Chapter 69
CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE
Here she comes. It’s time.
My heart hammers. My mouth dries. I don’t know what I’m doing except giving her another multiple-choice option, as she would say. No more second-guessing.
I nod to the choir behind me—my new friends willing to spend an hour practicing a song they barely know for a girl they’ve never met.
Leader Girl counts us in—“One, two, three, four”—and I bravely launch into “Life with You” by Walker Hayes.
The same song Sophie picked the first time she gave me a chance at this.
My soloist’s killing it back there, looping the hook like she was born for the stage.
Sophie’s jaw is on the ground. She’s eerily still. Not smiling.
By the time I finish the chorus, I’m about to call Kit and Mia down to revive her. The only part of her moving is the wisps of hair the wind pulls around her face.
I’d planned a strategy for when we were back on campus, but the wait was murdering me.
I thought the coincidence of meeting an entire choir was God doing me a solid.
It’s been near impossible to stay away from her the last two days, but I have plenty of practice waiting for the right time.
And I’ve made such a mess—perfect timing is a must.
Unlike water tower night, I’m not here to convince her. Whatever she says, I’ll accept it. But I’m dying for her forgiveness. And another chance to be the one to hold her, to care for her, to make her smile? I just want to be with her. I had to at least ask. Maybe it’s not too late.
I step forward, reach for her—shouldn’t do that—yank my hand back. “Soph? Say something?”
The choir’s background “oohs” while I sang to Sophie … I thought she would like it.
After my talk with Levi on Thursday, I found Archie.
He said he’d take me to his gym, but a few questions later I was shuffling around the block instead, praying, hearing that nudge again to go away and pray.
So Friday I drove Chelsea’s SUV up to the mountains with Archie’s Bible on the seat beside me.
Up there, on the hiking trail he’d recommended, in the clear air and pine trees and the silence, I felt God with me. That day was magic. Just me and the Boss, who insists I call him Dad. Not because I’ve done enough. Not because I have it all together. Just because I’m his.
Ten minutes into my hike, I was falling to my knees in the slushy snow, re-surrendering to him. I can’t explain it except to say he welcomed me back with open arms. Like a father running out to his prodigal. And he spent the day whispering to me. Austin. My son.
When I finally dropped the armor I’d been scrambling to hold up, I got real honest. About the fact that Sophie’s going to end up with a sinner no matter what. About the fact that she’s not perfect either, and I can’t worship her, no matter how special she is.
I can’t ache for her for one more day without telling her the truth. I want her all the time, no matter what. That kind of love—it’s this vivid, electric picture of how God feels about me. But I’ve been forcing it into a box it was never meant to sit in.
I’ll never forget the gravity of my choices that day—worshipping her beauty, myself, what I wanted. And yet, if the God of the universe can take me back and call me his anyway … maybe Sophie could too. Maybe she could learn to love the new me. The less impressive but also less breakable me.
I still don’t want her to compromise. I still want her to have everything.
But how ridiculous was it to think I could be the one to give her everything?
That’s her Savior’s job. Still … what if I could be his hands and feet?
The one to remind her how precious she is.
How treasured. How alive and golden and wanted.
It didn’t take more than an hour to get back to the truth, but I stayed out there all day, talking to him out loud.
Just me and God and snow-crunching silence.
We talked about what football meant to me and how it’s time to let it go.
We talked about Dad. About who I am when I’m not earning it all. And my soul … breathed again.
As I warmed up in Archie’s car, I read the story of the woman who anointed Jesus’s feet. This part sent a zap through me—“Therefore, I tell you, her many sins have been forgiven—as her great love has shown. But whoever has been forgiven little loves little.”
I took Jesus for granted. I thought I was on top of things, that I had it under control on my own.
I thought I had to handle it, that I needed to earn my place.
But now that I’ve fully bombed my life, I can see what a mess I am.
How needy and broken I’ve always been. I have so much to be forgiven for, and I love him so much more for taking me back.
I’m overcome with hope for his plans for me.
But right now? Sophie’s standing in front of me, gaping in horror. Almost like when I asked her out the first time. Then again …
“What’s happening?” she finally asks, eyes firmly on the girls behind me.
I planned every word of this, but my mind goes blank. “I love you, Sophie. I’m sorry. I needed”—my voice catches—“I needed you to have everything.”
I press the bridge of my nose. I’m not making sense.
Please give me the words.
“You must know this now—I’m not who I was before.
Who I thought I was. I couldn’t make it work.
I wanted so badly to convince you, to captivate you, to be enough.
But I’m not. I can’t do it all. So I tried to let you go.
I wanted you to have better than me. I tried so hard to give you space to move on.
But you deserve to know how loved you are.
How admired. How missed. How dark the world is without you.
I shouldn’t have hidden it from you. I shouldn’t have decided for you.
There’s so much I don’t know, Soph. But I’m sure about this—you’re it for me. My all or none.”
She still won’t look at me. Studies the packed snow between us instead.
“If you gave me another chance, I’d love you the best I could.
I’m learning, and I … I’m so sorry.” I drag a hand through my hair.
“Whatever you need, that’s what I want. Even if that’s not me.
But you deserve to know the truth. You should get to decide for yourself.
I’m sorry I let you think I was angry at you.
We made a mess, but we did it together, and I’ve only ever loved you. ”
She gestures to the girls behind me. “But …”
“Oh.” I hold out a weak arm. “This is a choir I met. From Lincoln, Nebraska, right?”
They cheer in dramatic high-pitched voices.
I send them a smile that costs me. “Thanks so much, ladies. Y’all sounded great.”
More cheering.
Sophie’s lips purse. Another bad sign.
Someone pipes up behind me. “Say yes! Take him back!”
“If you don’t, I will. That boy is fire.”
Sophie scoffs.
I rub my eyes. Not helping.
The choir girls laugh and jabber a mile a minute.
Sophie moves her weight from boot to boot. Her brows bend down in suspicion. She won’t look my direction. “We need to talk, but …”
Finally. Words. But her voice is too neutral. Not the lilting voice of happy Sophie. She turns to the girls behind me for the millionth time. Look at me, Soph. Let me see your eyes.
“Yeah?” I can barely hear myself with the racket behind me. I tilt forward, desperate for a better reply than I’m expecting, a better reply than I deserve.
But she’s yours. Not mine. I can trust you with her. You’ll take care of her. You’ll give her everything she needs.
Furrowed brow, she stares at my middle, my boots, my hands.
She opens her mouth, like the words won’t come out.
Her sweet, perfect mouth that I kissed and treasured.
The mouth that told me a thousand stories and laughed with me and comforted me and trusted me with her secrets.
I step forward again—close enough to feel the warmth I’m missing, close enough to see the way her lashes flutter like she might cry.
I’m dying to close the gap, to erase the space with my hands, with my lips.
But I stop myself, muscle my hands back to my sides. Let her choose. Let God choose.
She’s so special, so wonderful, so alive, so beautiful. Love for her explodes out of my heart like a volcano.
But the lava burns on impact.
A slow head shake. Her eyes fill, and my gut fills at equal pace with desperation. My legs go limp.
I did this.
Austin. My son.
A sob hovers in my throat. I fight to stay upright.
You’ll make this okay. You’ll make me okay. Whatever she needs. Whatever you pick.
I drag my gaze away.
She’s yours. I trust you with her.
Yours.