Finding Faith

by B. E. Baker

  “This music is wrong,” I say. “Play dance music, or Christmas music. But Christmas dance music?” I feign puking.

  “You're right,” Addy says, “but you're trying to change the subject.”

  I lean against the table, until I realize it's sticky, but by then it's too late. My sweater now sports an elbow stain of unknown origin. Gross. “Look, Foster tried to change me. He begged, and pleaded, and cajoled me to agree to have kids. But I didn't want any, and I didn't cave.”

  “Luke has two kids,” Trudy says. “And you're looking at getting a dog?” She closes her eyes and shakes her head slowly. “We're worried about this. He's not good for you.”

  “What about you, Trudy? Have you told Chris that you're done with him yet?”

  Her eyebrows draw together and her lips compress.

  “You can't tell me that I have to dump a perfectly wonderful guy, when you haven't even given up on your cheating, worthless husband.”

  “I'm trying to help you avoid the exact same misery I'm dealing with,” Trudy says. “And you don't get to pressure me about Chris, because we have a child together. It's different.”

  Kids complicate everything. I already know this too well.

  Addy touches my hand. “We're your friends, Mary. We love you. We're trying to help you here, so don't take this wrong.”

  “It doesn't matter,” I say slowly. “I appreciate your input, but Luke's moving. Why can't I date someone for a few weeks and then go back to normal? I've got a holiday party next week, and then it's Christmas. Why bother breaking up with him, when it's going to end by default a few weeks after that?”

  “Because you're taking control,” Trudy says. “Exactly like you keep telling me to do with Chris.”

  “What about you?” I ask Paisley. “You haven't said a word.”

  Paisley meets my eyes. “I don't agree you should dump Luke just because he's making you go to Chuck-e-Cheese, or because he has kids. But I've kept my mouth shut, because . . . Well, you like him so much, Mary. I was so excited to see it, but now we know he's leaving? I do think you need to end it on your terms. Otherwise, he'll re-engage with you every time he comes into town to visit family or friends, and in between jobs. If this can't go anywhere, and you seem adamant it can't, you should dump him now, before he wrecks you even worse.”

  “If I had to go back in time,” I say loudly, competing with the giggling bridesmaids and terrible Christmas music, “I'd still date my ex, even knowing how it would turn out. Even though it all turned out badly, I don't regret—” the music cuts off and it's suddenly silent. My voice fills the entire area around me when I finish my sentence, “a single minute I spent with Foster.”

  The bridal party turns slowly toward us, their seven faces all locking strangely on mine.

  “Oh. My. Gosh.” The bride's words slur. “You're Mary effing Wiggin.”

  I've entered the twilight zone. How does this girl know my name? The music picks up again, with a dance mix of Silent Night. I couldn't describe the horror of it if I tried. “Umm, I am Mary Wiggin,” I yell. “And who are you?”

  The bride to be has a crown with flashy pink stones, tilted askew on a hugely puffy bun of blonde curls. Her dark brown eyes flash, while some of her lipstick holds on for dear life to her two front teeth. “I'm Jessica Hansen. I'm marrying Foster Bradshaw.”

  My jaw drops and I speak without thinking. “But you can't be. You've been drinking!”

  She swaggers toward me, her friends stumbling behind her, their heels clicking loudly enough on the tile dance floor that I can hear them over the music. “I can drink whatever I want. I turned twenty-three this year.”

  I look her over, head to toe. She's wearing a bubble gum pink sheath dress that shows off her figure, and she's either courting a future replete with skin cancer, or she spends a good chunk on spray tanning. Either way, I see why Foster's enamored. But she's so different from me, I wonder whether I knew Foster at all.

  “Hello?” She snaps in my face. “Where do you get off telling me what to do?”

  The scattered “Yeahs,” and “Word,” and “You go girl,” from her posse irritate me.

  “Because you're pregnant,” I say. “You'll give your baby fetal alcohol syndrome if you drink while pregnant, you idiot. You're so young that maybe you haven't yet had sex-ed class in high school, but that's like the number two rule, right after using two forms of birth control. It seems like you didn't pay much attention to that one, either.”

