18. Chapter 18
Chapter 18
Jon
"You're quiet," Susan says, sitting across from me at one of her favorite restaurants. "You haven't touched your sandwich."
My mind is still reeling after our encounter with Sharon.
"We need to talk," I finally say, being as gentle as possible.
"You don't have to say anything," she says, setting down her fork. "You haven't been the same since the funeral, and now I know why."
"I'm sorry," I begin, but she puts her palm up and stops me mid-sentence.
"I refuse to let you break up with me again, so let me do the honors."
I don't interrupt her, but I look her in the eyes and wait for the inevitable.
"I spoke to my parents last week. I'm moving back to California."
"I'm sorry," I say, feeling wholly responsible for her decision to leave.
She shakes her head before adding, "Don't be. You held out for three years, hoping Sharon would change her mind, and I waited, hoping that time and distance would work in my favor. It's time for me to accept that you can't give me what you don't have. You left your heart with her back in California, and now that she's here, she'll want the rest of you."
When a pang of guilt makes me look away, she asks, "Did I miss anything?"
"I wish things could be different," I say, wishing I could love her.
"You can't force what you don't feel," her tone is filled with such calm finality that I can't help but admire her. "We've been friends pretending to be lovers for a year. Frankly, I'm surprised we lasted this long."
I nod, not knowing what to say because she's right.
"Are you going to look for her?" Her eyes are clear, devoid of any resentment.
"No," I say, surprising both of us.
"Are you just saying that because you want to spare my feelings?"
"Hurting you is the last thing I want to do, but no. I'm just being honest. I'm not going to look for Sharon."
"Eat your sandwich," she says, picking up her fork, "and let me explain why you should."
"Your candor is what I like most about you."
"My candor is what caused our first break-up, remember? We would be married now if I had never told you about Zane."
She's right. In fact, I wonder what life would look like if I had never known about Zane and had never met Sharon.
"So, tell me why I should look for Sharon."
"Because in all the years I've known you, including the time we dated, you never looked at me the way you look at her."
***
A week later, I take Susan to the airport, where we say goodbye and promise to keep in touch. Our fathers are long-time business partners, so I know we'll see each other again.
"Remember what I told you," Susan says before hugging me. "Don't let your male pride keep you from being happy."
When I pull into the church parking lot on Sunday morning, I'm shocked to find Sharon's new car already there. The excitement that stirs inside me is mingled with resentment. Sharon only attended church once when she was living here. I have to wonder whether she's here for God or for me.
"Lord, forgive me for my arrogance," I whisper out loud when God puts me in check by bringing to mind Proverbs 16:18: Pride goes before destruction and a haughty spirit before a fall.
The rest of my time with God doesn't go any better. Today's message is about forgiveness, and I'm squirming in my seat not five minutes into it. I forgave Sharon for breaking my heart just like she forgave me for breaking hers. Forgiving and forgetting are two different things, but not to God. When He forgives us, He also forgets. No matter how hard I try, I can't forget how she walked out of my life without so much as a backward glance and without giving me a chance to explain.
I sit in the back of the auditorium to avoid Sharon, who's sitting towards the front. Her hair is draped around her shoulders. She's wearing a dark green blouse that I'm sure matches her emerald eyes. The teenager I once knew is now a woman, more beautiful than ever. I reach for my tie and pull on it until it's loose around my neck.
As soon as service ends, I make a beeline for the door.
"Hey, Jon!" Patrick's greeting stops me in my tracks.
"Hi, Patrick, how are you?"
"Good, man, I'm doing good. Just confirming we're still on for Wednesday night?"
"Wednesday night?"
"Youth Night."
"That's right. We're playing basketball with the kids from the church."
"Great," he says, handing me a sheet of paper with the list of names.
"A lot of these kids are in my class," I say, looking through the list until I see Sharon's name. "You have Sharon Hansen down as a coach."
"Yes," Patrick says. "She volunteered when I told her we needed one more coach."
"What does Sharon know about basketball?"
