Chapter 34
I CAN’T FIND him. I checked his office, the parking lot, even the art classroom–which is where I am now. But Luke is nowhere to be found. Worse, he’s not answering his phone. Or at least he’s not answering my calls. Perhaps if I borrowed someone else’s phone I’d get a response.
The very thought makes me feel sick. How did this night get so off course?
I stare down at my useless phone and try to decide if I should text him again. I’ve already sent him about ten messages all saying something to the effect of: I’m so sorry. Can we please talk? Where are you?
Luke doesn’t have his read receipt setting activated, meaning I have no idea if he’s read any of the messages I’ve sent. Which very much makes me want to throw something.
Feeling completely hopeless, I press the message box to type yet another text to him, but I don’t know what to say. I’m not even sure what exactly he's upset about. It could be Lexie’s implication that I’ve been two-timing him with Marshall, but surely he knows me well enough to know that I would never do that to him. He definitely knows Lexie is always blowing smoke, so why would he choose to believe her about this?
It could also just be that he’s upset about so many people finding out that he’s dating a woman who once dated a man engaged to be married to someone else. He is on probation after all. This won’t help his case.
Or it could be some other reason I’m not even seeing.
I just don’t know. I throw my phone down and get up, pacing the length of the room. This could be my last time walking across these black-and-white checkered floors. For some inexplicable reason my eyes go to my storage room. The place housing the pottery wheel Luke procured for me. My heart trips over itself in my chest as I remember George saying that Luke fought for me to be given it. I wonder if Luke thinks that if I get fired his fight will have been for naught.
But he fought for me, and that will always be significant to me.
His words to me earlier this morning on the subject of pottery float into my mind .
You should still be throwing pottery, Hannah. You clearly have a passion for it.
Sure I’ve been using the wheel with the kids, but outside of that one time when Lexie walked in and accused me of making phallic art, I haven’t used it by myself. If this is my last time in this classroom that means it’s my last chance to use the wheel. The wheel Luke fought so hard for me to have.
I don’t want him to think that was in vain.
I step forward and, before I can second guess myself, rip open the door. The room is pitch black, so I switch on the light and step the rest of the way inside, noting the sudden pulsing of my fingers. It’s like they know. This is happening.
I’m doing this. For Luke.
No, for me.
But Luke is to thank for that.
I put my Adele record on, grab a tub of clay off a shelf, and get to work. I repeat the process I showed the kids, making sure the clay is plenty wet before I start. As I push the clay up into a cone shape a sense of rightness settles over me. I’ve missed this so much. The slick clay runs through my fingers, letting them mold it, and as I do so the tears start to fall. Just a trickle at first, but then they come fast and furious, drenching the clay until I have to stop for fear of oversaturating it into an unusable mess .
I sit at the wheel and sob, my clay-caked hands gathered uselessly on my lap.
I cry because of how Marshall destroyed my self-esteem as an artist and stole my passion for throwing pottery. I cry because God somehow pulled me out of the pit I was in and set me on a right path. I cry because I messed that up too. I cry because I’m sitting at a pottery wheel again and I can feel the fire within me to create something. But most of all I cry because Luke gave me this beautiful gift and I can’t even find him to thank him…to tell him that I love him.
“Hannah?” The sound of my name jolts me from my teary haze. I whip around, hardly daring to believe that it could be him—but it is. It’s Luke.
He’s standing in the doorway and just the sight of him makes my stomach flip.
“You’re here,” I breathe. Then I notice he’s all wet. His shirt is drenched, sticking to him in a way that leaves very little to the imagination. Aka…Luke has very nicely defined pectorals. And also abdominal muscles. Ooh and shoulders!
But I digress.
“You’re all wet,” I state the obvious because, well, see my previous statements re: his pecs and abs.
I’m only human.
“Yeah, I, uh, went for a walk. Needed to do some thinking and praying. Got hit with Miss Sherry’s sprinklers. I was distracted, so I walked right into them.” He looks down over himself and gives a rueful shrug, then looks back at me. “But look at you. You’re at the wheel again.”
“Oh. Right.” I’m suddenly self-conscious. A second ago I’d been dying to ask him what he’d been thinking and praying about, but now I peer at my clay spattered hands and feel the insistent need to explain myself. “I just figured that if the board votes against me this would be my last chance to use it, and well, that seemed like such a waste, you know, since you worked so hard to get it for me.”
