Chapter Fifteen
FORTY-EIGHT HOURS HAVE passed since I last saw him.
It depends on whether I wake up crying or I’m up all night and still crying.
I feel like I’m losing my mind, and Dane seems to think so too, because when I finally work up the courage to visit him, he looks at me like I’m the one who recently got shot, not him.
“What happened to you?”
“Um, you look good too, thanks.”
His hospital room is standard-issue depressing: beige walls, fluorescent lighting, a window with a view of the parking structure.
Get-well cards line the windowsill, and there’s a half-eaten cup of Jell-O on his tray table that makes my artist brain want to sketch it as a still life titled “Institutional Despair.”
Dane shakes his head, and it’s only when he turns that I belatedly realize he’s not alone.
“Mira, this is Pastor Chandler, my grief counselor.”
Oh!
The guy whose organization’s business card Dane gave me!
The pastor rises from the visitor’s chair—a kind-faced man in his sixties with silver hair and the sort of gentle eyes that make you want to confess things you didn’t even know you were hiding.
“Pastor, this is Mira.”
Is it just me, or did Dane give the good pastor a meaningful look?
“Ah, so you are Mira.”
So it wasn’t just me then.
“Whatever he’s told you, Pastor, it’s absolutely—”
“I’m very sorry about your loss, my dear. Dane has been telling me how kindhearted you are.”
“—just Dane being nice,” I manage to finish, and I ignore the way Dane smirks. I usually love him like a brother, but there are times like this when I’m incredibly tempted to give him a little kick. Maybe I would have, too, if he wasn’t the one wearing a hospital gown between the two of us.
“How are you faring?”
His choice of words makes me smile despite myself. He makes me feel like I’m talking to C.S. Lewis, but in Christian mode, not Narnian.
“I’m...surviving.” I feel like I have to be honest, since it’s an honest-to-goodness pastor I’m talking to, and one who legit has Jesus in his heart.
Pastor Chandler nods in understanding. “Because of your beau.”
Like...ribbons?
“He’s also confined here, if I’m not mistaken?”
Oh, now I get it. And the moment I realize he’s talking about Zacharie—
No no no.
Don’t do it.
Don’t.
But it’s too late.
My face has already started to crumple. “I just miss him.”
“Then why not go to him?”
“I can’t.”
“Is he still under intensive care?”
I shake my head.
“Have you had a misunderstanding?”
“I had to leave him.” It’s a struggle to get the words out when sobs keep clogging my throat. “I keep putting him in danger.”
“And what did he say when you told him that?”
“I didn’t.”
“What did you tell him then?”
“I lied.” The confession scrapes out of me like broken glass. “I told him I didn’t want to stay with him. So he’d give up trying to take care of me.”
And now I’ll never ever see him again, and the thought hurts so, so bad I can barely breathe.
“I’m sure there are more factors at play than what you’re telling us,” Pastor Chandler says gently. “But do you know what I can say for certain right now?”
I shake my head.
“You have a good and loving heart. But you’re trying to carry a burden that’s not designed for your shoulders to handle.
Nor his, for that matter.” He leans forward slightly, his voice warm but firm.
“We can always try to be more careful. We can always try to change for the better. But who continues to live for another day was never our choice. Do you believe in God, Mira?”
Tears fall endlessly down my cheeks as I nod.
“And do you believe that everything He does is good?”
“Y-Yes.”
“And everything He allows to happen and wants to happen is also good?”
Memories wash over me as he speaks, and all I can do is nod as my tears fall faster. I remember the days I spent with Zacharie, and they’re all...good. So, so good.
“Now, I don’t know what God will impress upon your heart and your beau’s, but because our God does not lie, and He is always faithful to His promises, when He says the truth shall set us free—”
Oh.
“Maybe we can start with that?”
OH.
Everything’s suddenly terrifyingly but also wonderfully clear, and Dane and Pastor Chandler just laugh as I speak in a rush while scrambling to leave.
I’m not sure I was coherent, to be honest. I just wanted them to understand that they’re a blessing to me, and I hope to treat them to dinner one day, but right now I have to go, like ASAP.
Eden was kind enough to text me his room number two days ago—back when I still had the courage to read messages from anyone connected to him—and so I know where to go. I find myself biting my nails while the elevator slowly makes its way to the top floor.
This is going to sound really bad, but since I’m the type to blend into the background rather easily, I’ve never had the need to say sorry much, and that’s why I’m not sure if I’ll do this right?
I’m only halfway done with the recipe for my humble pie when the elevator doors slide open with a cheerful ding that feels wildly inappropriate for the magnitude of what I’m about to do.
The hallway stretches before me, all polished floors and muted lighting and the faint smell of expensive flowers masking hospital antiseptic.
My heart is pounding so hard I can barely hear anything beyond it.
1.
1.
1.
120—
“Ms. de los Reyes?”
Private security materializes out of nowhere to block my path, two men in dark suits with earpieces, their faces professionally blank.
And then I notice the others.
Of course there’s press. A billionaire getting shot is news.
Photographers and reporters cluster at the end of the hallway, held back by velvet ropes like this is some kind of red carpet event instead of a hospital wing. The moment security says my name, they sense something is about to unfold, and the next thing I know, all cameras are pointed at me.
Flashes explode.
Questions erupt.
I dig my nails into my palms. Fear of being embarrassed tempts me to turn back and just try another time, but after everything that’s happened, how do I even know there will be another time?
And so I swallow hard and muster the courage to keep talking. “Could you, um, pass a message—”
“We apologize.” The security guard’s voice is flat. Rehearsed. “We’ve been told not to interrupt Mr. Lacroix at all costs, as he is currently with his girlfriend.”
His...girlfriend?
He already has...a girlfriend?
My Zacharie...is already someone else’s?
Camera flashes turn into starbursts, bleeding across my vision like watercolors in the rain. The polished floor seems to ripple beneath my feet, and I can hear the reporters shouting questions, but their voices have gone distant and strange, like hearing the world through water.
Did I get it wrong, God?
The thought rises up from somewhere deep and desperate, clawing at the inside of my chest.
Was Zacharie simply meant to be a lesson about being true?
But You...never meant him to be mine?