27. Chapter 20
Chapter 20
Lucy
D arkness envelops me, but I can’t complain. I never bothered to turn a light on when I arrived at the apartment earlier this afternoon after Thanksgiving lunch with Grandma Netty. I didn’t even turn on the light when the sun set or when the moon casted shadows of the dead Bird of Paradise plant onto the white walls, painting them gray.
I sat down in the reclining chair, opened my laptop, and poured my heart onto a blank, white page using size-twelve, black Palantino font. A desperate plea to escape reality. An earnest attempt to live out my dreams and get the happily ever after I’ve always hungered for. I’ve built characters and worlds and conflicts that come with clear communications and healthy resolutions. At some point, I made coffee, and that was my dinner.
How many hours have gone by since I’ve sat down? I couldn’t tell you. Seven thousand words have appeared on the screen, each one containing a piece of my soul until I was left with nothing. An apparition of a woman haunting her own safe space like a despondent ghost. That’s where I am now—sitting in my reclining chair while the dim light of the laptop shines upon my face. If you were sitting in front of me, you would think I had glass skin. But not because of good skincare products.
I’ve cried a thousand tears, each one reminding me of him. Of the future I thought I was building. Of the hope that was shattered when he never turned around. Of the things I screamed in the midst of my anger. Of the time I slammed the door after he fed me lines about needing to grow closer to God. How low of him was that to use God as an excuse? How dare he say he loves me and then leave me!
This is why the whole “married in your heart” argument for sex outside of the marital covenant is not sufficient.
I stare at the plant’s shadow on the wall, made visible by the orange glow of the apartment light outside my window. Loneliness lurks around every corner. It’s found within every nook and cranny. But if I’m being honest, regardless of the hurtful things we’ve said to each other, I still love that man with everything inside me. I love him so much that I refuse to read that pink composition notebook he gave me. I can’t bear to see myself through his eyes and shatter the illusions I cling so tightly to. He might have thought it was just lust, but for me, it was so much more.
It’s why I’m writing tonight… because I can’t cry to him. I’m cutting open the wound and bleeding out onto the page; my truest thoughts, feelings, and emotions ingrained in the dialogue spoken by dysfunctional characters in a reprehensible setting. The real me. Ha, I snort. My readers would run for the hills if they read this.
How do I even have readers? Why am I writing as if I have the experience to write romance? I’m unmarried. With no kids. No prospects. I can’t be a good friend to those who love me because I’m obsessed with finding the man who will keep me warm on cold nights and carry groceries into our home while I put them away and hold me while I cry when melancholy strikes.
What grounds do I possibly have to ask people to buy any romance book I craft? I’m an imposter. A fake. I promote healthy relationships, characters who communicate clearly, flawed—but not too flawed—leads, and strong faith elements. But what if my readers knew who I truly was? What if they knew I’ve had sex outside of marriage? What if they knew I battled with intense sexual fantasies from time to time? What if they knew I let myself get blackout drunk after he left my apartment that day in order to avoid feeling, a secret not even my friends and twin know? What if they knew all of my relationships have failed because I demand too much too soon and don’t know how to set and uphold clear boundaries for myself? What if they knew how desperate and starved for love and acceptance I am? What if they knew I’d do just about anything to be liked? What if they knew I questioned God at every turn and lacked the belief that He can do what He says He can do? What if they knew I questioned His existence?
They’d never pick up another one of my books.
Hypocrite! Liar! False Christian! Jezebel! Deceiving, wayward woman!
I can see it now. Hear it now. Echoing through my brain and etching into my heart like a scar. I’d be hanged by the Christian community like a witch in Salem, trending on social media as the next blacklisted Christian to be canceled. Do my questioning thoughts make me not a Christian?
I try to remember the time in my life when I surrendered to the Lord, recalling the peace and joy I felt.
Where is that now? Was it all a farce?
Here’s the truth… The places, characters, and situations I create are a blundered attempt to pack the gaping chest wound left to expand after every failed relationship. They are a concoction of tropes, fantasies, and marketable content with a dash of my soul and spirit.
It’s fiction. Not real life.
Real life is messy. Full of mistakes and failures.
Dark.
People miscommunicate and say hurtful things.
We all boast a little toxicity.
Sin creeps in slowly then consumes. Feeling desired feels good.
Unbelief is a very real thing.
And happily-ever-afters don’t always happen.