  Instead of panicking, like I'd expect, or turning bright red, she actually doubles down on the scowling. “Not that it's any of your business, but I'm not pregnant.” She sticks her nose up in the air and stalks off, her friends shooting me dirty looks as they sway across the room on four and five inch heels.

  The bartender arrives with our drinks as if on cue.

  “I ordered you a coke with lemon,” Trudy says. “Like always.”

  I force a smile. “Thanks.”

  No one brings the topic of Luke up again. In fact, after we finish our drinks, Addy, Paisley, and Trudy all beeline for the dance floor. We pretend Foster's fiancé and her friends aren't there, which is sort of hard with their stupid sashes proclaiming “Bride,” and “Bridesmaid,” but we persevere.

  By the time we're heading home though, I've thought about nothing but Luke and my breakup with Foster for almost three hours. When we all slide into the seats in my car, I hit the seat warmer button, and then I clear my throat.

  “Maybe you guys are right. Losing Foster knocked me on my rear end. I don't want to go through that again. If someone told me Foster wanted kids, and no dice without them, it would have saved me a lot of time, and a lot of heartache.”

  Addy pats my knee. “This is the right call, you know. We all love you. We want what's best for you.”

  I nod. “I know that. Maybe Luke was the palate cleanse I needed, and after the holidays, I'll be ready to date someone for real.”

  Trudy and Addy both reassure me that it must be true. I drop them off at home, first Trudy and then Addy. Since Paisley picked them up, only her car is at my house, so she’ll spend the night with me. I swear, drinking is such a hassle, I don’t know why people do it at all. They hug me tightly and tell me I'm being smart, and I know they're right. By the time I reach my house, I've heard a ding on my phone. I pull into the garage and pick it up in front of her.

  I smile when I see it’s from Luke. HOPE YOUR GIRLS' NIGHT WAS FUN. YOU LEFT SO FAST I COULDN'T ASK. PLANS TOMORROW?

  I close my eyes and set the phone down. Paisley snatches it from the cup holder. “Oooh, lover boy himself.”

  “Give me that,” I say, tired and cross all of a sudden.

  She wiggles her shoulders. “You'd love it if I jumped out and weaved my way inside right now so you can dump him via text. You big chicken.”

  Before I can snatch the phone back, she starts texting. By the time I wrestle it away, she's already hit send.

  NO PLANS YET. WHAT DID YOU HAVE IN MIND?

  Three tiny dots indicate Luke's typing a response. Paisley and I both stare at the phone, like a dog watching a squirrel. Finally, the text pops up.

  LET ME MAKE YOU DINNER. FOUND A BABYSITTER. WE CAN DO YOUR PLACE OR MINE.

  Paisley shakes her head at me. “You can't do someone's house, not if you're dumping him. It'll be too awkward. You've got to suggest a restaurant.”

  She's right. CAN WE GO OUT INSTEAD? I DON'T WANNA DEAL WITH CLEANUP.

  SURE, Luke texts, STAPLEHOUSE. MEET ME THERE? OR SHOULD I PICK YOU UP? 6:30 OK?

  “Uh, how is he going to get into Staplehouse?” Paisley asks. “It's booked up like a month out.”

  I shrug. “Maybe he doesn't know that. He's not from here. But even if we can't get in there, we can hit another place close.”

  THAT'S FINE. MEET YOU THERE.

  “If he can get into Staplehouse, maybe you shouldn't break up with him.” Paisley smirks, but then her face turns serious. “Addy and Trudy mean well, but they
aren't you and they have no idea, not really. Are you sure you want to do this?”

  I shake my head. “No, and that's exactly why I need to.”

  Chapter 17

  I dress in a dark blue sheath dress that hugs me all over, and my favorite pair of dark brown Frye boots. When I reach Staplehouse, Luke's pacing outside, on the phone with someone.

  “I told you already. I don't want to do that.”

  Pause.

  “Because I hate that kind of stuff, which you know.”

  Pause.

  “It's like this. You handle this part, and I'll do my part. I've got the prototype, and it's perfect. But you'll have to do the sales pitch without me.”

