Chapter Twenty-four
Soon after our yes-we-can-just-be-friends—er, mostly.
We’re trying—meeting at the waterfall, Noah finishes his classes at the community college, earning his associate degree.
The pleasant weather keeps him busy with outdoor construction jobs, and between my voice lessons, show choir rehearsals for final concerts, and Mom’s annoyingly creative chore lists, finding time we can spend together is difficult.
When we are together, it’s most often at the waterfall.
Even when our schedules don’t align to allow us to meet in person, it’s still a place of connection, via our personal mailbox.
We text, we chat, we utilize the various smartphone apps available to us, and we leave things for the other one to find in the Dutchman’s pocket.
At first, I was pretty squeamish about reaching in there to retrieve the glass jar Noah provided, but I’m getting over it.
There are no more heart or hug emojis in our texts. No kisses when we meet . . . or part. Sometimes we accidentally hold hands, but when we realize it’s happened, we stop. There are no long hugs or arms around my shoulders.
And, wow. I miss all of that.
Still, I know we’re probably crossing a few romantic lines.
People who are “just friends” don’t leave each other secret notes in hidden places.
At least not after about fifth grade. And although I know Noah is my friend—the deepest, truest, most wonderful friend I’ve ever known—my heart still holds him as something more.
And those rare occasions when we do get together, my heart silently sings a ballad worthy of the stage.
It’s been a warm week, but this particular day dawns with a slight chill. A foggy, late-May mist hangs the promise of rain in the air, but I’m meeting Noah at the waterfall today. The weather’s gloom can’t dampen my anticipation.
He isn’t as carefree.
“Noah?”
“Hmm?”
“You’ve been awfully quiet this afternoon. Is something wrong?”
“Yeah.” He takes a deep breath. “I think a lot of things are wrong.”
“Like . . . ?”
Noah squeezes my hand and then sets it in my lap. As usual, I don’t recall the moment our fingers entwined. Had I reached for him? Had he reached for me? Does it matter? From his frown, I assume it does.
“Sorry.” I swallow around a pang of guilt. “It’s . . . it’s hard to remember.”
“No, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have suggested we come here. We have to stop meeting here.”
“Why?”
“Your mom’s conditions were that we needed to be out in the open, right?”
“You can’t get more open than this. It’s a nature preserve. A public area.”
“True, but we never see other people here, so I’m pretty sure it’s not quite what your mom had in mind.”
Noah picks up a small stick and rolls it between his palms. “When you left the house this afternoon, did you tell your parents where you were going?”
“Yes.”
Noah nods, looking down at the water below our dangling feet. He clears his throat. “Did you tell them that I was going to be here?”
“No.”
The disappointment in his glance burns through me, revealing . . . guilt.
I close my eyes against the press of tears. I could have told them. I should have told them.
But what if they’d said no?
So I didn’t.
On purpose.
Putting it in those stark terms, even if only to myself, paints the lacking parts of my character in bolder strokes I can’t ignore.
“I guess I only told them a part of the truth.” As I let out a long breath, my temper flares. Not toward him or even my parents. I’m angry—spitting-mad angry—at myself. “Which means I may as well have been telling a lie.”
“Faith, don’t—”
“I lied, Noah.”
A tremor moves through my frame, leaving me feeling heavier. What have I done? What will this do to . . . us?
Admitting—no, owning—that I lied makes me feel dirty. Ugly. Hopeless. But I know what the Bible says about sin. I know what I need to do to rid myself of the weight of its shame.
“I-I should go home and—and confess.” My voice breaks. I feel my face crumpling, so I bury my face in my hands, unwilling to let Noah see my full-on ugly cry.
“Faith, look at me.”
“No. I can’t.” My body shakes. I’m cold, more inside than out. “You deserve someone who . . . someone better.” I push to my feet, averting my face. “I should go.”
Without getting up, Noah reaches for me. His fingers wrap gently around my wrist. “Now just hold on, Faith.”
“Hold on?” The words volley back to him in a higher pitch than is dignified.
“Yes,” he says, understanding in an instant what brought about my reaction. “Hold on.”
I risk a glance his way. His smile is weak but true.
“We’ll go together.”
“Together.” I shake my head. “Are you nuts? Mom said we could be friends, but I still can’t bring you to the house.”
“It’s time.” Noah rises to one knee, facing me. “You’re not the only one who needs to confess. To repent.”
His grip on my wrist slides down to my hand.
