Chapter 3
Brandon
My hands slide down the bathroom door as Evie runs away, leaving me high and dry—yet again. My forehead bumps against the wood as I whisper a prayer I’ve uttered at least a thousand times before. Lord, please help me break through to her.
A sharp, accusing voice tells me I deserve this. That what I did was unforgivable.
Closing my eyes, I breathe through my nose as I push the unhelpful thoughts out of my mind.
As much as I want to believe that, I know it’s a lie.
The only voice I should be listening to is the Lord’s—and His voice convicts, never condemns.
His voice comforts, guides, brings clarity and peace of mind.
That other voice makes my heart race. My blood boil. My head swim with confusion and contempt for myself. It’s either my voice or the Enemy’s. I’m not sure which. Maybe a blend of the two. Either way, it’s a convincing voice all the same.
I’m still trying to regulate my breathing and clear my mind long enough to whisper another prayer when I hear Evie’s father shouting. I listen closer, wondering if I should make a move now or wait.
Evie, always one to hold her own, raises her voice right back. “Oh, I forgot. Everything is always my fault, isn’t it?”
“Don’t be such a drama queen.”
Great. They’re arguing. Lord, what do I do? I can’t just hide out here until they’re done. They’ll know I heard every word. But I can’t interrupt, either. That’s even more awkward.
I don’t hear Evie’s response, but her father’s voice rises again. “You were rude to her, Evie. I won’t hear another word. You will apologize to her.”
“I’m going to have to interrupt them, aren’t I?” I can’t just stand here and listen to their interpersonal drama. Evie would kill me. I’m skating on thin ice with her as it is.
Well, let’s be honest. I’ve already fallen through the ice. I’m fighting the undertow at this point.
Sighing deeply, I wrench the door open and move down the hall, mentally blocking their voices out to give them some degree of privacy. I keep my eyes on the floor as I round the corner and make my appearance—just in time for Evie to blow up.
“For once in your life, Dad, just leave me alone.”
Richard’s face goes from tan to red in two seconds flat.
His chest inflates with air, and his mouth opens as if he’s about to give her a verbal reprimanding—when his gaze suddenly shifts to me.
When he spots me dithering in the dining room doorway like a fool, the fight leaves his eyes.
“Brandon, son.” He props his hands on his belt. “I didn’t realize you were still here.”
“I’m sorry to interrupt.” I jerk a thumb over my shoulder. “I just had to use the restroom before heading out.”
Richard nods and backs up a step. I have to walk between him and Evie to get to the front door, and I feel the scorch of Evie’s disgusted glare as I pass by.
They follow me down the hall. Maggie appears in the kitchen doorway along with Francine, Richard’s wife.
Everyone looks about as uncomfortable as I feel.
“Thanks for having me,” I say, shrugging my coat on.
The door squeaks as Richard opens it. “Thanks for coming. It was great seeing you.”
“It was my pleasure.” I give Maggie a quick hug and a peck on the cheek, then do the same for Francine. “Thank you for the meal, Maggie. It was delicious.” Finally, I turn to Evie, whose arms are crossed and face is downcast.
When I lean in close, her arms drop limply to her sides, almost like she’s lost feeling in them.
She gasps under her breath when my lips make contact with her cheek.
“And thank you, Spitfire,” I whisper into her ear, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.
“I know you had more to do with dinner than you let on.”
She doesn’t respond, and Richard gives me a quick, affectionate clap on the shoulder before I slip out.
When the door clicks closed behind me, I breathe a heavy sigh of relief.
As a child and adolescent psychiatrist, I’ve mediated countless arguments between family members, but I haven’t experienced something that intense in a long time.
The frigid air nips my skin as I walk down the sidewalk, wondering when I’ll get the chance to speak to Evie again.
It’s been so long since she’s let me get that close.
She barely looks at me these days, let alone speaks to me or allows me to get her alone long enough to hold a meaningful conversation.
She won’t even answer my calls or texts anymore.
Can you blame her?
My phone buzzes in my back pocket, and I fish it out, hoping it’s who I think it is. My mood brightens. Cora Jacobs. Swiping right, I accept the video call.
“Daddy!”
“Hey, sweet boy,” I croon, grinning so hard it feels like my face might split. My three-year-old son, Theodore Timothy Wright, is the light of my life. His rosy cheeks are covered in mashed potatoes and gravy. “Are you enjoying your Thanksgiving dinner?”
He shows me his mucky hands and flashes a toothy smile. “Yes!”
I chuckle. “What’s your favorite food so far?”
His head tilts with a cheeky grin. “Mashed potatoes and gravy.”
Cora angles the phone toward her and her husband, Malcolm. “Theo has been missing Daddy today. Right, Teddy?” She turns the phone back toward our toddler.
Teddy bangs his hands against the table in response, knocking the bowl of mashed potatoes over the edge. Food catapults onto his face and into Cora’s hair. He laughs like that was his intent, and I’ve no doubt it was. The ornery little rascal.
“Really?” Cora groans. “Again?”
That’s my boy. “You love making a mess, don’t you, son?”
He responds with another wide, toothy smile, and I laugh.
“Are you excited to see Daddy next weekend, Teddy?” Cora asks.
Teddy squeals, and I laugh again, unable to contain my own joy as I push my front door open. Silence greets me on the other side. Coming home to this big, empty house never fails to inspire mixed feelings, especially considering my son is with his mother when it was my turn to have him . . .
