Chapter 5
Adam
L ucy smiles politely at me over the table. With her long, blonde hair curled at the ends, so it flows in flawless waves over her shoulders, she really is stunningly beautiful. Tall, thin, fit, educated, and probably most importantly, Christian.
If only I felt as enamored by her as my mother is. All throughout dinner, I keep trying to think of things to ask her to keep the conversation moving as my mom watches from the head of the table like she’s rating my skills on a first date—if that’s what you would call this.
When I showed up for dinner tonight, I was surprised to see Lucy’s Prius parked in the long drive. I silently cursed my sweet mother and her good-intentioned meddling. She’s clearly trying to get me to invite Lucy to the charity event next month.
At the head of the table, my father watches without a word, and I take his silence as a sign that he’s pleased with how this is going.
As Lucy talks, mostly about the big plans for her cycle studio expansion, I try to see myself with her. Our wedding photos would be flawless. Even our kids would be cute. My life would be picture perfect, as everything from the outside looking in would be exactly as it was meant to be.
But I don’t see much when I try to imagine Lucy and me alone. Even if I picture her naked body under mine, it lacks something.
Although, to be fair, sex has always lacked something for me.
I like it. It feels good and scratches the itch from time to time, but that’s all it is—satisfying.
And maybe that’s all it’s meant to be. For so long, I’ve been holding out for earth-shattering and mind-blowing, which would explain why I’m still single at thirty-seven.
“Adam, you should go to her studio,” my mother says as she pours herself another glass of sweet tea.
“Are you calling me fat?” I ask with a laugh.
Lucy’s reaction is a tense, humorless smile.
“Not that everyone who goes to your studio…”
“I was not calling you fat,” my mother says, shooting me a stern glare.
“That’s not what I meant,” I reply, trying to overcorrect. “It was a bad joke.”
“It’s okay,” Lucy replies with a smile.
Abigail sends me an awkward, wide-eyed expression that says, Good job, idiot. The rest of the family around the table sit in silence. Even they can tell how painful this date is.
It was an ambush date, really.
“When will we get to see you preach again?” Lucy asks, and I glance up quickly from my plate to stare at her in surprise. Then my eyes dash over to my father at the head of the table, sitting proudly with his hands clasped under his chin with a haughty smirk.
It’s been months since I’ve stood at the pulpit and delivered a sermon of my own creation. Often for special occasions or because my father had prior engagements, but it was never spoken about as if it would become a regular occurrence. And it certainly was never requested.
I clear my throat. “I’m not sure,” I reply to Lucy. “Hopefully, soon.”
She nods, looking pleased.
“Adam is a wonderful preacher,” my mother adds, and I scrutinize the woman across from me for her reaction.
When her eyes meet mine, there’s a sparkle there, and a certain excitement inside me starts to grow. Suddenly, I can see so much more of our future. I see her standing next to me on Sunday. Before my sermons, we can greet the congregation together. Serving meals on Thanksgiving. Praying together.
It’s promising, but it’s still from the outside looking in.
“Pass the ketchup, please,” Caleb says, knocking my shoulder, and as I glance over at the bottle sitting next to Lucy, it feels as if I’ve been abruptly snatched out of a fantasy.
And for the thousandth time this week, I think about the pink hair and chipped black nail polish of the woman I shared a fifteen-minute meal with two weeks ago.
“Yes,” I mutter, grabbing the bottle and practically tossing it at my brother.
As Lucy strikes up a conversation with Briar, I try to refocus my mind on the possibilities of the woman across from me, but it’s like trying to start a fire with wet matches. Nothing comes.
Instead, I think about the way Sage fiddled with the ring in her lip. Or how her eyes twinkled in my direction as she passed me a bite of her breakfast.
Irritability swells behind every memory of her because it’s been two weeks and I still go back to that moment when I know in my rational mind that it means nothing and I will literally never see her again.
And yet…the pipe-dream fantasies of her feel a little less perfect from the outside looking in but probably a bit more fun the other way around as well.
Looking up from my empty plate, I notice Lucy’s is nearly empty too. She sets her fork down and places her napkin over what’s left of her meatloaf, and I seize my chance.
“Would you like to go for a walk?” I ask.
With a tight smile that doesn’t reach her eyes, she nods. “Sure.”
