The Friend Game (Games for Two #1)

Chapter 22

I SHOW UP on extra early on the first day back from break ready to put my plan into action. I haven’t told Luke the truth yet, but that’s only because I think this conversation needs to be done in person. Which is a bit tricky considering we’re trying to not be alone together. Still, I’ve decided I’m going to do it before school today. In my classroom. With the door closed so no one overhears. But also with six feet between us, so if anyone did happen upon us alone, our interaction would look purely friendly.

Plus, as an added bonus, six feet of distance supposedly helps stop the spread of air-borne illnesses.

As does not kissing one another.

So, at least there’s that positive.

Anyway, I’ve sent him a very professional email requesting his presence to discuss something with the art show, so it’s all quite above board .

Also I prepared another speech because it's actually quite addicting, speech-writing. If I hadn’t just determined that my calling is teaching art I’d say that I missed my calling as an orator. But anyway…My basic plan is thus: tell Luke that I don’t have the teacher certification the board requires, but then, rather than letting him feel compelled to tell the board, I’m going to tell them. That’s right. I’m going to tell the board the truth. And then I’m going to go back to Jill’s original plan and ask them to let me keep my position based on a whole list of my qualifications. Plus I’ll add the stipulation that if they let me keep the job, I’ll take classes working toward obtaining my teacher certification.

It’s a pretty good plan, I think.

And the best part is, I’ve already submitted Caroline’s drawing. I sent an email to the director of the Desert Sunrise exhibit asking if, given some complicated extenuating circumstances, they might consider accepting some of our submissions early and lo and behold they said yes!

So overall I’m feeling pretty positive and upbeat when I walk into my classroom Monday morning. A feeling that quickly disappears when I spot the man sitting at my desk, poking around in my drawers like he owns the place. I’m so shocked to see him I drop the box of random items I brought for the kids to use as paintbrushes. Forks, sponges, corks, feathers, and more go rolling across the floor, but I ignore them all as I gape at Marshall.

My ex.

The man who destroyed my confidence on both a personal and artistic level.

The man who took away my self-worth and turned me into something cheap and easy to discard.

The man we don’t talk about.

But now he’s here. In my classroom.

And there are forks on the floor and a bright orange feather is stuck to my tights.

Not to mention Luke is supposed to be here in ten minutes. What if he comes early?

Cold fear grips me at the thought.

I need to say something instead of just standing here in my pile of random upcycled items. Maybe open with, you need to leave . Keep things simple.

But of course—both because I’m me, and, because, as mentioned, this man stole my confidence—what I actually say is, “Marshall. What are you doing here?”

Those are not exactly fighting words.

Marshall stops rummaging in my drawers and grins cockily at me. I fight the basic human instinct to smile back. He doesn’t get my smile. Nope.

“I came to see you, of course,” he replies. “We have some things to discuss. ”

“We have nothing to discuss.” There, that was good. Would’ve been better if I hadn’t just caught sight of a red feather stuck to my chest. Surreptitiously I try to brush it away.

No luck. Darn static cling.

“On the contrary,” he says in his self-assured, I-run-the-world voice. The one I used to practically faint over. “We have much to discuss. If not here, then perhaps at dinner. I’d love to take you out.”

We have much to discuss, I mimic his formal speech in my head. Not to be mean, but to keep my guard in place. Marshall was always a very smooth operator. He managed to lie to me for almost six months. I can’t let him get even the slimmest foothold on my emotions. I may be working on forgiving him in the name of Jesus, but that doesn’t mean I want him anywhere near my life.

“I don’t think so,” I reply.

“Hannah,” he sighs, “please don’t be so overdramatic.”

“Overdramatic?” I repeat dubiously. “I’m not being overdramatic.” And I’m not. No matter how he wants to spin the situation; I may be freaking out on the inside, but externally I am the picture of calm. It’s like my therapist said, don’t let the people in your life gaslight you. If the reality of the situation doesn’t line up to what they’re saying, take ownership of the truth. Hold it close and don’t let go .

