Stay With Me (22 page)

Monday morning came again, and her giant rose
bouquet still filled most of her cubicle although some of the blooms had begun
to brown and droop.

She hadn’t been at her desk more than five minutes
when her phone buzzed in her purse. She used to reach for it right away,
expecting a short but sweet text message from Chris. “Thinking of you,” “Can’t
wait for tonight,” or a simple “I love you.” She had ignored the messages since
their breakup. In a couple of days they’d stopped, and except for an occasional
message from Abby with something like, “Help! These little people are killing
me,” her phone had been silent. It was kind of early for a message from Abby,
but who else could it be?

She swiped across the phone and glanced at the
screen. Her breath froze.

A message from Chris read simply, “Take as long as
you need. I will wait.” She opened the attached file in her music app, tapped
“play,” and a song called “I Will Wait” blasted.

Marcus’s head popped above the cubicle, a scowl on
his face.

She quickly turned down the volume. “Sorry,
Marcus.” Like the near-constant noise coming from his side of the prefab wall
didn’t disturb her.

Marcus made a snarling noise and disappeared again.

Rebecca read the artist’s name, which appeared directly
below the song title, but she couldn’t resist. She texted back, “Dave
Matthews?”

A minute or more after she’d played back the song
twice, the response came. “Mumford & Sons.” A few seconds more, and another
message followed.

“You’re the one. I know it as sure as I know the
sun rises in the east and sets in the west. I will wait.”

The tightness in her chest or the inevitable
tears—which was worse? At least no one could see the chest pain. She’d had
enough of displaying her dysfunction for the whole world. She couldn’t think
about this now. Not at work. She’d think about Chris’s text and what Father
John had said later.

***

Another week passed. “Later” hadn’t arrived, but
Labor Day Weekend did. There were no cookouts or picnics nor anything else on
Rebecca’s social calendar. She’d spend the last Sunday night of summer having
her own personal Hitchcock movie fest.

She paused “Vertigo” and set the remote control on
the couch’s armrest. She headed for the kitchen, dragging her soft, cotton
blanket with her. It fell to the floor as she lifted her arms to find the ice
cream carton in the rear of her freezer. Rebecca grabbed a spoon from the
drawer and bumped it closed with her hip. Clutching her ice cream and spoon in
one hand, she scooped up her blanket with the other and headed back to the
couch.

Only five minutes further into the movie, her cell
phone ringtone sounded. “I Will Wait,” was a masochistic choice, but she’d
grown to like the song and, she had to admit, the idea behind it. The notion
that Chris loved her enough to wait until she worked through her issues gave
her hope. Pausing the movie again, she reached for the phone and wondered who
would call her after ten o’clock at night. She didn’t recognize the number.

“Hi. This is Rebecca.”

“Rebecca, don’t hang up.”

She knew that voice. Using her legs, she pushed the
blanket onto the couch, dropped the carton of ice cream onto the coffee table,
and stood. She paced around the room vacillating between hanging up and
listening to what Chris had to say.

“I just wanted to hear your voice. I knew if you
saw my number on the caller I.D. you wouldn’t answer, so I borrowed someone’s
phone.”

A loud clatter in the background melded with
laughter and what sounded like banging pots. A shrill voice whined above the
ambient noise. “Chris Reynolds, you get back here. I won fair and square. And
bring my phone.”

She knew
that
voice, too. Megan. Three
sheets to the wind again, or so it sounded. She could imagine her falling all
over Chris. The thought of it turned Rebecca’s ice cream-laden stomach. Oh
well. Chris was a big boy. He’d fended off Megan before. He could do it
again—if he wanted.

“Sorry. It’s getting a little loud. I’ll step
outside.”

The background noise faded and the line grew quiet.

“Where are you?” Rebecca asked.

“My parents’ place for Alan and Jamie’s First
Annual End-of-Summer Barbecue and Pool Party. My parents are out of town, and
they said Alan could host the party here. They’re throwing quite a bash. I’m
glad I’m not on cleanup duty.”

A pool party. Rebecca’s mind conjured an image of
Megan lounging in a string bikini by his parents’ pool. Maybe in her naiveté
Rebecca had overlooked an unwritten rule about poolside kisses, too. Maybe a
kiss tonight would earn Megan that place between Chris’s sheets that she
coveted.

Rebecca dug her fingertips into her brow. That
wasn’t fair, and she knew it. Chris didn’t sleep around.

The silence lingered between them, and then his
voice came across the line, barely above a whisper. “I wish you were here.”

Rebecca’s eyes filled with tears, and the lump in
her throat grew. He sounded sincere, but she could imagine the party atmosphere
at his parents’ place. She remembered all the free-flowing alcohol at the
wedding. Steeling her heart, she dismissed the call for what it was—a
sentimental moment brought on by too much booze.