“Go on, you two,” my mother chirps excitedly as she jumps from her seat to clean up our plates. Then I lead Lucy toward the front door. Once we step out into the warm spring night air, she shoves her hands in the pockets of her long, cotton dress.
“It was nice of your mother to invite me to dinner,” she says as we make our way down the long brick-paved drive.
“It probably should have been me. I’m sorry,” I reply. My hand itches to touch her back or arm.
“Did you want me to come to dinner?” she asks, glancing up at me.
I clear my throat. “Of course I did.”
When she doesn’t respond, I notice the way she nods to herself, and I wish I knew what she was thinking. Why am I so bad at this? Breakfast with Pink Hair was so easy—
No. Stop it.
“The truth is,” I reply, trying for sincerity, “I’m so busy I forget to have a personal life.”
She chuckles quietly. “Same.”
“But I really like you,” I say, forcing the words out in hopes they feel truer when I speak them.
They don’t.
Lucy stops and turns toward me. “I like you too, Adam…”
Her voice trails off and I sense a but .
My brow arches as I wait her out.
“But…” she says, finally, shuffling her feet and looking off into the distance instead of at me. “I don’t really know you.”
“Then have dinner with me again. We can get to know each other.”
“Will we?” This conversation is taking a strange turn as if she knows something I don’t. Something about me.
“Why wouldn’t we?” I ask, feeling confused.
She places a hand on my arm and leans toward me. “You’re a nice guy, Adam. Dating me would make your mother very happy, which is exactly why I think you would do it.”
When I laugh, she doesn’t…which means that it isn’t a joke.
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“When was the last time you did something just because you wanted to?” she asks, shooting me a challenging expression.
“I’m walking with you right now,” I reply.
Leaning in, she adds, “Is that really what you want to be doing right now?”
Taking this as my opportunity, I let my hand drift over her lower back, tugging her closer before I press my lips to hers. They’re soft and pliable, making me want to slide my tongue between them or bite the bottom one just to hear the sounds she’d make. But I hold back.
When I pull away, staring down with a soft smile, she lets out a heavy sigh. “That’s what I mean. You’re a really good guy, Adam. Maybe a little…too good.”
Then she lifts to her tiptoes and presses her lips to my cheek.
“Please tell your mother thanks again from me.”
Without another word, she continues the walk down to her car, waving back before climbing into the driver’s seat and pulling away.
I watch her go, feeling blindsided and wondering how the hell someone can be too good .
* * *
“I like her,” my mother says as she dips her hands in soapy water to pull out a fork.
“She’s really nice,” I reply as I set the porcelain plate on the stack in the cupboard. I don’t have the heart to tell my mother that Lucy left without exchanging numbers or plans to see me again.
Because I’m too good .
“Stay for a drink.” My father lands a heavy slap on my back as I dry my hands on the dish towel hanging from my shoulder.
Another nostalgic ritual of my mother’s is to clean up the kitchen after Sunday dinner—regardless of the fact that my father pays people to do it for them. I make it a point to dry the dishes every time.
My brothers never stick around this long.
“Go,” my mother insists as she takes my towel. There’s only a casserole dish left, so I concede.
As I follow my father into his office on the second floor of the house, he shuts the door behind us. He’s pouring two glasses of whiskey before I even sit down.
Every time he invites me to his office after dinner like this, I’m anticipating the moment he finally breaks the news I’ve been waiting for—that he’s stepping down.
And putting me in his place.
My father is great at what he does. He’s a natural orator, charismatic and engaging. He’s changing people’s lives for the better.
But at the same time, he’s sixty-nine years old. He’s growing more and more out of touch with the next generation every day. Our demographic is comfortably fifty-plus, and if we don’t make a move to capture those under fifty soon, our legacy will die with them.
I take the seat opposite his desk and let my gaze drift to the mess of papers scattered across the surface. But I’m not focusing on anything as he starts talking.
We riff back and forth for a while, laughing about something said this morning at church or whatever ridiculous joke one of my brothers made at dinner.
My dad and I share a somewhat shallow relationship that never delves too deep into feelings or secrets.
Not that I think he’s hiding any. I’m sure as hell not.
But I do pride myself on being the closest son he has, making him proud and doing what’s right.
“Damn good sermon this morning, Adam. You work hard on them, and it shows.”
“Thanks…” I reply, sensing the ominous but from my father’s tone.
“You put your heart and soul in each one, and I’m so proud of the writer you’ve become.”