Okay, fine. That wasn’t my therapist. But I totally would’ve gone to therapy after our breakup—if I could have afforded it. But I couldn’t. So instead I got a book from the library about gaslighting in relationships.

Well. I read an Instagram post on the subject, anyway.

So I’m basically an expert.

“It’s not overdramatic to not want to talk to an ex-boyfriend who you broke up with because you found out that,” I lower my voice, barely able to say the words out loud, “he was engaged .”

“Engaged isn’t married.”

“You were in a serious relationship with someone else, Marshall,” I hiss back. “Because of your lies I was the other woman. I am not a cheater, Marshall.”

“Oh right,” for the first time his calm veneer cracks, his voice turning mocking as his lips dip into a sneer “because of your Christian values.”

“Not cheating on someone isn’t just a Christian value.” I can feel angry heat creeping up my neck as I speak; the memory of the day I found out the truth about Marshall rising like bile in my throat. “Furthermore, I’m proud of the Christian values I have. It’s a blessing to be able to live a life of obedience to God. I deserve none of the grace He has shown me, so my obedience to Him is a joyful expression of my gratitude. ”

Marshall looks unmoved.

Which is really no surprise. The first compromise I made with Marshall was agreeing to go out with him despite him not being a Christian. I let myself be drawn in by his natural magnetism, and, if I’m honest, by the flattery I felt that he, a successful art dealer ten years my senior, was interested in a nobody artist like me. And anyway, I reasoned at the time, I could always get him to convert. I was being missional dating him, dang it!

Famous last words.

“Hannah,” Marshall says impatiently, “I came in here to have an adult conversation about us and our future, but if you can’t even do that then maybe I should leave.”

“You should absolutely leave,” I agree, finally finding my backbone, “because I’m not interested in discussing any future that has you in it. We are over, Marshall. Over.”

His expression turns cold. Marshall has never liked being told what to do. He lives his life making whatever decisions he wants and expecting others to fall in line with it. And, naive and infatuated as I once was, for a long time I did. At least until I found out about Carmen. His live-in fiance?e.

That’s when I finally woke up and realized everything that was wrong in my relationship with Marshall. The power dynamics (namely that he held all the power), the constant need I felt to be perfect for him, and, above all else, the fact that he was engaged to be married in only a few short weeks–something he’d neglected to tell me during our six months together.

Oh the shame and guilt I felt when I found out the truth. All of these months later the memory of what happened pierces me afresh with shame. How could I not have realized it? Did I miss signs? Was I too busy basking in the sunshine effects that linking myself to such a prestigious art dealer brought me on a professional level?

Late at night, when I’m all alone with my thoughts, I can admit that it was this last one. That the sudden notoriety Marshall brought to my work simply by putting it in front of the right people, went straight to my head. So much so that it covered the multitude of signs that I missed at the time, but can identify in retrospect. The way he wanted to keep our relationship a secret for the first couple of months (at the time he claimed it was to protect me from looking like a woman using a men to further her career when my work so clearly merited attention all on its own…and yes, to my everlasting shame, I ate these words right up), the way he never invited me to his place (we only ever ate out or went to my apartment to hang out), the way he never took me with him to the fancy dinners and events he was always going to .

I should’ve suspected. Should’ve figured it out sooner.

But I was too busy enjoying my sudden success.

That’s why, up until recently with the kids, I’ve sworn off pottery. I don’t deserve to do the thing I love.

“Over? I see.” Marshall is studying me with calculating eyes. A shiver runs down my spine, like my body can sense the storm heading my way. “Need I remind you of what happened last time you ended things with me?”

And there it is. The threat. He ruined me once before, and now he’s back to do it again.

“Why?” I hate the desperation in my voice, the pathetic plea contained in just one word.

“I love you, Hannah. Isn’t that enough of a reason?”

“You don’t love me,” I whisper. “Love is sacrificial. It gives more than it takes and it views the other person as being of greater significance than oneself. No, what you love, Marshall, is having someone to control. But that’s not me anymore.” The words I’m saying are bold, but my hands are shaking and my heart is pumping so fast I’m actually worried I might blackout.