Patrick's belly laugh tells me I'm missing something.
"Sharon played basketball for UCLA."
"I didn't know that," I say, realizing there's so much I still don't know about her.
"She's only five foot seven and skinny," Patrick continues, "but she has a quick first step and an impressive outside jumper."
"You sound like a seasoned NBA commentator," I laugh.
"Hi, Jon." Sharon's sweet voice is like hot coals to my pride but like the balm of Gilead to my spirit, having the power to soothe and heal the resentment that's been festering in my heart for years.
I turn around, and when I meet her gaze, I confirm that her eyes match the ruffled blouse she's wearing. I can smell the delicate scent of her hair. Without touching her, I know her pale skin is warm and smooth. I can close my eyes and count all the freckles on her face. Her lips are pink, like the ripest strawberries, and taste like honey. I scold myself for having these ridiculous, romanticized thoughts.
"Hi, Sharon," Patrick's voice ends the awkward silence. "I was just telling Jon about your outside jumper."
She smiles and takes the list from Patrick.
"Are these the teams?"
"Yeah," he says, glancing towards his wife and baby, who are heading in our direction. "I gotta go, guys, but I'll see you both on Wednesday night.”
Sharon waves at Patrick's wife and then turns to me.
"Do you have lunch plans?"
An invitation to lunch? Now that I wasn't expecting.
I step forward, and with only inches between us, I ask, "What are you doing?"
"I'm inviting you to lunch."
"Can I bring Susan?"
The glint in her eyes flickers for an instant, but she recovers quickly.
"You and Susan broke up."
"How do you know that?"
"Cara told me Susan was moving back to California. The breakup was just a guess. See you at Loren's in an hour."
"I never said yes."
"You never said no, either."
"So you're going to assume?"
"I made a peach cobbler last night. I hope it's still your favorite."
She smiles and walks away. I want to go after her and tell her I'm not going, but I don't move because I know there's no way I'm going to stand her up.
***
When she opens the back door, she smiles a genuine smile that almost melts my defenses. Almost.
"I brought vanilla ice cream for the cobbler."
"Come in," she says, pushing the screen door open.
I walk in and over to the refrigerator to put the ice cream in the freezer.
"Do you want iced tea or lemonade?"
"I'll have lemonade. What about you?"
"I'll have some lemonade too."
I pull the pitcher of lemonade out of the refrigerator and two glasses from the cupboard.
After pouring some lemonade into each glass, I put them on the table and sit.
Sharon is wearing a tank top and denim shorts that show off her long, lean legs. She's moving around the kitchen, putting together what she'll need to make lunch.
"I bought a panini press earlier this week," she says. "I thought I'd try it today. Is roast beef and cheese okay?"
"Can I help with anything?"
"Since this is a hot sandwich, I think a green salad would go well with it."
"Okay. I'll make a salad."
I walk back to the refrigerator and grab lettuce, cucumbers, mushrooms, and shredded carrots.
"Here's a tomato," she says, "I got some at the farmers’ market."
Our fingers touch when she hands it to me, and I feel a jolt of electricity course through me.
She plugs in the sandwich press, turns the dial on, and then leans against the counter. God, I want to touch her, but I refuse.
"I have something for you," she says.
"What?" I ask.
"When I came in here last weekend, I found an envelope on the counter addressed to me. There were two letters inside from Loren, one for each of us."
She straightens and pulls open a drawer. She hands me the envelope addressed to me. I recognize Loren's handwriting.
"Thank you," I say. "I'll read it later."
I fold it in half and slip it into my back pocket. I wash my hands and rinse the tomato before pulling out a cutting board and slicing the vegetables.
"You really know your way around this kitchen," she says.
"I spent a lot of time here with Loren."
"I miss her," she says.
"I miss her too. I spoke to her a couple of days before she passed. She was weak but remained as positive and wonderful as ever."
"I was there that night," she says. "Talking to you on the phone was what she looked forward to the most."