My books are a means of escape, a medium to play god over my life. I create the perfect men and speak into the women I wish I were. I build towns where every single woman in a five-mile radius gets a happily ever after without the miscommunication trope or the third-act breakup.
But does anyone ever stop to think that those are tropes for a reason?
Because it happens all the time in this real, messy, complicated life we live.
What if I wrote something real ?
Would I still find escape in it?
Would I still miss him?
Would I find myself in the process?
Would God forgive me for living a lie? For trying to play god myself?
I will and I do, I can almost hear Him whisper in the recesses of my head, and it stirs something within me.
Hope.
Hope that I can find peace and joy again. Hope that people may not accept the real me, and that’s okay because others will.
Hope that God is real and He…
He desires me. He wants me to run to Him.
I watch the blinking cursor on the screen in front of me and I know I have a decision to make. I can choose to be honest and raw; I can let my readers know the real me and the very real struggles I face. Or I can choose to proceed with the image I’ve carefully curated.
I can choose to surrender to the Lord and turn to Him for healing, or I can continue trying to piece myself back together all alone.
My phone rings, and I dig around for it, realizing it had fallen between the siding and the cushion of the recliner.
“Grandma, is everything okay?” I ask when I answer.
“Lucy girl. Are you home?”
“Yes. Are you okay?” A smidge of fear works its way into my chest. Grandma Netty seemed fine earlier today when we had lunch .
“Yes, dear. But it seems I need some help with something at the house. Would you mind coming back over here?”
I glance at the time, realizing it is only eight at night. I thought it was much later than that. Ever since I sent my resignation email to the center, I’ve thrown myself into authoring full-time with the help of my sister’s fiancé, Crown Prince Finley Andersson. He once offered to promote my books, and I decided I needed the exposure more than I needed my pride. Having a prince promote my rom-coms has definitely rocketed my sales. Anything to keep me from leaving the house and bumping into Stone. Grocery shopping is hard enough. He’s in every shadow down every aisle.
Grandma clears her throat, and I remember I need to answer her. “Of course. Give me a few minutes to change my clothes and I’ll be right over.”
After slipping into leggings and an oversized Taylor Swift Midnights era t-shirt, I hop into the car and drive the short distance to my grandma’s place.
The gravel driveway crunches under my tires as I arrive at the quaint cottage-esque home. Just around back, she has this lovely garden growing inside a collapsed shed that gives off a shadow fairy garden vibe, and it used to be one of my favorite places to sit and write before I secluded myself away to the confines of my personal prison—also known as my apartment.
I shut off the car and make my way towards the small white fenced-in porch and stand underneath the light. I knock on the oval-topped lavender door and shout to Grandma that I’m here.
But it’s not Grandma that opens the door.
It’s a person who looks just like me .
“Lorelei!” I scream, throwing myself at my twin who stumbles backward into the entryway. I prepare to tumble to the ground, but we don’t.
I glance behind Lorelei’s head and see Hadley grinning with her hands braced against Lorelei’s back. She winks but that turns into a wince of pain. I drop my eyes to where she removed a hand from Lorelei’s back and placed it on her ever-growing stomach. “I think little Anna Layne is excited we are all together again. She’s ready to meet her two favorite aunties.”
We laugh, and Lorelei peels me off her. I try to at least grab her hand, but she shakes her head and says, “I’m beyond overstimulated from the trip. We can hold hands and frolic through flowers tomorrow, huh?”
“Right.” I nod, though I can’t help the tiny prickle of hurt at her rejection. She’s autistic and struggles with sensory overload, and well, sometimes it makes me feel alone when she can’t meet me where I need to be met through no fault of her own. I shake it off and attempt to live in the moment. I mean, for the love of all things, she’s here! “One, how did Finley’s mother allow you to sneak away so close to your wedding and the coronation? Two, did you travel alone?”
Hadley, in her leggings and oversized t-shirt that I’m pretty sure belongs to her husband, wraps me in a hug. Well, as much as she can with her belly in the way. She whispers in my ear, “There are two very fine personal protection officers in the other room with Finley.”
“Do you really think I would have let her travel alone?” A familiar sunshine-like voice says. I release Hadley and bound towards my almost-king-in-law. He wraps me up in a friendly hug. “It’s good to see you again, Lucy.”
Gabriel and Anders—Finley’s PPOs who are dressed in suits—linger at the back of the room and wave gingerly. I wave back, and when Grandma comes to the doorway to call everyone to the table, my heart fills with genuine happiness for the first time in a while.