  Luke glances my way and notices me, a smile spreading across his face, erasing the frown lines creasing his forehead. “Look, I've got to go. We can talk more in the morning.”

  Pause.

  “Fine. Yes, but not now. Tomorrow. She's here.”

  Luke hangs up and holds out his hand to me. “You look like a young Emilia Clarke. All you need is a dragon on your shoulder.”

  “I left the dragon at home,” I say. “I know how you feel about pets.”

  “Oh,” he says. “Amy would appreciate your burn.” He takes my arm in his and leads me through the front door, where I'm fully expecting we'll be turned away.

  “Mr. Manning, please, come right in.” The maître d' greets us in a black suit and waves us inside.

  Which is super weird.

  “How did you get us in here,” I whisper.

  He squeezes my arm. “I may not be a fancy trust baby like your ex, but every store in town has lights, and I do quality work. I helped wire this entire place back when it was going in. I know the owner, and the head chef.”

  “In fact,” the maître d' chimes in, “Mr. Manning helped the Giving Kitchen, back when it started. None of us will ever forget his boundless generosity.”

  Well, color me impressed. “Maybe karma is real,” I say. “I've had a lot of clients who have brought me fruit cake, or a plate of cookies. I think I need to branch out a little.”

  Luke snorts. “Stick with me kid, and you won't need to.”

  My heart twinges a bit, knowing that I'm here with a purpose, and neither of us is going to like it. Why didn't Paisley just let me do this via text? I'm going to kick her in the shin next time I see her. Hard. Like I'm going to leave a bruise.

  After we're seated, I have no idea what to say. I could break up with him now, before we've even gotten a basket of bread, but that seems kind of awful. Plus, I've never eaten here, and I kind of want to try it. Or is that even worse?

  “How was your girls’ night?” he asks. “What did you do? Since you don't drink, I was wondering.”

  I shrug. “First we paint our toenails, and then we braid each other's hair.”

  “Is that before or after the big pillow fights?”

  “So you can tell when I'm kidding now?” I ask.

  He taps the side of his head with one finger. “Prepare to be impressed with my powers of observation. I noticed. . . your hair isn't braided.”

  Before I can reply, a waiter places a menu in my hands. I glance down at the words, and then they draw all my attention. No prices, not categories, nothing I can make sense of in the slightest. It's just a list of ten or fifteen words.

  “Uh,” I say, “what in the world is this?”

  Luke smirks. “It's a tasting menu. You get ten or eleven courses, all of them so good you wish there was more to each one.”

  “Wait, we don't get to pick what we're eating?” I bite my lip. “This is weird.”

  He splays his hands out in front of him. “We can leave if you'd like, but I think even if you don't like a few of the options, you'll like enough to get full.”

  “It might be good for me to try some new things,” I say. “I have a tendency to eat the same burger and fries every time I go out.”

  I can't help but wonder what Trudy and Addy would think. Is this evidence that he's trying to change me? Should I be upset?

  But the thing is, I'm not.

  We chat and laugh, and every single time his fingers brush mine, my heart rate spikes and my mouth dries up. We're on the kombucha course, with only two dessert courses to follow and I decide I can't wait any longer. I open my mouth to break up with him, but he's faster than me.

  “I've been thinking about your Sub-for-Santa conundrum, and how your ex-boyfriend is essentially shutting you down.”

  “It's not actually—”

  He holds up one hand. “Hear me out. I think you need to go over his head. This guy's not doing his job, and you need to tell his boss.”

  “He may also just be distracted, or possibly sick of having me in his office.” I think about Jessica last night, her sneer, and how she knew my name. Maybe it's not even Foster who's the real impetus.

  “Whatever the reason, if you love this program, don't let it go without a fight.”

  I shake my head. “I can't fight it, Luke. I don't have the funds, and after I start my new job, I won't have the time, either.”

  “It's all a matter of delegation. If you can get things rolling, I bet you can find volunteers to help out.”

  I sigh heavily. “I'd need a miracle.”

  “So go ask Foster for his help. Unless he's a real monster.”

  “Nah, he's a decent guy.”

  “Why did you two end things, if you don't mind me asking.”

