time to panic; it’s telling me that maybe I’m not good enough; it’s telling me that I might just fail to accomplish the one thing I’ve been working toward since I was a little kid.
Talking to my dad helped. I just got off the phone with him. I needed to be reminded that it’s not over yet—and even if I don’t get in anywhere this year, that doesn’t mean I can’t try again next year. His straight forward delivery of that possibility coupled with his encouragement grounded me in reality. He reminded me that even if I don’t take the path I originally planned, that doesn’t mean that an alternate route won’t get me there. Furthermore, if I keep my head up and my eyes open, I might just learn some necessary things along the way. I respect my dad immensely. To know that he believes in me, in spite of my circumstances, means a lot to me.
Nevertheless, it still sucks to have received a rejection today. I’m not really in the mood to chill by myself, but Jack and Gray are both out of town. The thought crosses my mind to text Logan—this day has quickly descended to a ranking of four—but I don’t really want to hang out with her, either. I’m not sure why until I think of Addie. As soon as the sight of her fills my head, I’m consumed with a need for her. I know she’s the only one who will be able to understand and appreciate exactly what I’m feeling. It’s one of the reasons why I love her so much—she just gets me. It’s been a long time since we’ve hung out just the two of us, but maybe tonight we can change that.
I like Roman. I like the way he makes me laugh and the way he comforts me when I’m crying. I appreciate the way that he listens just as much as he shares. I love the way he plays guitar and the vulnerability he expresses in his song lyrics. I adore the way he treats his sister and the bond that they have. Then, of course, his face…he has a very attractive face. Above all that, I cherish the respect he has for me and our friendship. It’s been over a month since I inadvertently told him that I was falling for him and he allusively assured me that my feelings were reciprocated. We’ve hung out a lot since then, because we’ll be performing together at Little Bird in a couple weeks, and yet he has not pushed me to even discuss how it is that I feel, let alone act on it. Even though I won’t deny that I like him, he understands I’m not sure what I want to do about it.
Sometimes I feel like a total tease, which I hate, but I can’t help it! I know that it’s not fair to avoid the elephant in the room every time we’re together, but it’s all I can manage right now. My feelings for him are overwhelming all on their own—to talk about them and figure out what to do with them, and to add his feelings to the mix? Yeah, I’m not mentally or emotionally equipped to handle that. The truth is, it’s been years since I’ve liked someone other than Beckham. Years. As crazy as I feel to admit this, I think I might understand what Beckham was saying when he broke up with me and told me that he grew up as my boyfriend—because I grew up as his girlfriend. Now that I’m not his—the feelings that I have for Roman seem familiar and yet completely foreign at the same time. I’m beginning to realize that’s not…common. It’s not common to be twenty-one and to have only had one boyfriend; one person who you’ve ever gone out on dates with; one person that you’ve ever kissed—that’s just not common. But that’s my story.
Now there’s Roman—or at least, the possibility of Roman.
“Are you sure I can’t talk you into going out for some fro-yo?” he asks as he walks me to my car.
“Sorry,” I reply with a shrug and a smile. “Girls night has already started without me. I’ve got a bride, a twin, and a bestie waiting.”
“Alright. Fair enough. Well, I’m glad you came tonight.”
“Absolutely; thank you for inviting me.” I’ve never been to Roman’s church before. I didn’t really know much about it except for they had an extra service on Saturday. It was nice to see where he attends; just like any other detail that helps define Roman, I was glad to be exposed to this one.
“I knew you’d appreciate the worship tonight. The praise team does some really sick acoustic sets.”
“Yeah, it was great.” We’re interrupted by the buzzing of my cell phone from inside of my purse. “It’s probably Avery,” I explain as I start to dig for my device. When I see My BMW lit up across the screen, my heart skips a beat; a second later, I’m filled to the brim with guilt. I know that I’m not doing anything wrong, but in this moment, it doesn’t feel that way. Instead, it feels like I’m cheating on the man who’s trying to reach me.
Beckham is trying to reach me. I wonder if something is wrong. We don’t have plans and his call is unexpected; a text would be one thing, but a call?
“Are you going to answer it?” asks Roman hesitantly.
Roman. Now there’s Roman—or at least, the possibility of Roman.
But there’s also Beckham.
I’m in love with Beckham. I love the way he makes me smile just by walking into a room. I love the way he holds me when I’m having a bad day. I love the way he listens to me when we’re in the middle of an argument just as much as when I’m simply excited about something that I want to share with him. I love the way he gets all nerdy and tries to explain scientific things to me even though I know I’ll never get it. I love the way he treats his sister and my sister and how he does so as if he’s known them and loved them for the same amount of time. I love the way he calls me baby and the way he makes me feel like I’m beautiful, no matter what I look like. And his face—those blue eyes, dark like a deep body of water I could swim in, and that handsome smile. We might be broken up, I might—no, I definitely—hate it, because it’s put me in this crazy, confusing place where I now reside, but I still love him.