I chew my lower lip anxiously as Luke’s tumultuous gaze meets mine. “I did work pretty hard to get you that wheel,” he concurs, but with only a glimmer of a smile. “How did it feel?” He shoves his hands in his pockets, adding ‘nicely defined forearms’ to my list of distractions.
I don’t know what’s wrong with me. It’s like I’m applying the same theory to Luke that I did the pottery wheel—this might be the last time you see Luke, so enjoy the view.
That or my head is just muddled from being in this pottery room; the setting of my Ghost reenactment fantasy.
I blink at him, forcing my brain to wake up and join the conversation. I might lose Luke if this doesn’t go well, so imagining pottery room kisses is going to have to wait. Don’t put the cart before the horse, as the saying goes.
“It would’ve felt amazing,” I say, looking down at my lap, “but something was missing.”
“Oh? And what was that?”
I lift my head and look straight at him. “You.”
Luke sucks in a breath. “Hannah,” his voice is rough as he takes a step into the room. I get to my feet and stride toward him, desperate to have his arms around me, telling me without words that we’re okay again.
No, actually I need the words too. A hug and whispered proclamations of his undying love isn’t too much to ask for…is it?
I have a diary to write in later, after all. Or at least a hypothetical diary.
I’m sure I can dig up a notebook somewhere.
But I don’t get the words or the hug, because Lukes pulls to an abrupt stop as soon as we get within an arm’s length of each other. Then he takes a step back, running a hand through his hair and letting out a groan.
“I never can seem to keep my head on straight around you,” he rumbles soft and low.
“Who said you had to?” I whisper, then, as Luke’s eyes heat and his breath hitches, I realize this sounds a bit forward, like perhaps I’m suggesting he lose his head completely and we make out right here, right now. Which admittedly I would be in total favor of, but was not what I meant. “I mean,” I say quickly because as much as I want to kiss Luke, this is important, “I want you to feel safe with me. Like you can be yourself and not worry that I’ll judge you or whatever. I know I talk a lot about how you’re a pastor so I get worried that dating me is going to cast aspersions on you or whatnot. But I hope you know that regardless of other people’s expectations for you, I certainly don’t expect you to be perfect.”
Luke lets out a very long breath, then takes a step back. “Oh right,” he says ruefully, “that’s why I lose my head around you, because in addition to being so dang beautiful on the outside, you also have the most beautiful heart.”
Goodness. My hand is doing that thing again. The fluttering thing from this morning. I think I might have a tic. A Luke tic.
“But,” Luke goes on, and it’s such a weighted but that my hand immediately drops back to my side, “I need to take some time to sort this whole thing out.” He sighs. “Tonight was…” he searches for the word.
“Horrific?” I suggest. “Terrible. Going to replace showing up to school naked as the subject matter of my future recurring nightmares?”
Luke lets out a weak chuckle. “Yeah, all of those.” He dips his head to the side. “Though my nightmares center more around showing up naked to the pulpit.”
In spite of my angst a laugh bursts out of me. “That would certainly drive up Sunday morning attendance,” I say without thinking, then blush furiously. “I mean,” I stammer but Luke’s face has split into a wicked grin.
“Oh, you think so, do you?” he teases.
“Don’t you flirt with me, mister,” I say, lifting my chin as I attempt to playoff my embarrassment. “Not when two seconds ago you sounded as if you were about to break up with me.”
Whoops. There goes my big mouth again. Luke’s smile vanishes instantly replaced by a chastened frown. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”
No. Nope. Nah-uh. That is most definitely not what he was supposed to say. He was supposed to be all, Break up with you? Are you crazy? Let’s get married!
Or you know, at least the first two bits.
“Oh, so you are,” I clear my throat, but the words still come out croaky, “breaking up with me?”
Do not cry, Hannah, I instruct myself sternly as Luke’s expression turns regretful, signaling that yes, yes he is about to break up with me. Do not cry. Save it all for your imaginary diary.