Marshall doesn’t respond. He simply holds my gaze until, despite my best intentions, I look away in defeat. Then he exits my classroom, and I collapse into the nearest chair, shaking. God, please help me. I send up a quick prayer as I sit there, thankful that He, at least, doesn’t hold my sins against me.

I only wish I didn’t continue to hold them against myself.

Luke is due to arrive any minute, so in a desperate attempt to pull myself together I put my head between my knees and start humming “I Will Survive.”

I’ve sang karaoke to this song more than my fair share of times at Brooke’s bar, so it peps me right up. Sometimes a girl needs a power ballad and Gloria Gaynor supplies it in spades. My humming switches to singing and I’m up off the chair in an instant, picking up feathers and corks and forks off the ground as I declare that I will survive.

Full disclosure, I get so lost in the lyrics that I forget about Luke’s impending arrival. Still, when he walks in I don’t flinch. He’s caught me mid-song so many times prior to this that I have decided to no longer be embarrassed.

This is who I am. I sing a lot. If he wants to date me in T-minus seven weeks, he’s going to have to learn to accept that.

Of course, my lack of embarrassment is replaced by a double dose of embarrassment when Lexie Stone walks in behind him. Her perfectly manicured eyebrows pop right up at the sight of me singing into a fork (both a fun paintbrush alternative and a perfect makeshift microphone) and my cheeks cycle through about fifty shades of red.

Immediately I stop singing and hop to my feet.

“Good morning, Pastor Abbott, Mrs. Stone,” I chirp, smoothing my hands down over my skirt and stabbing my leg with the fork in the process. I hold back a wince. “Um, sorry about the mess.” I gesture to the floor. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

Lexie frowns and glances over at Luke. “But I thought you two had a meeting about the art show.”

“Oh, yes.” I nod. “Yes, I was expecting Pastor Abbott, but not…you…” I trail off, feeling the force of my own awkwardness. “And I know you like things tidy,” I add stupidly. Luckily Lexi likes this assessment of herself.

“Yes, I do,” she agrees congenially.

“Here let me help you,” Luke offers, then he gets down on his hands and knees and starts helping me put my random array of items back in my box.

Why, oh, why does the man always have to be so swoony? Seriously, who knew a man holding feathers and corks could be so hot? If Lexie weren’t standing over us, you can bet I’d be angling for some surreptitious hand brushing. You know the type—his hand meeting mine as we both reach for the same sponge, our eyes meeting as electric sparks pass between us .

Wow. Where’s my paper fan when I need it? A fork may be a good microphone, but its air circulation capabilities are subpar.

“I ran into Lexie in the hallway as I was coming and she asked where I was headed,” Luke explains as he places the last of the items in the box, then helps me to my feet. His hand is warm around mine, and I have to repress a happy sigh from the contact. As usual, Lexie is really cramping my style.

“Yes, and when I heard that you needed to discuss the art show with him, I decided to come too,” Lexie supplies. “To be quite frank, Miss Garza, I’ve heard some rather upsetting rumors that you might be submitting a rudimentary drawing piece done by one of our scholarship students rather than one of the many exemplary pieces done by my Mia.” She lets out a disbelieving laugh. “And while I’m certain the rumors are just idle gossip, I felt duty bound to come and chat with you before any mistakes were made.”

Here’s the thing. I knew that at some point I would be coming face to face with Lexie in regards to this very matter, but I thought I had a little bit more time. And I definitely didn’t think I was going to have to take her on right after having an upsetting visit from Marshall—the man who sucks away my self-confidence just by walking into a room .

This is the hand I’ve been dealt, though, so I set my shoulders and paste on my most professional smile, giving myself a short mental pep talk consisting of a Gloria Gaynor/Bible verse mashup— I will survive, because I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me. Hey, hey— before opening my mouth.