I slide my finger across the screen and bring my phone up to my ear before his call goes to voicemail. “Hello?”
“Hey, Addie—it’s me. Are you busy?”
I close my eyes and take a deep breath, needing to gain control of this horrible feeling in the pit of my stomach—the one that makes me feel like a terrible person for betraying Beckham by being with Roman, betraying Roman by answering Beckham’s call, and betraying myself for not simply owning up to my feelings and dealing with them. “Um, could you hold on for a second?”
“Sure.”
I take another deep breath as I look up at Roman and press my phone against my shoulder. “I’m so sorry, I have to take this.”
I can tell by the look in his eyes as he nods that he knows it’s not Avery on the other end of my call. Then again, my own eyes probably gave it away. “Okay. I’ll let you go. I’ll see you in a couple days, yeah? We’ll finish worki
ng on our song?”
“Yeah. I’ve got mid-terms, but I’ll let you know when I have some free time. Is that okay?”
“You bet,” he answers, wrapping me in an embrace. I only have one arm available to hug him back, but he doesn’t seem to mind. When he pulls away, we exchange our final farewells and I climb into my car and bring my phone back up to my ear.
“Hey. Sorry about that.”
“Are you sure you’re not busy?”
“I mean, I kind of am. I’m on my way home to hang out with the girls. Are you okay?”
“Oh, I’m fine. I just—I was going to see if you wanted to hang out, but you’ve got plans so I’ll let you go.”
“No, wait,” I mutter instead of goodbye. I can tell by the sound of his voice that something is wrong, he’s just not telling me. I wish he would, though. It kills me that he won’t just come right out and say it. “Beck, what’s up?” He sighs and I relax into my driver’s seat knowing that if I pry for long enough, he’ll spill. “I’m here if you need to talk. You know that, don’t you?” Of course he does. Why else would he have called?
“I just got another rejection today, that’s all.”
“Oh, Beck, I’m sorry.” That brings the count up to seven. I’ve been keeping track—and, who can blame me? No one! I’ve been thinking of following him wherever he goes for so long…and I can’t seem to let go of the possibility that I still might. I shove that thought aside, unwilling to deal with the many layers of my curiosity on the matter, and focus on this particular moment—Beckham’s moment. “Which one?”
“University of Washington.”
Alright. Seattle is out.
“So you still have a chance with Stanford and Baylor and you’ve not heard anything from the University of California?”
“You’re keeping track,” he says softly. His tone makes my stomach tingle.
“Are you surprised?” I ask, boldly.
“I shouldn’t be. I’m just glad that you are, I guess.”
“Beckham—” I start and then I stop. No, he shouldn’t be surprised. In fact, I feel like he should be asking me how I feel about our potential options. Our! But he’s not. As much as I want to believe that it’s fine—that I knew this was coming and that just because we don’t talk about it doesn’t mean he’s not wondering or thinking about the possibility of us moving away together—it’s not fine. It just isn’t.
I wish I was brave enough to tell him what I really think, but I’m not. I don’t want to argue with him and I don’t want to make him feel bad for following through with what he told me would happen. I want to feel some sort of victory in this moment, because he called me when he was upset! To be honest about my disappointment in all that he’s not saying would steal away the pleasure I’ve managed to latch onto with the little that he is saying.
“Beckham,” I begin again. “I’m rooting for you. I always will be. I know that your options are turning out to be smaller in number than you had hoped, but I believe in you and I know wherever you get in, you’ll do great.” My heart breaks a little as I say the words. My betrayal against myself hurts a lot right now.
“Addie?”
“Yeah?”
“Thank you. Your support and encouragement means more than you will ever know.” I don’t know what to say and suddenly I feel like even if I did, I might start crying if I tried to speak, so I say nothing. “Anyway, I’m sure the girls are waiting for you so I’ll let you go.”
“Yeah. Okay.”
“I love—you.”
As soon as he says it, I know it was on accident. I can tell by the way his voice hitched at the end of you. While I believe that he means it, knowing that it slipped because he simply wasn’t thinking, it’s like he’s just rammed a dagger through my heart. I don’t know what that means, which is totally my fault for ignoring the gigantic mess that is the pile of feelings I’ve yet to deal with, and it makes me want to cry even more.
Even still, I believe every I love you from my BMW should be reciprocated; so before I disconnect, I tell him I love him, too.
The high of our victory against the Nevada Wolf Pack fades into nothing when our plane home is delayed due to technical issues. By the time our team touches down in Colorado, our Sunday is completely shot. When Jack and I arrive back at our apartment, it’s after eleven. I know that Avery is probably sleeping and I’m so tired that I just want to go to bed, but I’m annoyed that I haven’t been able to see her since Thursday. That’s too many days. Even still, I know this week is going to be crazy with exams and I’m fairly certain she’s got a recital this week, so I’m not sure when we’ll have time to spend legitimate time together.