  I need to just break up with Luke. I don't want to have to go into all of this, moments before I dump him. It's a waste, but maybe Luke needs to know.

  “He wanted kids,” I say flatly. “I don't.”

  “That was it?” Luke's eyebrows rise. “And neither of you would budge?”

  I press my lips together. “Guess not. Although, now he's getting married in like a few days, and I ran into his fiancé at our girls’ night. She was really, really drunk.”

  Luke tsks. “Never great to be too smashed, but if it was her bachelorette party, I think she gets a pass.”

  “You don't understand,” I whisper. I have no idea why it's so hard for me to say this, but it is. “Foster told me she's pregnant, and that's why he proposed so fast. They only met a few months ago.”

  “And she was drunk?” He leans back in his chair. “That's not good. In fact—”

  I nod slowly. “I told her as much. I warned her about Fetal Alcohol Syndrome and the damage it can cause, which is when she told me she isn't pregnant.”

  Luke whistles in disbelief.

  “I don't know if that means she made it up so Foster would propose, or whether she's lost the baby. I wonder if I should say anything to Foster.”

  “Absolutely not,” Luke says.

  A waiter shows up at our side, and looks pointedly at Luke. “Sir? Did you need something?”

  “What?” Luke glances at me and then back to the waiter. “Oh, because I whistled? Sorry, wasn't calling for you. I was surprised by something, is all.”

  The waiter gives a little half bow and takes our glasses. He glances down at mine. “You didn't enjoy the Kombucha?” he asks me.

  “I don't drink alcohol,” I say.

  “It barely qualifies,” the waiter insists.

  I stare at him calmly. “I appreciate your opinion, but for me, barely is more than enough. Thanks.”

  “You weren't kidding when you said you don't drink, huh?” Luke asks.

  I shake my head. “I'll never drink.”

  “Just like you never want kids?”

  “Or we could talk about how you won't get your daughter a dog. We all have our lines in the sand.”

  Luke frowns. “Dogs aren't the same as kids.”

  “No, they aren't. And drinking too much alcohol isn't the same as moving every few months, either. But both could damage a child, leaving them unable to form proper relationships.”

  The corners of Luke's mouth turn down. “What are you saying? That I'm as bad as an alcoholic father, because my job takes m
e from place to place?”

  “How long have you been moving, Luke? Your entire professional life?”

  “What does that have to do with anything?” he asks.

  “I know you didn't move like this for your entire career. In fact, I'd hazard a guess you've been moving for four years, give or take.”

  Luke crumples his linen napkin in his hand. “Who told you that?”

  I smooth my napkin flat on the table, trying to exude calm. “Amy. She said you've been moving since her mother died.”

  If I'd known how wounded Luke would look, I'd have kept my mouth shut. “Do you have any idea what it feels like, to have an epic love, to meet your perfect match, and then to watch her die doing the one thing you both wanted? Trying to grow your family?”

  Luke looks away from me, away from anything, and he struggles to regain his composure. “Of course you don't,” he whispers. “You'll never understand because you don't even want a family.”

  The waiter approaches, oblivious, with two plates and places them in front of us. “White chocolate tart, with hibiscus infusion and ginger reduction.”

  Luke nods at him stiffly and he walks away.

  “I'm sorry I brought it up, Luke, but Amy told me all she wanted for Christmas was a puppy. I told her that seemed unlikely. She said if she can't have a puppy, she wants to live somewhere in a house with no wheels. She wants to make friends, and keep them.”

  I don't mention her asking me to be her mom.

  Luke practically bites each word off as he speaks. “Amy is fine. She has a father who loves her, a brother, and all the finest tutors. Frankly, I'm teaching her a valuable life skill, how to build new friendships quickly.”

  I clear my throat. “Which is all fine. You're her dad, and I'm sure you know best. I bet you'll make sure she has an excellent education, even if it's from tutors in a trailer. I'm sorry I interfered.”

  Luke's eyes snap when he meets mine. “What would you have me do, Mary? Call and back out of my job? Stay here instead?”

  My lips part in surprise. “No, I'd never dream of telling you what to do. I'm sorry I even brought it up.”