Chapter 34
Thirty-Four
ambivalent (adj.): having simultaneous and contradictory attitudes or feelings toward something or someone
Lucy
Wednesday morning, I arrive to find Sam out front wearing his sheepskin jacket and scattering ice-melt. Yesterday’s rain turned into today’s frozen death trap, giving me just the excuse I needed to dig out my adorable fur-lined snow boots.
Winter wear makes me happy like few other things do.
Sheesh. I can’t seem to regulate the beam that wants to shine out through my eyes and betray me as someone who’s both entertaining romantic ideas and questioning the wisdom of them.
Let’s be honest. This whole line I’m feeding myself about deepening my friendship with Lieutenant Wyatt Hayes is a ruse. These sensations whenever I’m in his presence signal something more, something hoped-for.
And now we’ve calendared a hike this weekend, weather permitting.
My stomach is filled with tiny, mischievous fairies guzzling prosecco and tickling each other.
Think, Lucy. If a friend came to me for advice about this situation, what would I tell them?
That’s easy enough. I’d say, Talk to me about any red flags, and talk to me honestly.
Because I would never in a million years want someone I cared about to experience anything at all close to what I’ve experienced.
Life is too precious to waste on the wrong thing. Singleness beats selling out every time.
Let she who has ears to hear, listen.
The thing is, with Wyatt, I’m starting to wonder if the only red flags are on my side.
Ugh. Lately I’m completely incapable of accessing my rational line of thinking for more than three minutes. There’s something about our unexpected friendship that turns my brain into marzipan.
“I know what you’re smiling about this morning,” Dot singsongs. Her eyes brim with mischief.
Perfect. I feel my face redden.
“When am I not smiling?”
“Mm-hmm.”
“Maybe I got Wordle on the first try.”
Dot holds up a stack of this week’s fresh-off-the-press Messenger. The one featuring a photo I shot of Steph rappelling out at Smith Rock, along with the accompanying article. And there’s my name, right beneath Meg’s.
“Or maybe a certain talented friend of mine got her first front-page byline. Lucy, I’m so stinking proud of you!”
I release a pent-up breath. “Oh, that. Yep, you caught me. It feels pretty special.” I flip the page on my desk calendar. And it really does.
But now I’m stunned. Well, look what snuck up on me. October 21.
Five years to the day.
As Mom likes to say, God is so funny.
“Hold up. It’s something else, isn’t it? Talk to me, Lucy. Did something happen with that charming bike cop? That’s it. It’s all over your face. I saw him riding downtown the other day, and—oh my. I—wait. Are those tears?”
Are they?
“What is it, hon?”
I take off my glasses and press on my eyes. “Oh Dot, I’m so confused. Did I ever tell you that not long after I moved here, I dated a guy for a little while? It didn’t go well.”
“You never mentioned it.”
Of course I hadn’t. I was a silo. A potted plant with a popsicle stick garden marker that read “Doesn’t mingle well with others.”
Dot strokes my upper arm. “What didn’t go well, hon?”
“Let’s just say my booby prize, my parting gift from those years with Devin, was that I only knew how to behave in a toxic relationship.
It bled over into my new relationship. This time, I was the carrier.
I was the insecure one, sabotaging things.
” I swipe my eyes, wipe them on my jeans.
“Like, I had no idea how to be normal within the context of a healthy romantic relationship. What if I still don’t? ”
“Is it possible it was just too soon?”
“For sure it was way too soon. In some ways, that’s how I discovered how messed-up I was. But, Dot, how do I know it won’t happen again?”
“Well, for starters, you don’t. You don’t know.
Love uncovers our vulnerabilities. It’s bound to.
It’s meant to. But that doesn’t mean you’re not ready to work through those things if they do come up.
” Dot places an entire box of tissues in my hands.
“Aw, honey. Maybe it’s scary because it’s unfamiliar. Not because you’re incapable.”
It’s entirely possible all I really needed today was one of Dot’s supersquishy hugs. And later, when a Zebra Cake appears at my station, I do feel like somehow everything is going to be okay.
Besides, she’s right. There is ample reason to celebrate today.
***
“What’d ya think about this week’s letters, Montgomery?” Sam asks, reappearing from a lunch break at home with Noleen.
Oof. Truth is, I’d rather not revisit this week’s letters to the editor. So much ranting. So little in the way of constructive ideas. Where’s the call to a better way forward?
I twist my mouth sideways.
Sam nods, signaling me to follow him into his office. “Yep. We all have things we’d like to get off our chests, but there comes a point when bellyaching is sour to the point of toxic.”
“Mmm,” I say. “It’s easy to look at current events through a lens of fear.” Here I’m thinking of Savannah. “Or cynicism.” Here I picture Brad working his ever-present toothpick. And the Grumblies down at Sweet Reads. “None of which is particularly helpful.”
Sam rests his forehead in his hand. I hate seeing him so despairing. Life is hard. Suffering is real. Which is why, if I have anything to say about it, encouragement must never, ever fall out of fashion.
“I get it, though,” I say. “We imagine ourselves helpless. I mean, I’m in no position to right all the world’s wrongs. I have to believe there are things I can do to bring more goodness to it.”
Planted by streams of water, always blooming, constantly yielding fresh fruit, never dropping a leaf.
I straighten a haphazard pile of papers, allowing the mini pumpkin to resurface. “It may sound trite,” I continue, “but I can be kind. That’s not nothing, right? I can offer some form of comfort, especially to those suffering the kind of things I’ve survived.”
This. This is exactly why I’ve long felt the need to tell my story. Except, the way I see it more often lately, the better goal is to press more deeply into my faith. Trust that God will redeem the previous chapters as I allow him to write the next.
Sam squints. “Tell me more about that.”
So I do. It feels amazing to unfurl my bottled-up thoughts on receptive ears.
“Can you give me seven hundred words by Friday?”
“Oh, you mean—” I imagine myself strolling the sidewalks downtown, initiating conversation with random folks on the street, posing just the right question to elicit meaningful responses.
Would it be hard to find quotable, like-minded people in Charity Falls?
It would be interesting to try. “You want an article?”
“No, Montgomery. I want your thoughts. I’m talking about an opinion piece. We need an antithetical voice. Heaven knows there’s enough derisive commentary out there already. On balance—and that’s the goal here, balance—on balance, your perspective is essential.”
Is that anise and amaretto I smell? I’m fairly certain I sense Nana Lucia smirking down from her place of heavenly abode while kneading biscotti dough.
Yeah, yeah, Nana, I know. I know.