Sway (32 page)

I want to tell her I’ll do anything she wants. That I’ll stay with her forever. That we’ll listen to music in this gym, dance in my office, get married and have babies, and that life will be perfect, but I can’t. I fully intend to one day, but I can’t now. Instead, I simply answer, trying my best to keep my voice casual.

“Sure. What do you need?”

I look over at her, and she tells me.

Right then, casual goes by the wayside and everything inside me cracks—all the edges and sharp angles and hardened insides that have made me
me
since my mother died seventeen years ago. I’m melted; a pliable, liquefied version of the person who’s lived inside me for so long. I can’t believe the transformation hasn’t happened before now, but it hasn’t, like life was waiting for this moment, this exact time to really change me.

And I do what she asks.

“You really want to know?” I can hear the hope in my voice, the barely-controlled elation that comes through the words.

She smiles at me, the most beautiful smile I’ve ever seen. “I do.”

And under a Christmas tree that’s showing the wear of two-dozen excited kids…in a gym that smells strongly of antiseptic and the leftover remnants of beef tenderloin…at midnight on Christmas morning, a Tuesday morning that’s barely just begun and will forever seal Tuesdays in my mind as the best day of the week…

I sit beside a princess and tell her about a King.

Caleb

“Jesus in the Southern Sky”

—Sleeping With Sirens

Two months later

I
barely remember the nightmares, because they stopped abruptly almost eight weeks ago. It’s almost as if on the night Kate walked into that gym, my former life ceased to exist and a new one slipped into its place. The dreams left. The loneliness fled. Even Starbucks runs have turned into something I enjoy. Kate likes Starbucks, so I try to swing by there a couple of times a week just to see her smile when I hand her a Grande soy caramel latte, hold the whip.

I can’t believe she drinks that crap, but whatever.

Some might wonder why all this change didn’t happen on the day I found God, but I don’t question the reason. It’s not up to me. As they say, God works in mysterious ways—a corny expression, but it turns out that sometimes it’s appropriate.

Though you’ll never hear me use that phrase, not on your life.

Today is Valentines’ Day, but Kate isn’t here. She’s spending the morning with her parents while I finish up some work, though I use the word
work
in the loosest of terms. So far this morning, I’ve written a letter to Ben—he’s moved in with his new family and all reports point to the fact that he’s incredibly happy. I’ve straightened the stack of albums on my office floor, sent a few emails, counseled a troubled sixteen-year-old girl new to our church who’s currently struggling with a relationship that’s become too physical. And spent five minutes talking with Mrs. O’Hare.

I would give my right arm and both eyeballs to undo
that
conversation.

The woman has
got
to find a filter, but she’s seventy. I have a feeling her personal one went missing on the day the Vietnam War started. Like she lost it somewhere in the pile of all the protest signs she and her friends hand-made in her parent’s garage—which they did, because she’s told me all about it at least a dozen times this year alone.

Still, I’d rather hear that story all over again than the one I just heard about her husband wearing leather pants and an open-collared puffy shirt and shaking his thing all over the salsa dance floor. I guess it’s not my eyeballs I need to relinquish, after all. It’s my ears.

I push in my desk drawer and stand, finished with the day and ready to leave. In an hour I’ll pick up Kate, and just thinking about it has my heart pounding. I can’t wait to see her. More than that, I can’t wait to give her my latest gift. She’ll be surprised. She might even be angry. She’ll definitely cry. And I’m prepared for all of it.

I fist my keys and walk out the door.

*

“So what’s the big secret?” she asks a few hours later. We’re sitting in a booth at the back of the room, practically pressed against the wall because the restaurant is so crowded. For the dozenth time tonight, I thank God that I remembered to make a reservation. The stacks and stacks of people waiting in the lobby is just sad—the poor guys standing in rumpled shirts next to annoyed dates even sadder.

Clearly none of them are going to make out with their girls tonight. Not like me. I smile to myself just thinking about it.

“Caleb.”

“What?” I blink, feeling like I’ve been caught doing something wrong. Which I haven’t. Yet.

“What’s the big secret?” She sets her fork down and leans on her elbows.

I pick up my glass and take a sip of water to bide time. “There’s no secret.”

“You’re a terrible liar. There’s a secret. Now tell me what it is.” She plays with the blade of her knife. I’m pretty sure this is an innocent gesture, though it’s just as likely to be a not-so-subtle threat. Good thing I’m my own man and don’t give in to girlfriend pressure.

“Okay, I got you a gift.”

I’m a wimp. A whipped, pathetic wimp.

As I expected, her eyes narrow. “We said we weren’t buying each other gifts. You promised. What kind of man goes back on a promise?” She wraps her hand around the knife. I resist the urge to flinch. And then I tell myself to suck it up and be a man.

“Oh, put the knife down, Killer. I didn’t pay anything for it, so it doesn’t count.” I catch my smile at the way her face falls. For all her fake-outrage, she’s upset that it didn’t cost money. “You’ll like it, though,” I add with a shrug. “You’ll love it, in fact.”

The smile returns as her palms go up and stretch toward me like a kid at a birthday party. “Then give it to me. I love gifts.” Just as quickly her excitement fades again, and she frowns. “It’s isn’t something pink, is it? Like a purse or a robe or, God-forbid, a dress?”

