21. Pearl Davis
21
Pearl Davis
Zane’s house towers proudly in a nice neighborhood. Inside, it’s like stepping into a catalog spread—everything’s shiny and new. The ceilings are so high, and there’s this big open space between the kitchen and the living room. The tile floors sparkle and guide us past some seriously comfy-looking brown leather sofas, with a big TV mounted above the fireplace, practically begging for a movie night with popcorn.
The staircase curves, leading to the upper floor. This isn’t what I pictured when I imagined his house, not that I spent much time thinking about it . For someone who’s always on the road and spends a lot of time practicing, I didn’t expect his house to be so well-coordinated. Despite its impeccable organization, there’s a distinct lack of personal touch. There are no photos, no knick-knacks—just a few ings that look like they could’ve come straight from a gallery. I wonder if he’s the one who painted them. He did mention painting and drawing during the off season.
Robyn and I share a glance, both feeling a bit like fish out of water as we take in the spectacle. Zane, leaning casually against the sleek kitchen island, watches us with that trademark smirk of his. The kitchen itself is a chef’s dream, with walnut-colored cupboards and shiny new appliances, including what looks like the biggest stove I’ve ever seen. Guy must really love to cook.
“You can both say it. It’s too big of a house for one person. I know it too,” Zane remarks, running a hand through his hair—a habit he seems to have when he’s not sure what to do with himself. It’s cute.
“You live here all by yourself? No roomie, no pets?” Robyn asks, her eyes wide with disbelief.
Zane nods, that smirk of his growing even wider. “Just me.”
Robyn gives me the side-eye, probably wondering why I didn’t want to come here with her after Zane pulled a fast one by inviting her instead of me, knowing she’d jump at the chance to hang out with him.
She’s living the dream, getting to chill at the abode of her favorite hockey player, while I’m here still grappling with where I really stand with Zane.
He keeps insisting that we can just be friends, but the tension that crackles between us whenever we’re in each other’s orbit is impossible to ignore.
We both feel it. The electric charge that pulses between us, teases at something more than just friends .
Only a girl who hasn’t been burned by male friendships would trust Zane and his intentions.
But at the same time, he’s been incredibly thoughtful toward both of us. It’s clear he enjoys seeing Robyn happy, and I suspect it’s his subtle way of trying to win me over.
He is standing in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up and the top buttons of his shirt undone. I’m doing my best to avoid looking in his general direction.
“All right, hope you all love chicken fajitas. That’s what I’ve got going on today.” He definitely whipped it up fast, since Robyn and I didn’t prolong our goodbyes after the service like we usually do.
“How did he know?” Robyn squeals, shooting me a wide-eyed glance.
“Lucky guess?” Zane replies, leaning over the sink to rinse his hands.
It’s definitely not luck. I’ve come to realize Zane picks up on a lot of things, including Robyn’s and my Friday night dinners at the Fiesta Grill .
“Please, make yourselves at home,” Zane says warmly, setting down a spread of sizzling fajita fixings on the island.
Robyn and I instinctively head to the fridge for condiments and refreshments, as if it isn’t our first time here.
“Sorry about the makeshift seating. I’m in the middle of giving my dining table a coat of stain,” Zane explains.
I glance behind us and notice there’s ample space for a big circular table. But I didn’t think someone who lives alone would need a dining table.
I settle between Zane and Robyn, with all of us facing the sink, stove, and fridge. It feels a bit awkward, like being back in church or in a classroom—none of us facing each other. We’re all just focused on our plates.
Knowing Zane is right next to me, it’s a bit of a struggle to enjoy these delicious tacos without making a mess.
“Did you paint these?” I finally muster the courage to ask, gesturing toward one of the frames on the wall. It’s a hockey player skating away, the background a blur of motion.
I wonder if there’s a deeper meaning behind this artwork beyond just Zane’s love for hockey.
“Yes, I did these a while back. Haven’t done anything like it since.” I sense nostalgia in the way he says it.
“Why? You’re clearly talented.”
“I second that! You could totally sell your paintings,” Robyn chimes in before adding, “Not that you’d need to.”
He definitely doesn’t need to. His spacious house, filled with tasteful touches of luxury, suggests that he’s already quite well-off. But he should paint because he’s talented and clearly has a passion for it, or at least he used to.
The conversation flows effortlessly between us, and I’m gradually finding myself comfortable around Zane.
He’s really easy to talk to. Between my stories and Robyn’s, I’d say he’s quite the trooper for listening and asking follow-up questions.
But then again, he’s a guy who doesn’t believe in my Lord and Savior. I shouldn’t be focusing on his qualities right now.
What was it like for him to come to church? He mentioned it wasn’t his first time, but it would be his first as an adult .
As if she could read my mind, Robyn asks the question, “So, what did you think of today’s service?”
I slowly turn to watch him respond, the distance between us suddenly feeling too close when our eyes meet.
I can feel the warmth of his body and his smell teases my senses, threatening to drown me if his captivating eyes or infectious smile don’t do me in first.
Zane takes a sip of water, his gaze momentarily drifting to his nearly-empty plate. “I was intrigued, to say the least. I’ve never heard the life of Jesus explained in such a way. He was...” He pauses, searching for the right words. “He was full of love and compassion. I’m beginning to understand why people would want to follow him.”
My heart skips a beat at his words. It’s the first time I’ve heard him speak about Christianity with such openness, and now I’m curious about which part of the sermon changed his perspective.
“You understand?” My eyes lock with his, and for a moment, it feels like the world around us fades away. I forget that Robyn is part of this conversation, the one who prompted him to share all this.
“I’m starting to,” he responds, his gaze holding mine with sincerity before releasing me.
Perhaps it’s just wishful thinking on my part, but I can’t help but feel hopeful. Maybe I’m hoping that if Zane embraces Christianity, there’s a chance for us. After all, there are already so many things I admire about him.
I’ve been down this road before.
All Clay, my ex, had to do was express interest in knowing Jesus, and I opened my heart to him without a second thought. I didn’t even take the time to really pray about it; I simply assumed it was God’s will for me to date him and guide him to Christ. But in the end, he shattered my trust and broke up with me, citing my boundaries as too restrictive. I had made it clear from the start that my commitment to purity was serious, but he dismissed it, and later claimed it was something all the girls he’d been with said in the beginning of a relationship but never actually followed through. And to add insult to injury, he revealed that his interest in Jesus was nothing more than a ploy to win me over.
He never wanted to deepen his relationship with God.
What if Zane’s intentions are no different?
Being here in his house shows that I’ve failed to follow through on my resolve after Clay. Yet, another part of me whispers that Zane may not share my faith, but he’s not deceitful like Clay was. I don’t know why I’m giving that stray thought more weight than it deserves.
Is this how I’m destined to fall again?