“This isn’t a drunk dial, if that’s what you’re
thinking. I’ve been getting over some kind of virus, and the strongest drink
I’ve had tonight is Coca-Cola.”

Could he read her mind?

“I guess I shouldn’t have called. Maybe it’s the
change of seasons and all, but I had a lot of hopes for what the coming year
would look like for us, and I’m having a hard time letting go of them.”

Rebecca had hopes, too. Ridiculous, fantastical
hopes that would never be. Hopes that involved diamonds, a gown with a fabulous
train, satin sheets, sleepless nights, the soft glow of a Noah’s ark nursery
lamp, and a minivan full of blue-eyed children. If she tried to speak, her
voice would break.

“I’ll let you go. It’s late, and I’m sure you want
to get back to whatever you were doing.” His voice didn’t sound so steady
itself, and when it got quiet, she thought he had ended the call. She pulled
the phone away from her ear and was about to hit “end” when he said, “Rebecca,
I still love you.”

With an unsteady finger, Rebecca pushed the end
button and ran her wrist across her mouth, trying to stifle a gasp. She sank
back onto the couch, wrapped her arms around her knees, and huddled under her
blanket. Then she let the tears come.

She shut the TV and DVD player off and dragged
herself to bed, where she stared at the ceiling for forty-five minutes. Had she
made a mistake breaking things off with Chris? What was the fruit of that
decision? Chris didn’t sound any happier than she was. The roses, the calls,
and the messages all proved he wanted her back. She wanted him back, too—more
than she wanted to admit.

“Later” finally came the next morning, and it
stayed all week.

It’s all just dragging me down,
God. Mom leaving, Dad being the way he is, even what happened at Bible camp.
And I can’t move forward. I’m stuck.

 Oh, He already knew all of it, but she had to say
it just the same. And then she listened like she’d never listened before. She
recognized that she had sabotaged things with Chris on purpose. Her ridiculous
attempt to seduce him was meant to drive a wedge between them. It didn’t matter
whether she accomplished her goal; it would—and did—drive them apart.

At the end of the week she saw no sign, no message,
no bolt of lightning or writing in the sky. There was something better—a peace
she hadn’t known since she was a little girl and an unflagging confidence in
what she needed to do.

18

So Much To Say

On Sunday, a full week after the call from Chris,
Rebecca baked a peace offering. She called Chris and left a message three
times, then texted him twice. When she hadn’t heard from him by late afternoon,
she resorted to doing a drive-by. His motorcycle wasn’t at his apartment, so
she drove by his parents’ house. His motorcycle wasn’t there either, but Alan
spotted her as he slammed the door closed on his car. She caught a glimpse of
Jamie as the storm door swung shut behind her.

She pulled into the driveway, parked her car, and
took a breath. She wanted to speak to Chris, not Alan, but maybe Alan could
help her find him.

“Rebecca, this is a surprise.” There wasn’t a bit
of snark in his comment and for that she was grateful.

“Hi, Alan. I’m looking for Chris. I’ve been calling
and texting him all day, and I haven’t heard anything back.”

“He went to Shenandoah for the weekend.”

That explained it. He probably had no cell phone
reception. Maybe he hadn’t gotten her messages.

“He has to work tomorrow, though, so I’m sure he’ll
be home soon. Whether he’ll come here or not, I don’t know. Ordinarily I’d say
he would, but he hasn’t been in the mood for company lately.”

Rebecca nodded and focused on the pavement,
humbled. Alan probably knew everything, too. “I understand.”

“He’s probably going to end up like one of those
mountain men, killing his dinner and growing a long, scraggly beard.”

She squinted her left eye and tried to imagine
Chris with a big ol’ Duck Dynasty beard. She had never seen him anything but
clean shaven. Not with more than one night’s stubble. “Really?”

Alan looked at the cloudless sky, thinking. “No.
He’s never been patient enough to get past the itchy stage.” He offered her a
smile then jammed his hands into his pockets and took a few steps toward her,
lowering his voice. “I don’t want to butt into my brother’s business, but I
thought you weren’t seeing each other anymore.”

“No, we haven’t been.” Rebecca twisted her hands in
front of her. “I really need to speak to him, though. I want to apologize for
some things.”

“Would you do me a favor?”

She nodded. “Sure.”

Alan’s gaze met hers, and no trace of levity marked
his face or his stance. He meant business. “Be straight with him. He would hate
me for saying this, but he’s insanely idealistic and romantic.” Alan set his
mouth in a grim line, and he paused as if he were measuring his words carefully.
“I saw my brother cry for the first time since we were kids. He’s not taking
this well. Hence the road trip.” He paused again for a second and sighed before
he continued. “He’s a good guy. Better than most. He’s in love with you, and he
doesn’t deserve to be strung along.”