“Did you not get the memo that this was a leggings and baggy t-shirt sort of dinner, Finley?” I glance at Lorelei, whose outfit resembles mine and Hadley’s.
Finley chuckles as he sets a plate of food down at the crowded table for six. Grandma always said she wanted to keep a big table at the house even though she lived alone so she could gather people together for food and fun times. “Trust me, you do not want to see this in leggings.”
We laugh as he gestures down his polo shirt and blue jeans. We eat leftover Thanksgiving food and some new dishes that Grandma apparently whipped up in our short time apart. We catch up, crack jokes, and enjoy each other’s company.
“Where are you two staying while you’re here?” I ask Lorelei as we clean up dishes.
“I’m riding back with you, so I hope the apartment is clean.”
A look of horror flashes across my face, and she rolls her eyes and mumbles, “Yeah, I thought so.”
“What about Finley? Is he coming back with us?”
Lorelei shakes her head. “No, he’s going to stay in Mason’s vacation home. It’ll be just like old times.” There’s a giddiness to her voice that makes me smile. “Tomorrow morning, Hadley and I are taking you down to the coast, though, so we should probably leave here shortly to go get some rest.”
“The coast? Why are we going there?”
She shrugs. “For fun. This is basically my bachelorette party, after all.”
A smile stretches across my face as I rub my hands together.
“Don’t get any ideas.” She pins me with sharp eyes. “Nothing scandalous will be happening, got it?”
I feign a shocked expression. “Scandalous? Little ole me?”
She snaps me with a dish rag as I run away from her, right into Gabriel’s arms. My gaze snaps up to the handsome brown-haired frenchman who I once attempted to date while my sister was going back and forth between allowing herself to date Finley. “Hi.”
“ Bonsoir, Lucy.” He smirks at me, and I launch myself from his arms.
“Sorry about that. Running from my maniacal sister.” I laugh nervously, though I don’t know why I’m nervous. When I look at Gabriel now, and though he’s objectively handsome with his chocolate curls, vanilla skin, and brown eyes, I feel nothing like I once did.
Because Stone still resides in my heart for better or for worse…
“It’s all good,” he says in a heavy French accent. “How have you been?”
“Uhh…” I’m frozen in place because my tendency is to overshare and answer honestly, but he is not the person I need to unload on. “I’ve been fine.”
He looks me over with a skeptical gaze before shrugging it off. “You will be at the wedding and coronation, yes? ”
I nod, and he grins.
“Good. Save me a dance.”
“Ditto,” I say, happy to know I will at least get to experience one dance where I’m twirled around a ballroom in a gown. I had small worries that I’d go and no one would dance with me.
Because Stone rejected me, everyone else must do so, too…
“Lucy girl!” Grandma Netty calls from elsewhere in the house. “Hold up before you leave. I have something for you.”
I excuse myself from Gabriel and follow her voice until I reach her bedroom. “What is it?”
She stands up from bending over her dresser. “Here.” She holds out a journal, and I gently grab the old, weathered leather book. “What is it?” I ask again.
“It’s my personal journal from right before I married your grandfather. I would like for you to read it.”
I tilt my head and scrunch my nose. “Why?” I don’t question it offensively—I’m excited to read it—but I do wonder why.
She laughs. “You know my creative knack was painting, so please don’t expect writing up to your caliber, but I feel like it could help you in what you’re walking through right now. You told me everything regarding Stone.” She pauses. “Right?”
My face reddens in embarrassment. I did tell her everything. When I left his house on Halloween night, I drove straight here and broke down in her arms. “Yes.”
“Then please read this. I believe the Lord allowed me to find it buried at the bottom of a box I once thought I’d lost. As I read the words I’d written so long ago, I thought of you. Just return it to me when you finish, dear.”
I hug her. “Of course. Thank you. I’ll cherish every word.”
We all chat together a little longer while finishing the last remnants of cleaning before heading our different directions. As Lorelei and I drive home, I reflect on the night, an overwhelming sense of gratitude for the perfect timing of it all. From sitting alone in my apartment, crying and bleeding onto the page, to having my soul filled with laughter and smiles and the people I love.
While her arms are still around me, a simple thank you rises in my heart. Not to Grandma Netty and not to Stone. Not to anyone but God. And even though I've done nothing but yell and scream at Him recently, I can't help but hope He hears my humble offering of thanks.