It crosses my mind that this is a posture I’ve dreamed about for our future—our way-in-the-future future. But in my dreams, he doesn’t ask, “Will you pray with me?” And he doesn’t follow it by clarifying, “This is not a romantic hand-hold, by the way,” just before bowing his head.
I kneel, facing Noah, and join my other hand with his.
“Father God,” he begins, “we want to do the right thing, but we keep messing up. We want you to be the biggest part of us, of our friendship, and whatever else it is and could be. Forgive me, Lord, for continuing to deceive Faith’s parents—”
“No.” My head shoots up, interrupting his prayer. “You can’t take the blame for this, Noah. It was me. I’m the one who didn’t tell the whole truth.” I look up at the gloomy sky. “Scratch what he just said, God. It’s my fault. Just me. I’m the one who needs forgiving.”
“Hey,” Noah says softly. “I knew your mom’s rules, but I wanted to be alone here with you more than I wanted to please God by hanging out with you around a bunch of other people.”
“More than you wanted to please my mother, you mean.”
“No, I mean God. Coming here today was my idea. Putting things in the Dutchman’s pocket was my idea. I’m as much at fault for being romantic as you are, if not more. I’m guilty, Faith. My need, my appeal for forgiveness is just as necessary as yours.”
He closes his eyes. “Lord, you know our hearts. You know I love Madeleine Faith Prescott as much more than a friend. You know I don’t want to cause her pain or hardship—and I certainly don’t want to cause her to sin—but I keep doing exactly that.
” His intake of breath hitches, and his voice falls to a whisper. “Forgive me, Lord.”
His earnest regret, his disappointment in himself—in us—is almost a tangible thing. It stains the air between us with a raw hope that I recognize, strangely, as the truest expression of his love I’ve yet experienced.
“Forgive me,” he whispers. “Forgive us. We want to honor you, to follow the rules that will let us be true to the love we know is real, but we really stink at following through with the promises we’ve made.
Please help us to make things right and to be stronger in the future.
” With each sentence, each earnest request, his voice gains strength.
“Fill us with your peace, Lord. And if it’s your will, please soften Mrs. Prescott’s heart toward us. And Dr. Prescott’s, too.”
A strange, sizzling knowledge moves up my arms and across my shoulders, even as tears wet my cheeks. In this moment, more than any in my experience, I sense the presence of God with us, almost apart from time, as Noah prays.
“Help us to trust that your timing is perfect, even when it doesn’t seem fast enough for us.
Help us to flee from the temptation to deceive others.
Help us shine the light of truth to Faith’s family, to our friends, and to the world by honoring you.
” Noah squeezes my hands. “Lord, we love you. We trust you to protect and defend the love you’ve allowed to grow between us.
” He takes a deep breath. “May we walk through each moment, cognizant that you are beside us, before us, behind us, and working through us. May your will be done in our lives and in our relationship, as it is in Heaven. In the precious name of Jesus Christ, we pray. Amen.”
To add to his prayer would be superfluous. Noah said everything I should have said to God, everything I longed to say to God, for me. All that’s required of me is my agreement.
My “amen” is little more than a whisper, but holy prickles alight on my skin, acknowledging the cry of my heart—our hearts.
Still holding my hands, Noah stands. Once I’m on my feet, he drops them.
“Now, Madeleine Faith, my dearest friend in the world, I think it’s time we hike to your house.” He gives a slight frown. “Or should we go get my car and drive down there?”
And just like that, the tingles disappear, replaced with a sinking dread that pulls hope from the base of my brain, one tendril at a time.
“Let’s get your car,” I say with a sigh. “You might need a quick getaway if things go bad.”
When we arrive at my house, however, Mom is out running errands. Though I know it’s only a temporary stall, I breathe a sigh of relief. Her absence secures Noah’s entry into the house.
Dad frowns when we walk into the living room but stands when Noah crosses the room and offers his hand.
“Dr. Prescott.” He shakes my dad’s hand. “I’m Noah Spencer. I know you weren’t expecting to see me today, but if you have a moment, I need to speak with you.”
Dad invites Noah to sit, albeit reluctantly, and listens to our apology for meeting in a way that violated my agreement with Mom and, by extension, him as well.
We take turns speaking, but Noah does most of the talking, which is good, since his calm delivery comes across better than my rambling apologies.
“I appreciate you coming to speak with me,” Dad says, finally, but his frown is still in place. “But unless there’s something you’re not telling me about the, uh, extent of your relationship . . .”
We both shake our heads.