“I understand. I’m so sorry I’ve hurt him.” Sorry
didn’t even cover it. Hearing how he was hurting scorched her insides, caused
her chest to ache, and stung her eyes with tears she refused to spill in front
of Alan. Alan was a good guy, too, and he obviously had his brother’s back. She
didn’t deserve the decency he treated her with now, not blaming or accusing
when he knew she’d inflicted such pain on Chris.

She gave Alan a final nod and turned to walk back
to her car. By the time she had slid behind the steering wheel, he had gone
into the house. Rebecca let loose the fresh tears she’d been holding back. What
if she had screwed things up beyond repair? What if Chris decided he didn’t
want her back? Could she blame him?

After a minute, she grabbed a tissue from her
purse, dabbed her already puffy eyes, then put the car into reverse. As she
looked behind her and released her foot from the brake, the familiar rumble of
a motorcycle grew louder and then came to a stop as Chris’s Harley pulled in
alongside her. She put the car back into park and hung onto the steering wheel,
breathing deeply.

At first Chris didn’t acknowledge her. He parked
the bike, removed his helmet, and ran his hand through his hair. Such a simple,
familiar motion, but it set Rebecca’s heart racing. He placed the helmet on the
rear of his bike and then taking a step toward her car, he bent down and
knocked on her passenger-side window with his gloved hand. After a second, he
opened the door and slid in.

“Looking for me, I presume? I can’t imagine what
there is left to say. You’ve made it clear you’re through with me.” The
humorless tone was so unlike him.

“There’s plenty to say…if you’ll let me.”

“Go ahead.”

Please, Lord, give me the words.
“First, thank you for
the beautiful roses. They were perfect, and every woman in the office envied
me.”

“You’re welcome.”

He still seemed so cold, so distant.

“Second—I’m sorry. I let all my own insecurities
and everyone else’s opinions get the best of me. Everyone’s but yours, anyway.
You’ve been nothing but good to me and good for me, and I was careless with you
and your feelings.” Her heart pumped wildly, afraid of how he might answer her
question. “Can you find it in your heart to forgive me?”

“Yes.”

She blinked. It shouldn’t be that easy. “That’s it?
Yes? Just like that?”

“Just like that.” Finally she saw a hint of a
smile.

“You don’t even want to tell me how horrible I was
to you?”

“Nope.” He shrugged. “It sounds like you already
know.” He tugged off his gloves one finger at a time and laid them in his lap.
“I went away to get some perspective. The road and being outdoors do that for
me. I had a lot of time to think and to pray, and I had already decided that I
would forgive you whether you asked me to or not. Am I still hurt? Yes. Am I a
little angry? Definitely. But those feelings are nothing compared to the love I
have for you. Four weeks, four months, four years can’t change the way I feel
about you.”

“But I hurt you—really hurt you.” Couldn’t he yell
at her? Sting her with a biting remark?

“I’m not going to argue with you. Ask Alan. I was a
wreck for a while. But I seem to recall you hurting, too, and instead of
letting me comfort you, you used the pain to push me away. To divide us. You
walked out on me—in a public place, I might add—and it wasn’t really about us.
Or even me. It was a bunch of boneheaded co-workers and the ghosts of every
person who ever dissed you. And I’m sure a healthy dose of daddy issues entered
into the mix, too.”

Rebecca stared out the windshield, not really
focusing on anything. He had forgiven her, he still loved her, but did he want
her back?

“Do you…do you still want to see me?” A few tense
seconds passed in which Rebecca felt as if her whole life were hanging in the
balance, and, in fact, it was.

“I’m seeing you right now.” He smiled so big his
dimple showed. He was playing with her—definitely a good sign.

“You know what I mean.”

“I think you know what I mean, too.”

She did. She sunk back into her seat and felt her
heartbeat start to slow. Before she had a chance to gush about her gratitude
and happiness, he opened the door and stepped out of the car.

He leaned back in and said, “I want to go in and
let my parents know I got back okay. Then, do you want to take a little ride
with me? Go someplace we can talk?”

“Sure. My helmet’s still in the back.”

His eyes darted to her back seat, and he sniffed a
couple of times. “Your car smells like gingerbread.”

“It’s a cake.” She had baked it as a peace
offering, but now she feared he would think she was trying to buy back his love
with food. His smile let her know he hadn’t taken it the wrong way.

“Sweet. I’m starving. I’ll be right back.”

