Chapter 38
Micah
I wake up at six forty-three and I am done.
Not done in a dramatic, everything-has-crumbled kind of way. Done the way you feel when you’ve finally found your keys and they were in your jacket pocket the whole time. Like, yes, obviously. Of course.
Harper Mitchell is not a woman I can keep pretending to date without eventually losing my mind, and Monday night proved it.
I’ve been patient in a way that would make the most self-controlled man I know look like he’s in a hurry, and it is time to stop. Because she matters enough to stop pretending otherwise.
I’m going to tell her. After church tomorrow. I’m going to find her, and I’m going to say the thing I have not been saying for roughly six weeks, and then whatever happens, happens.
I get up, make coffee, feed Biscuit, and feel so resolved about this that I’m halfway through the mug before I realize I have absolutely no idea how I’m going to do it.
Time to pull out my handy dandy notebook.
I use a standard composition book. Black and white cover, college-ruled. I’ve had three of them this year because I go through them fast—children’s ministry curriculum takes up a lot of real estate, and I have a habit of working things out on paper when they’re too complicated for my head alone.
I open to a fresh page. Write the date. Then, at the top:
Harper Plan.
Then I stare at it for a second, because seeing it written in actual ink makes it the most real thing in the room.
I keep going.
Option A: Text her something low-pressure but clear.
I write three versions in the margin. The first is too casual.
The second sounds like the opening line of a complaint.
The third is actually decent until I read it again and realize it could be interpreted as asking about her availability for a volunteer shift, which is not the impression I’m going for.
Scratch all three. Moving on.
Option B: Show up at her door.
I write this, look at it, and immediately write not this next to it and draw a box around it so I don’t accidentally talk myself into it later.
Option C: Tell her after second service. Catch her before she makes it out to the parking lot.
This has some merit. Church gives us a natural reason to be in the same place.
It also gives her the option of getting distracted by twelve separate conversations and a snack table before I can get to her.
The problem with Option C is it still puts me intercepting her on the way out, which has the energy of an ambush more than an invitation.
Option D: Ask her to get lunch. Just us. Make it clear that’s what I mean.
I write this one and underline it.
This is the move. Hey, can I take you to lunch? That is a sentence I am fully capable of saying. And once we’re at lunch, I can say the thing.
I make a second column:
What I’ll actually say:
I get three sentences in before Biscuit climbs onto the table.
“I’m working,” I tell him.
He steps directly onto the notebook, turns in a small circle, and sits down on Option D—the lunch option—with the full intention of staying there.
“Biscuit.”
He looks at me, blinks once, and tucks his feet under himself in that way that means he is settling in for the long haul, and no amount of gentle nudging will change this.
“You’re doing this on purpose.”
He does not confirm or deny.
“I have to say, your timing is terrible.” I look down at the notebook, at his paws folded over the word lunch like he’s signed off on it.
He chirps.
I slide the notebook out from under him at an angle, careful not to disrupt his center of gravity.
“You’ve met her once.” I tell him.
He chirps again, lower this time.
“I know,” I say. “She is pretty great.”
I go back to the notebook.
Option D it is. After second service. Ask her to lunch. Say the thing.
I cap the pen and look at what I’ve written.
It’s a solid plan. Clear. Specific. It gives her room to respond without putting her on the spot in the middle of a crowd.
I flip back to find where I wrote the actual words again.
Harper, I’ve been showing up to everything except the only conversation that matters. Would you consider dating me for real?
I read it twice. Scratch out the first sentence, eager to get to the point.
Better. Specific without being a speech. Open without being wishy-washy.
I close the notebook.
Then I sit with the quiet for a minute, coffee warm in my hands, Biscuit settled somewhere behind me making small, satisfied ferret sounds at nothing.
“Okay,” I pray. “I think I have a plan. I’m going to do it.”
A pause.
“I’m aware this is not news to You. I’m also aware I’ve been a little slow to get here.” I look at the kitchen table, at the notebook that holds my plan.
The quiet is the same it always is. Present. Not empty.
“I’m asking You to go ahead of me,” I say. “Tomorrow. I’ll do the part I can do. The rest is yours.”
I sit there for another minute. Then I put the mug in the sink, go to the bedroom, and pull out my running shoes.
The air outside is exactly what it always is on a Texas April morning before nine—cool enough that you need it, warm enough that you don’t have to fight it. I start at a walk, let my legs figure out what they’re doing, and settle into a pace.
I left my headphones on the counter on purpose.
I’ve been spending a lot of mornings inside my own head and not enough of them in the actual world, and the actual world is happening, regardless.
The Hendersons’ dog is getting its walk.
Two houses down, a kid is already on his bike, executing some kind of ambitious maneuver off the driveway curb.
The entire neighborhood is out here being fully operational while I’ve been sitting in my kitchen writing out a plan in my notebook.
Left foot, right foot. The pace settles.
I’m finally going to tell her.
Tomorrow, after second service, I am going to find Harper Mitchell and tell her that I’m done pretending, and if that goes sideways, then at least I’ll know. Certainty in either direction is better than six more weeks of analyzing parking lot eye contact.
The park comes into view on my left, and I take the familiar turn.
The path runs along the west side, past the big oak that always looks borrowed from another century. A couple with a stroller. An old man on a bench with a newspaper that he is not reading. A kid near the pond, throwing bread at pigeons.
My calf starts arguing around the eight-minute mark. I slow my pace.
And that’s when I see her.
About thirty yards further down the path. On a bench near the pond, red hair loose around her shoulders, scarf pulled up despite the weather not entirely requiring it. Head tilted down slightly.
I go completely still.
She hasn’t seen me.
Tomorrow. The plan was tomorrow.
Well.
The plan was also supposed to involve less sweating.
I take one breath. And then I start walking toward her.