“I don’t know what else to do, Hannah,” he says sorrowfully. “Tonight as I was walking I was praying for direction, asking God if I should keep fighting for this thing between us when it seems like we keep running into roadblock after roadblock. And for the first time when it comes to my prayers about you and me— I didn’t hear anything.”
“I see,” I whisper, my heart breaking. Now it feels like God is breaking up with me too.
“Hannah,” his voice is full of desperation for me to understand, “I want to be with you, but tonight was a complete disaster.”
Disaster. The word ricochets through me. No. Luke is wrong. Marshall and I, we were a disaster. That’s why I call what happened between us “The Disaster.” Luke and I—we are not a disaster. I open my mouth, suddenly overcome with the urge to fight for us, but he’s still talking.
“I wouldn’t be surprised if the elders want to fire me after yet another scandal. I need to focus on showing them that I want to be here. Which means I need to take some time to address everything that happened tonight and try and fix it. And you’ve got your career stuff to worry about too. Which, of course, I will support you with. I meant what I said in the meeting. Despite everything that happened, I still think you should be the art teacher here. You’re the best person for the job, and I believe God has you here for a reason. How did the meeting end?” he adds. “Did they tell you when they would have a decision for you? ”
Numbly I shrug. “I don’t know. I—uh, left the meeting to come look for you.”
“You did?” he’s shocked.
“Of course,” I say, speaking to my feet, unable to look at him. It just hurts too much. “I was worried about you. It killed me that you might be out there thinking that I knew Marshall was the one who invited the kids to participate in that exhibit or that you might think I actually said yes to having dinner with him! Which I definitely did not!” I say hotly. “I don’t want anything to do with that man. He ambushed me in my classroom one day asking if we could talk, and I in turn asked him to leave.” Tears are threatening to emerge again, but I fend them off with a swipe of my hand, remembering too late that there’s clay all over my hands—and now, surely there’s some on my face as well. Glad I’m going to look super hot during this breakup.
“This isn’t about any of that,” Luke says softly. “I knew you never would have agreed to work with him or have dinner with him.” He steps forward and takes my chin in his hand, tilting it up to him. “That’s not who you are,” he says firmly.
My whole body trembles at his touch, at his affirming words. His eyes flick over to the cheek I just swiped.
“You’ve, uh, got some clay,” he says hoarsely, moving his hand from my chin to my cheek and gently sweeping his thumb across my cheek bone. My breath catches in my throat as all of my senses tunnel in on his nearness. At the sound, Luke stills. His eyes lock on mine, like he’s searching for a reason not to kiss me. But he won’t find one. Pathetic as it makes me, I desperately want to kiss this man who just broke up with me.
Electricity sizzles in the air between us then seems to snap as Luke closes the remaining distance between us, claiming my mouth with his in one swift movement.
His kiss is hungry and fervent. Laced with the urgency of our impending separation. The wetness of his shirt sends a shiver through my body and he hugs me more tightly, warming me with his big body. I lift my hands and wrap them around his neck. He lets out a noise somewhere between a growl and a groan, then his hands find my hair, digging through it as he demands more of me. And I give it willingly, letting him kiss me and kissing him back with the full weight of my need for him.
Screech ! The needle on my record player sticks, making an awful screeching noise that startles us apart. The needle is still stuck, still screeching loudly. So I hurry over and fix it. Adele’s voice fills the room again, oddly on point as she sings about setting fire to the rain.
I switch it off quickly, not wanting Adele to add any more emotion to this turmoil-filled space .
My shirt is damp from Luke, and I pull it off my body as I turn to face him. His chest is heaving and he’s backed all the way up to the doorway again. The guilt and anguish on his face tells me everything I need to know. That kiss changed nothing.
“Hannah, I’m so sor—” he starts, but I cut him off, anger finally rearing its ugly head.
“You know what, just forget about it, Luke,” I bite out the words. “Can you just please go?”
Luke flinches as if I’ve hit him. Good . The viscous thought flits into my head, quickly replaced by a pang of remorse. I don’t mean it, not really. I don’t want to hurt Luke. I just want my own pain to end.
“Yeah, okay,” he says gruffly. “I’ll go.” He turns to leave then pauses with his hand on the door jamb. “I really am sorry, Hannah,” he says without looking back. “You deserve so much better.” Then he’s gone.
I sink back onto my stool and begin to sob.