Chapter 6 #2
“Be right out!” Lyle calls after her. When everyone has left the room, he turns to me and gives me a long, searching look. “Blink twice if you’re in danger.”
How dramatic! I can’t help but laugh. “I’m fine. Uncle Aaron is just stubborn sometimes.” I gesture around the suite. “I’ll be fine here. I never get time alone.”
That much is true. I’m in a beautiful suite in a beautiful hotel. What a blessing to get the entire space to myself. I might even be able to choose something I want to watch on television!
Lyle looks at me doubtfully. “Listen, I don’t want to overstep, but I’m not from LA.
My family’s from Oklahoma. Okay? So I know the whole megachurch pastor vibe.
And believe me, I get not fitting in.” He gestures down to his pastel blue pants and matching ascot.
“My brother and dad are both part of the rodeo.” He shudders visibly.
“The rodeo. And the only bull I’ve ever ridden is—” Something about my expression seems to make him reconsider finishing that sentence.
He clears his throat. “Anyway, the point is, I know what it means to need to escape some uncomfortable family dynamics. If you need me, call me.”
He slides a card into my palm, then on second thought fishes something else out of his pocket—his car keys.
It takes me too long to realize what he’s offering me. I draw my hand back instinctively. “Oh, no, I can’t drive your car.”
“Go explore the town,” he insists. “Get out of this hotel room. Buy a drink, if you like! But don’t sit in here like some sad little mouse, or I’ll corrode with guilt.”
I . . . don’t know what to say. In all the years I’ve lived with him, my uncle has never let me drive his car.
I had to learn how to drive the fifteen-passenger van so I could help do the grocery shopping and take my younger cousins to tutoring and youth worship, of course, but my uncle’s Hummer?
Never in a million years. And yet Lyle, who’s basically a stranger, offered his keys to me in less than a couple days of knowing me.
His generosity is incredibly sweet—in an entirely overwhelming way that makes me worry I might break out into hives. “I can’t.” No use pretending the reason is anything other than what he suspects it is, I guess, since he just saw everything. “If Uncle Aaron found out . . .”
“Uncle Aaron won’t find out.” Lyle pulls out his phone. “Here. Put in your number and I’ll text you when we’re on the way back.” His eyebrows arch theatrically at me as a new thought seems to strike him. “They let you have a phone, don’t they?”
It’s not an entirely unfounded question based off what he’s seen, but I still can’t help but laugh at the drama of it all.
I know Uncle Aaron is strict, but it’s not like I’m a prisoner.
Emotions can get heightened sometimes, and sure, I wish I had more freedom, but overall things are fine.
“Yes, I have a phone.” I roll my eyes a little just to show him he doesn’t have to be as worried as he clearly is.
But somehow, I find myself giving him my number and reluctantly taking his keys.
Not because I need to escape. It just seems so important to Lyle that I get out, I feel like I have to do it, so he knows things aren’t as bad here as he seems to think they are.
“Thank you.” A new thought strikes me. “But how will you get to the filming?”
He grimaces. “I guess I’ll be catching a ride in the van.” With another visible shudder, he puts back on his Hollywood-producer megasmile, then turns and charges toward the hallway. “Oh, Millers . . . !”
At first, I don’t intend to really use Lyle’s car.
I plan to just stay in the hotel room and pretend I went out when he comes back.
But then the cleaning staff comes in and starts acting cagey about having me in the suite, and I feel too awkward just sitting down in the lobby by myself, so I figure, a little drive into town wouldn’t hurt.
That’s how I wind up driving an electric car for the first time in my life.
Luckily the streets of Green Valley aren’t too busy, because I’m freaking out behind the wheel of this thing.
It feels expensive. And it’s so quiet! I keep thinking the engine has cut out and start frantically hitting the brakes, only to realize the car is just a soft purr instead of the loud roar I’m accustomed to.
Oh, heavens. I’m going to crash this thing.
I’m going to have to spend the rest of my life paying off my debt.
Again. I don’t know how much a car like this costs, but I bet it’s a lot.
I’m sure I resemble an octogenarian, sitting as close to the steering wheel as I can get, hands in the ten and two position, driving about fifteen miles under the speed limit.
I’ve gotten a few honks—okay, a lot of honks.
I finally put on my hazards and hope that people will just go around me.