"I met her when I needed a true friend. She gave me advice about life, work, and family, and she put up with the nightmares I had in the middle of the night."
"But you slept in the guesthouse,"
"She could hear me from her bedroom. I probably kept her up many nights, but she never complained."
She looks away, probably recalling the time I woke her up when I was having a nightmare.
"Do you still get them?" Her question surprises me. I didn't think she cared.
"I haven't had one in a couple of years. Therapy helps."
"I'm glad."
I nod, not having anything to add.
I watch her prepare the sandwiches. She brushes olive oil on one side of each slice of bread and then spreads mayonnaise on the other. She tops them high with thin slices of roast beef, tomato, and provolone before placing them on the preheated press and closing the lid.
I finish slicing the cucumbers and add them to a big bowl with the lettuce, mushrooms, and tomatoes.
I stare at my plate when she sets it in front of me.
She takes a bite of her sandwich and nods, signaling it's good.
"Sharon, why am I here?" I ask, feeling the knot in the pit of my stomach slowly unraveling.
She chews briefly and sips her lemonade before answering my question.
"Because I thought I should feed you before I apologize."
"You're going to apologize?" My words sound bitter. "You're about four years too late."
"I've been sorry for a long time." Her emerald green gaze is filled with sincerity.
"Have you ever heard of a phone?"
"I don't have an excuse."
"The only reason you're here is because you had to move back to New York in order to collect on your inheritance. If Loren hadn't left you this house, I would've never heard from you again. Tell me I'm wrong."
Her silence speaks volumes and fills me with frustration.
"I've been waiting four years to tell you what happened that day, four years living with the guilt and regret associated with it— that ends today."
"I'm sorry," she says, her green eyes wide and filled with surprise.
"I waited day after day after day. I waited months and then years for you to reach out. For you to be ready to hear me out, but that day never came."
"I'm here now," her words sound hollow after all this time, but I don't care. I've been waiting four years to tell her what I remember, and I'm not leaving this house until I do.
"I have no memory of the days before the accident, so I don't know how Jimmy's knife ended up in my pack. I don't even know if I'm the one who took it. What I do remember is that I tried to save him. I had a hold of his life jacket," I curl my hand into a fist, recalling how I tried to hang on with every ounce of strength. "I was pulling him out when a wave slammed into me, and that's when I dislocated my shoulder and couldn't hold on. The force of the wave knocked me off my feet, and I fell, plunging into the ocean. I was sandwiched between two thirty-ton vehicles. It felt like I was getting hit by a semi-truck over and over again. I fractured my ribs and broke my collarbone, and when I hit my head, I lost consciousness. By the time they pulled me out, I had no pulse, and they had to perform CPR to bring me back. I almost drowned, but I would've gladly given my life to save his. I've had to relive that nightmare in my dreams for all these years. I wanted to tell you. I wanted to explain and make you understand. I wanted you to believe me, but you didn't care enough to hear me out. I don't know what you're expecting by showing up here, in my home, like nothing ever happened. Like you didn't judge me and walk out on me, putting all the blame and weight of that day solely on my shoulders. And for the record, I tried to tell you, and the only reason why I didn't was because you refused to listen. And you had the gall to blame me for that, too."
"You're right," her voice is a low whisper.
"Then why did you let me live with the burden of guilt, thinking you never forgave me?"
"I'm sorry," she says on the verge of tears.
I stand and push my chair in with such force that it scrapes the floor and makes a loud thump on the edge of the table, causing it to shift and Sharon to jump in her seat.
"Goodbye, Sharon," I say, walking out the door.
The walk back to the house is not long enough for me to calm down. I never expected to lose my cool the way I did. Sharon's look of shock and the tears welling up in her eyes were enough to shame me to my core. I wanted to comfort her and apologize, but my pride won. Now I feel like an idiot.
The house doesn't feel the same without my parents and Noah here. I decide to go for a long run and go up to my bedroom, where I empty my pockets and find Loren's letter. I open the envelope and pull out the single sheet of paper.