“I really can’t discuss the submissions with parents, Mrs. Stone,” I tell her firmly. She is not deterred.

“Oh, I think you can make an exception,” she replies shrewdly. Her red fingernails come to rest on her slim hips, drumming a beat of warning.

“No exceptions.” I mean for the words to ring with finality, but they come out more like a question, and Lexie smiles like she knows she’s going to break me.

“Let’s not be unreasonable, Miss Garza. You know I have a much more involved role in this school, in the art program as a whole, than most parents. I don’t need you to tell me every one of the submission pieces, I’m simply asking for some assurance that Mia will have a spot in the show.”

“Oh, well, that I can give you,” I say brightly. “One of Mia’s pieces will be in the show.”

Lexie studies me, unsatisfied. “One of her drawing pieces,” she clarifies.

I’m silent .

Lexie opens her mouth to speak, but Luke interjects. “Perhaps we should save this conversation for another time,” he suggests. “Miss Garza has students due to arrive soon, and she and I still haven’t discussed whatever it is that she called me here for.”

“Oh yes,” Lexie transfers her gaze to him, “the two of you did have something to discuss. Don’t let me get in the way.” Her words hold an underlying threat that makes my stomach twist with anxiety. Does she know about us? Not that there’s anything to know. Luke and I have been very careful to keep things platonic between us. We are just friends.

Friends who have a date planned for seven weeks from now and talk on the phone most nights, but friends nonetheless.

“Actually,” I say quickly, sneaking a glance at the clock on the wall, “time seems to be running out. We’ll have to have our conversation another time or perhaps in an email. You know what they say, if it can be said in an email, skip the face to face.” I chortle like I’m so funny and clever, when really I just saw that on a meme somewhere and fully disagree with the sentiment. In person is always better.

Well, except maybe when it comes to Lexie. I’d love to have all of my conversations with her via email .

No, I shake this thought away. I am going to face her head on. After all, if God could help David face Goliath, He can help me face Lexie Stone. Wait. Considering that before today the only tangible problem I’ve had with her was with regards to my supposedly phallic pottery, I suppose it may be a bit harsh to compare her to an evil Philistine whose name has become synonymous with being too powerful for your own good.

Still…if the shoe fits.

No. No, no, no. I refuse to be this petty even in my own private thoughts.

“Well then,” Lexie looks between us, a catlike smile twisting across her lips, “I’ll look forward to picking this conversation up again soon, Miss Garza. I hope I’ve given you some things to think about.” She turns to Luke. “Pastor Abbott, a pleasure as always.” Then, with one last withering glance my way, she leaves us alone.

“I’m sorry about that,” Luke says as the door clicks shut behind her. “She practically accosted me in the hallway.”

“Oh hey, don’t worry about it.” I wave off his concern, even though I’m quite nervous about this future conversation Lexie and I are going to have. That’s not Luke’s problem. I can’t just always expect him to fight my battles for me. Especially when he still doesn’t know about all of the things I’ve been hiding. “I do need to talk to you, though,” I tell him, forcing myself to focus on that rather than all of my other problems.

“Yes, about the art show.”

“Well…not really,” I admit. “That was more of a cover. It’s about something else. Something important.”

“I see.” His gaze turns inquisitive, but the ringing of the bell to start the day prevents him from asking further questions. He knows we’re out of time to discuss ‘something important’.

“Can we talk tonight?” he asks.

“I’d actually prefer to have this conversation in person,” I say carefully. Concern flashes across his features. I wish I could say something to assuage his worry, but what I have to tell him is definitely something to worry about.

“Okay.” He clears his throat. “Well, I could come back at lunch.”

I fight a sense of rising panic. Lunch is so soon! Then again, I’d hoped to have already told him by this point in the morning. Better to get it done.

“Lunch it is,” I agree.

Unfortunately we don’t get a chance to have our lunchtime meeting, instead, only an hour later, I find myself being summoned to the principal’s office. And when I walk into George’s office and see Lexie, George, and Luke all assembled there I realize it’s too late to tell him.

He already knows.