When I make it to the town library, I decide that’s as good a place as any to park and rethink my life choices. Or, you know, sit for a few minutes, then drive slowly back to the hotel. At least then I can truthfully tell Lyle I used his car and left the hotel, as he urged me to do.
After a few minutes pass, though, and my heart rate returns to a normal, nonlethal level, I decide it isn’t the worst idea to explore the town some more.
On foot, though. Lyle will be so proud of me.
And so would Helen and Thad and Matilda and Kimo and Grady, if they were here.
That resolves me to do it. I’ve spent my whole life surrounding myself with friends who are much braver than me, hoping at least a little of their courage will rub off on me.
Harmony’s always worn her WWJD (What Would Jesus Do) bracelet proudly. If I could, I’d get one that said WWHTMK&GD. (What Would Helen, Thad, Matilda, Kimo, and Grady Do.) Maybe now, I’ll add an L to that grouping, too, for Lyle.
Be brave, I try to encourage myself, but even to me, my own inner voice isn’t all that persuasive. Instead, I try to summon Matilda’s voice, and it comes briskly and easily: Stop being such a big scaredy-pants. Go do something for once!
Hard to argue with that. So, I force myself to wander.
Not too far from the library is a cute little diner called Daisy’s Nut House.
I consider my options. I’m trying to push myself today, but I don’t know if I feel quite courageous enough to sit down at a booth and eat by myself.
Maybe if I had a book with me . . . ? But since I don’t, I wonder if it would satisfy my inner Matilda for me to go in and order something to go?
I listen for any harsh, faintly Russian reprimand.
Receiving none, I decide that’s as good as a go-ahead, and I make my way determinedly to the diner’s entrance.
I’m surprised to find how packed it is, especially for a relatively early weekday afternoon.
Good thing I’m not hoping to get a table.
All the various groups of people make me nervous, even though none of them seem to be paying attention to me.
I’m worried they’ll look up and just know, somehow, that I’m not meant to be here.
As I deliberate backing out of the door, Matilda’s voice berates me. They’re just people, for goodness’ sake! Who cares what they think? I’m sure most of them are idiots anyway.
Wow. A little harsh. These people all seem really nice to me.
But weirdly, even though I know it’s only my own brain telling me a maybe-exaggerated version of what my most intimidating friend might say, it does bring me comfort.
None of these people know me. No one even seems to have noticed I’m here. Who cares what any of them think?
Taking in a deep breath, I propel myself forward toward the counter, where some of the baked items are on display in a glass case.
My stomach instinctively grumbles. Uncle Aaron always insists we start the day with oatmeal—just oatmeal, no cinnamon or brown sugar or cream.
But on holidays we get to add some fruit!
Throughout the week, we each receive a sugar allotment that we’re not allowed to exceed, so I’ve gotten very good at carefully rationing out my food so I can splurge on Pizookies every Tuesday night with my friends.
But despite myself, the items in the bakery are calling to me. Brownies. Cookies. Pastries. And pie! So much pie. There’s one called a Derby pie that literally has my mouth salivating at the sight of it. Pecans, chocolate, a buttery crust, and it comes with a dollop of homemade cream on top. Yum.
“Can I help you, hon?” asks a pretty older woman behind the counter.
I speak without thinking. “I’d like a slice of the Derby pie, please.”
“Sure thing.”
Almost immediately, guilt sets in. My send-off with my friends was only a few days ago, so eating a slice of this pie will definitely send me over my sugar allotment.
But my fear of Uncle Aaron’s disappointment is at war with my people-pleasing anxiety over calling after the woman and telling her I’ve changed my mind.
She’s already cut out a hefty slice and set it out on a nice plate.
It would be so rude to tell her to put it back.
Now, I don’t have to guess what Matilda might say in this situation—I’ve already heard it from her too many times before: Who cares what your uncle thinks? Why is it any of his business, anyway?
I never know what to say to her, because honestly, I’m not sure what answer I could give.
It’s a truth I’ve been warring against for a long time now.
Ever since I left my postulancy. I know on some level that all of my uncle’s rules serve a purpose, and that he’s only trying to help us live a better, worthier life.
But sometimes sugar and all the other things we’re meant to abstain from don’t seem like they’re so evil.
Sometimes, I remember what it was like to have sugar.
Sometimes I think about how good sugar made me feel.