I miss summer.
Thankfully, the next couple weekends are home games, so at least I won’t be traveling. Then I remember that both games are also night games, which means no date night. I toss my things onto the foot of my bed and then throw myself down, too. I dig into my pocket for my phone and construct a text to my girl.
Me: I’m home. I miss you. Are you up?
She doesn’t respond right away, which makes me think I was right about her being asleep. I let my thoughts wander, going over my schedule for the week. I’m dozing off when my phone alerts me to a text.
My Shorty: I miss you more. I’m like 5% awake right now.
Me: Yeah. Me too. Get some sleep. We can talk tomorrow.
My Shorty: I want to SEE you tomorrow.
Me: When are you free?
My Shorty: Ugh. Not until after four. You?
Me: I’m open for lunch—but it sounds like that’s out. And we’re watching game film tomorrow evening, but not until six. Early dinner?
My Shorty: Yes, please!
My Shorty: Okay. Must sleep. I love you.
Me: I love you more.
My Shorty: I’ll only let that slide because I don’t have enough energy to argue. Night, Hottie.
Me: Night ;)
Avery had to cancel our dinner plans yesterday. Now it’s Tuesday and I haven’t seen her since Thursday and the absence of her is beginning to feel too real. I don’t know how people do long distance relationships. I would never be able to. I mean—if I was given a choice between staying with Avery, even though she lived across the country, or breaking up, I would choose option three—the one where I’d give up whatever it was that was keeping me from her so that I could be wherever she is. That might make me some sort of punk, but at least I’d be a happy punk. She lives upstairs and I feel like she’s not here. It fills me with an anxiety that I can’t quite explain, which is why I’ve decided we’re seeing each other today, if it’s the last thing I do.
I don’t get home until after dinner, but I shoot her a text to see what she’s up to. She’s still on campus, in the middle of orchestra practice, so I tell her to just stop by when she gets back in. To kill time, I study for a bit. When that gets old, I hop in the shower, which turns out to be a bad idea because it loosens me up and relaxes me to the point where I find myself stretching out across my bed to doze while I wait for her. I leave my bedside lamp on so that she won’t think I’ve crashed for the night. I’m not sure how late it is when she arrives, but I hear her come into my room and shut the door. I listen as she discards her jacket and her cello—which clues me into the fact that she hasn’t even made it upstairs yet—and I’m aroused when she crawls on top of me and begins showering my face with kisses.
“Wake up, my love.”
My heart rate picks up as I wrap my arms around her. I don’t know why, seeing as how we’ve exchanged words over the last handful of days, but it feels like she’s back—like she went away but now she’s back. When her lips finally meet mine, I feel like my heart might beat right out of my chest. I’m overwhelmed with my need for her and I cling to her as I kiss her hungrily. Her hair spills all around us and the smell of her shampoo makes me want her even more.
I roll us over so that I’m hovering above her and I break our kiss so that I might explore more of her skin with my
lips and my tongue. The sound of her rapid breathing assures me that she’s in this moment with me, for which I am grateful, because I can’t stop. When she reaches her hands up and buries her fingers in my hair, I groan, feeling myself falling farther and farther away from anything that doesn’t have to do with her soft skin and her delicate hands and the way she smells and tastes.
I love her so much and I’ve missed the sight of her and the feel of her and in this moment, I can’t get enough.
“Sonny?” she murmurs.
The sound of my name on her lips sends a shiver up my spine. “Yes, sweetheart?” I mumble between kisses. I leave a trail all the way down her neck and onto the fabric of her shirt, showering her with affection until I’ve reached her hips.
“I’ve missed you.”
“I’ve missed you, more,” I manage to say as I inch her shirt up and explore the warmth of her bare body with my mouth. She doesn’t prevent me as I push her garment up higher and higher and so I keep going—I can’t stop. I’m usually so careful not to push the envelope with her, but today is different. Today, I need to keep going—I have to have her—I have to show her how much I love her. Time has intruded upon our relationship and I can’t let it pull us apart; I have to make up for our lost time; I have to remind her how much she means to me.
Her breath hitches in her throat when I begin to tug her shirt over her breasts, but when she lifts her arms, that’s all the permission I need. She helps me pull it over her head and her hair snakes its way through the collar before spilling all over my pillows. So as not to leave her exposed all on her own, I push myself up on my knees, reach behind my head, and grab a fistful of shirt before yanking it off. From my current vantage point, I can see the rapid rising and falling of her chest. The bra she’s got on is purple with yellow polkadots. Over the summer, I saw her in a bathing suit, but this is different. Today, her undergarments speak of untrodden ground. As I take her in with my eyes, I can’t help but marvel at how flawless she is—from the peak of her breasts to the valley of her belly—and I want to memorize every bit of her. When our eyes meet and her blush spreads from her cheeks all the way down her neck, I’m consumed with my desire to make her blush all over.
The Promises We Keep (Made for Love Book 1) Page 44