Chris drove them to the battlefield. His knowledge
of its topography and history impressed Rebecca. No matter how many times she’d
been there, she’d get all balled up not knowing which way to the Peach Orchard,
Devil’s Den, or anything else. The narrow, one-way lanes always made her feel
like a rat in a maze. Chris knew every entrance and exit, where the major
monuments were located, which roads went which directions, and where you could
find a quiet spot away from all the tourists. That’s where he took her. They
sat in the high grass beneath a smallish monument topped by an eagle, frozen in
its majesty, and spent the next two hours mending their hearts.

The late summer moon loomed large and orange over
the horizon. Wisps of smoky clouds floated above and beneath the giant,
luminous orb. Crickets and katydids hummed and chirped from the thickets and
trees, their chorus lending a soothing undercurrent to the heartfelt whispers
and professions that passed between them like a zephyr snaking a path through
the wild grasses and sedges.

Rebecca plucked a long blade of grass from the hard
earth and slid her fingers up its length. The sharp edge caught the tender skin
of her fingertip, and it bled. She pressed her finger to her lips, and the pain
subsided. She didn’t think she’d ever forget the aching, bone-deep hurt she’d
felt since she’d walked out on Chris. In some ways, she didn’t want to. He was
a precious gift to her, and she never wanted to take him for granted.

She had feared that even if they reconciled, that
hurt would never fully heal; it would fester beneath the surface. But when they
climbed back onto his bike and she wrapped her arms around his waist, she
realized the fissure was already being soothed and filled, that love was
spilling into all the brittle cracks and crevices that the pain had etched.
Love really did cover all offenses. It was okay.
They
would be okay.

She would have been elated save for one thing—he
hadn’t touched her yet. His hand never held hers, his thumb never caressed the
back of her hand. His fingers never dug into her hair or stroked her cheek.
There was no tickling. No playful swats to her backside. His hands never grazed
her arms. And his lips—they never touched hers.

***

In addition to their sporadic texts throughout the
day, Rebecca looked forward to Chris’s call every evening, and they spent hours
catching each other up on their lives. She told him about Ian’s latest feats
and the fudge recipe she perfected. He talked about the scratch brew they were
bottling and the used car he had bought. By the end of the work week, they had
re-established their rapport, and when Rebecca invited him for dinner at her
apartment on Saturday, he readily accepted.

After they had eaten, Chris took their dirty plates
to the counter. She smiled as he eyed the decadent-looking chocolate cake she
left cooling on a metal rack.

“You’ve been holding out on me. You’re as good a
cook as you are a baker.” He looked again at the cake. “Alan is so jealous.”

“I don’t know about that. Are you sure Alan doesn’t
hate me?” She stood and gathered the remaining silverware from the table.

“Hate you? Why would Alan hate you?” Chris ran some
water in her sink and turned his back to it, leaning against the counter.

“Because of how I hurt you.” Despite the assurances
of Chris’s forgiveness, Rebecca had a hard time forgiving herself. Her
ridiculous behavior led, in the end, to many good things—her restored faith and
their reconciliation being the most important. Still, it shamed her.

“If I don’t hate you for that — and I don’t — then
I can’t see how he could.” He turned and squirted dishwashing detergent into
the sink, then shut off the water.

She set the utensils in the sink, shook out the
damp dishrag, and laid it over the ridge between the basins. She stood
motionless, watching the suds pop and struggling to overcome the embarrassment
she still felt when she thought of Alan or Father John.

Chris gently held her by the arms and pulled her in
front of him. Finally, he touched her, and his eyes filled with compassion. She
feared she might collapse as if she were a fragile, nineteenth century damsel
or do something equally embarrassing. His eyes staring into hers kept her
grounded.

 “Thank you,” he said, his voice soft and tender.

“For what?” It was no more than a breath. Her
ability to converse had an inverse relation to his nearness.

“Dinner, dessert. This night. We needed this. We
need to reconnect. Emotionally.” He traced the frame of her face with his index
finger, his skin barely grazing hers. “Physically.” Her heart thudded to a dead
stop. At least that’s how it felt. His lips were not more than a hair from hers
when she said, “Chris.” Only one word spilled over the dam, but a reservoir of
worry swelled behind it.

“Trust me,” he said against her lips before he
silenced her. His kiss transported her back to Alan and Jamie’s wedding, to the
first time she’d tasted his lips. He’d been assured and confident, a stark
contrast to how she’d felt—uncertain and hesitant.

Every bit as sweet, this kiss held no trace of that
uncertainty. For whatever reason he had withheld his touch until this moment,
and it gladdened her because everything about this felt right. Emboldened, she
reached for him, gripping his shoulders as if her life depended on it.