I’m about to step inside when a blue Corolla blazes down the road, rock music blaring.
Evie.
Frowning, I watch her car come to a screeching halt at the stop sign at the end of the road. Strange . . . Evie isn’t a reckless driver. But then again, she’s upset right now.
Shame and regret coil around my heart as I stare at her license plate. SPTFRE. Spitfire. The nickname Jamie gave her when she was just an outgoing kid with a hilarious, spunky personality and a whole lot of pent-up anger.
Every time I look at my best friend’s little sister, all I see are my past mistakes, outlined and underlined in red. Of all the terrible things I’ve done, Evie is my biggest regret. My most selfish mistake.
She hates me. And I deserve it.
Lord, when will she forgive me? Do I even deserve her forgiveness?
When she peels around the corner, tires screeching, the urge to follow her flickers inside my chest like an emergency beacon. The forecast calls for heavy snow, and emotional driving can be as unsafe as driving under the influence.
I rush toward my car. “Hey, Cora? Can I call you back?”
“Oh, sure. Better yet, can we talk tomorrow? It’s almost Teddy’s bed time.”
“No problem.” I fling my car door open, willfully ignoring the familiar pang of resentment in my gut at the thought of losing more time with my son. Dropping into the seat, I turn the key in the ignition and pull out of the driveway.
Cora angles the phone toward Teddy.
“Bye, son. We’ll talk tomorrow, okay? I love you.”
“Love you, Daddy.” Those three simple words make my heart flutter like it has wings.
If Evie is my biggest regret, Teddy is my greatest joy. He might have been the result of a mistake, but he is a miracle. Every road that led to him is a good one, and I regret nothing about the nature of his conception.
Still, the guilt over my absence hits me square in the chest as he smiles at me like I’m his superhero. Sadly, I’m no Superman. I can’t help but worry that one day Teddy might wake up and start resenting me for not giving him what every child deserves—a family unbroken by sinful mistakes.
“Say bye to Daddy!” Cora sing songs, her face untainted by worry over her role in our son’s life. Oh, to sleep easy at night knowing your son will love you unconditionally simply because you’re his mother.
A mother is not as easily replaced as a father.
“Bye, Daddy.”
The disappointment in his voice breaks my heart.
“Bye-bye, baby,” I murmur a second too late as Cora hangs up, leaving a loud, painfully empty silence in my purring Acura.
It’s a silence I’ve grown accustomed to.
Ignoring the ache in my chest, I focus on the road, weaving up and down a couple of streets until I spot Evie’s Corolla again.
She’s driving aimlessly; there’s no clear order to her madness as she races up and down the blocks.
I keep my distance until she makes a turn onto the highway that heads out of town.
It’s snowing now, making it difficult to hang back without losing her in the haze.
But I’m unwilling to inch even a centimeter closer to her.
Genevieve Montgomery is independent to a fault; she’d deck me if she found out I was following her around—and not just because the very idea would insult her.
She wouldn’t want me putting myself at risk when I have Teddy to think about.
She loves that little boy like he’s her own.
Her genuine concern for the well-being of others is one of the many, many reasons I love her.
However, that admirable quality is a double-edged sword for her; she can’t seem to clock off.
She’s constantly putting her own needs on the back burner.
Evie is burnt out, and she’ll end up working herself into an early grave if she doesn’t learn to accept help and take a day off now and then.
Our local DJ is telling me to stay off the roads now as the snow pummels from the sky.
After a few more minutes of hoping she’ll turn around and head back home, I try calling her, but of course she doesn’t answer.
Sometimes I wonder why I even bother, but the thought never lingers.
I won’t stop pursuing her until she forgives me. Or until one of us is dead.
Whichever comes first.
Evie’s Corolla is fast approaching a T-junction, where an SUV is waiting at the light. Now’s about the time she should tap on her brakes if she wants to avoid causing a rear-end collision. But when her brake lights don’t come on, my heart plummets to my toes.
Still, I have confidence in her. She’s not one to text and drive. Any second now, she’ll tap her brakes. Except she doesn’t, and her car continues barreling forward—as if she’s planning on plowing through both the light and the car waiting patiently beneath it.
It’s one thing to drive past a car accident. It’s another to witness one happen.
And it’s something else entirely when you know a loved one is in the car that’s on a direct collision course with another.
Hands death gripping the wheel, a strangled yell escapes my throat as Evie’s Corolla narrowly misses the tailgate of the SUV.
She swerves, but the damage is done. Time seems to crawl to a standstill as that tiny hunk of metal she’s trapped inside of shoots into the ditch, where it then flips onto its side and rolls once, twice, three times.
The metal hood buckles. Her windshield shatters.
My heart stops. After what feels like both an eternity and no time at all, her car screeches to a halt.
I’m tempted to panic, but this is Evie. There’s no time for that.
Pulling to the side of the road, I tell Siri to dial 9-1-1, then go through the motions of informing the dispatcher of what’s happened and where we are.
Then I jump out of the car, every muscle in my body tugging me toward this stubborn, caring, witty, beautiful young woman that I love more than words could ever express.
Dear God, please tell me she was wearing her seatbelt!
It isn’t until I’m sliding down the icy embankment where Evie’s car is resting upside down, windows smashed, terrified she’s dead—that I begin to agonize over what might greet her soul on the other side of death.