I laugh, taking in the red dress she’s wearing that clings to her in all the right places. Nothing is showing that shouldn’t be, which somehow makes it even hotter. I focus on her eyes, where my gaze should remain. It takes some effort, but I manage.

“It isn’t pink. It’ll
never
be pink.”

She sighs in relief. “Thank goodness. Then hand it over.”

Taking my time so that I don’t miss the look on her face, I slowly pull my gift out from under the table and place it in her hands. She gives a little gasp, knowing what it is without tearing a single strip of paper away. Eyes the size of saucers stare back at me. “Caleb, you need this. You can’t give it to me, I won’t take it.” She gives the gift a little shove in my direction, but I’m stronger and push back. And then I lean back in my chair and tilt my head in appreciation.

“Well, as a matter of fact, it turns out I don’t need it after all. And if you don’t take it, I’ll never speak to you again.” It’s an empty promise, kind of like my promise not to give her a gift, and she knows it.

“You call me every hour of the day, and if you don’t, I call you, so we both know that isn’t true,” she says. Curiosity wins out and she pulls back a corner of the paper, tears a smooth strip off the front. The image of Bob Dylan’s brown suede jacket appears from shoulder to hem. Through the remaining wrapping paper, she fingers the edge of the album she willingly gave to me three months ago—the kindest gesture, the nicest thing anyone has done for me ever or since—and she smiles. I see the tears even before she looks up at me. “Why don’t you need it? Without state funding, how will you pay for meals and transportation and electricity and—”

I place my hand over hers to stop her. She’s felt guilty since the ruling came down last month, but it’s time for her to stop. That lawsuit is no more her fault than it is mine, and besides, some good has come from it. More good than she knows. More good than even I understand.

“I don’t need it because from the moment we lost, private donations have been pouring in. All the free press didn’t hurt. We have more than we need to operate for the next year, so don’t worry,” I explain. “The album is yours. I love you for giving it to me, but I don’t want it back.”

Her look goes soft. “I’ll keep it, but if the donations ever stop then I want you to ask me for it again.”

I lace my fingers through hers and tug on her arm. She knows what I want, and without a hint of embarrassment, she comes around the table to sit on my lap. She fits perfectly inside my arms, and I could sit this way forever. “The donations won’t stop. I have no doubt in my mind that we will have everything we need without having to use any of your albums. But thank you. It meant everything to know you would give something like this up for me.”

She threads a hand through my hair and leaves it on the back of my neck, then presses her forehead to mine. “I’d do anything for you, because I love you, Caleb. I hope you know that.”

I do, and I tell her so. I tell her something else, too. Something I’ve been wanting to say since she walked into that bar wearing that tacky pink coat almost three months ago today. “Someday soon, I’m going to ask you to marry me. Be prepared to say yes, because I’m not taking no for an answer.”

She raises an eyebrow in a challenge, but I see the hope behind it. “Then you’d better hurry before I change my mind and dump you for someone better.” Her words are soft, breathless. Her lips are so close, and I can’t take another second. Maybe we shouldn’t kiss so publicaly in a restaurant, but it’s Valentine’s Day. It’s expected. At least that’s how I justify it.

When we break apart, she rests her head on my shoulder and traces the outline of my tattoo. The eagle means something to her now; like me, it’s now her favorite verse.

“Sometimes I still can’t believe we’re together like this. Why do you think it happened, Caleb? Why do you think you rescued me from that guy at the bar? Sometimes I wonder if it was just a coincidence, or if the whole thing was designed by God Himself to bring us together.”

I smile into her ear, press my lips to her hairline. “It was God, definitely, but I can’t tell you why,” I whisper. “The only thing I know for sure is that sometimes He works in mysterious ways.”

Turns out I use that phrase after all.

*

I drove to Tulsa without telling anyone why. Scott knew I was leaving for the afternoon, but he thinks I came to see Ben. Which I did. Sort of.

I saw Ben and took him for ice cream, but I returned him to his parents after only an hour with a promise to come back next month. Although he gave me a condition: If I didn’t bring the pretty lady, he wouldn’t answer the front door. So I guess next time I’ll bring Kate. Next time, I’ll stay longer. Today, I didn’t have time.

Thinking only of the hour and the fact that I’m a couple of minutes late, I pull into a lot across the street and park the car. I’ll have to fight traffic at the crosswalk, which might put me there at the end, but I want to stay inconspicuous. It isn’t that I’m ashamed; it’s that I’m uncomfortable. But sometimes our comfort level needs to be stretched, as I’ve found out these past few months. Sometimes, it’s the only way to make peace and effect real change.

Plus, even though I have my suspicions, I have to know for sure.

The crowd gets louder as I approach. Once I’m at the edge of it, I stop, wanting to stay behind the camera lenses and protest signs, behind the spectators and what has the potential to turn into a circus if I’m spotted. The media would have a field day with this, but all I want is a minute.

All I need is a minute.

His wife stands next to him as he delivers the last part of his speech, the part where
Kathy
would come up and add to everything he’s just said. Except Kathy is no more. Only Kate exists now, though she’s occasionally referred to as Princess by me.

Even the fliers have changed. I reach for one off the back table and study the yellow paper. Kathy’s image has been replaced with the smiling faces of Mr. and Mrs. Hawkins; forever a team, forever bound by a cause I’m praying will fade with time. Not the entire movement, of course Just their involvement with it. It’s the one thing that keeps Kate unsettled. The one thing that keeps her from being completely, without a doubt happy.