Chapter 13
Evie
“Hey! Slow down there, Speedy Gonzalez,” Adam hollers, drawing more unwanted attention to me as he hustles across the restaurant.
I laugh at his lame joke, allowing him to grab the door for me so I can hobble the rest of the way into the dimly lit pizza parlor.
The mouthwatering smell of greasy sausage and melted cheese envelopes me like a warm hug as I step inside, and I sigh longingly, eager to gorge myself after the busy morning I’ve had.
I overslept my alarm, so I didn’t have time to eat a proper breakfast.
“Want me to get the waiter to move us closer to the front?” Adam asks, eyeing the walking stick clenched tightly in my hand. I shake my head, but he’s already flagging down a waiter and pointing out my predicament.
Feeling self-conscious, I keep my eyes trained on the floor as a little boy at a nearby table whispers to his mother that I’m acting like an old person.
I am going to personally apologize to every client that I have ever pressured to use a cane, walker, or some other kind of walking device.
Obviously, I never had any ill intent. I only wanted to encourage my clients to adopt the tools that would help them prevent unnecessary falls.
Of course, I know using a walking device can be embarrassing for some people, but when you’re in your twenties, it’s hard to understand why.
Rationally, I get it—a cane might represent one’s declining mobility, and perhaps they fear a gradual but seemingly inevitable loss of independence.
Still, when you’re only twenty-six, it’s hard to fathom someone’s reluctance to adopt a simple tool.
But I get it now.
I’m secretly terrified that I’m going to become dependent on this stupid stick.
I should probably see a doctor sooner rather than later, but .
. . in addition to hating hospitals, I hate doctors’ offices.
Which is ironic, considering I am now Wright and West Psychiatry’s newest administrative assistant.
If God is real, He has a very twisted sense of humor.
“I got you a Coke,” Adam says, dropping into the booth seat opposite me as the waiter grabs our drinks. “That’s still your favorite, right?”
“Yep. Thank you, Adam.”
He visibly relaxes, and an awkward silence settles over the table. He looks down. “So . . .”
I look out the window, concentrating on a patch of snow on the sidewalk. “So . . .”
We look at each other at the same time and smile, then laugh. He’s about to say something when our waiter appears to drop off our drinks and take our order. Without question, we order a large pepperoni pizza to share, just like old times.
When the waiter’s gone, that same silence returns. “Adam,” I start, shaking my head. “Listen, I—”
“How did this happen, Evie?” he asks, looking at the cane resting beside me on the booth seat.
“Didn’t Trisha tell you? I fell while helping Abilene with her groceries.”
“Yes, but I wouldn’t have thought a fall would render you crippled—no offense.”
“This is temporary,” I say, frowning at the term “crippled.” It’s derogatory and insensitive. “The car accident aggravated my back. And that fall just made it so much worse.” When I hit the ground after missing the curb, I knew there was no going back from that mistake. The pain was indescribable.
“Your back is still giving you trouble? You really need to see a doctor.”
“So I’ve been told.” Feeling hot, I swipe my beanie off my head and smooth down my hair, ridding the static. “Um, so, you wanted to catch up?”
“Actually . . .” He looks down at the table and picks up his straw wrapper.
I wait anxiously for him to continue, feeling the weight of my past mistakes now more than ever. I left this man at the altar in front of all our friends and family. It must have been humiliating.
But worst of all? I never apologized.
My foot taps out an anxious rhythm beneath the table as I work up the courage to say it. “Adam, look, I—I am . . . I’m so sorry. For what I did. For everything.”
His eyes widen. “Well . . . if you really want to go there. Why did you do it?” He focuses on pulverizing his straw wrapper between his fingers. “Everything was perfect.”
“Was it?”
Even though we were best friends, we also fought like cats and dogs at times, and it was because our worldviews couldn’t have been more different.
He was a devout Christian who believed in marrying and starting a family young, just like his parents had.
And I was an oopsie-baby and embittered child of divorce.
Not to mention I had so much I wanted to do before settling down. Never mind the fact that I never got to do any of those things, and now, I probably never will.
“Our entire future was mapped out, Evie,” he reminds me. “And then you bolted at the last minute. Why? Was it something I did?”
I wince and lean away, as if trying to distance myself from this conversation. “Adam. Please.”
His dark blue eyes turn sad and inquiring, like a puppy’s. The vulnerable look slices through my cold, black heart like a searing hot knife. “Did you even . . . love me?”
A thousand memories of us flash through my mind at once.
Us, building Lego castles in his bedroom as tiny tots.
Playing chase during recess in middle school.
Spending summers at the pool together as preteens.
Cheering him on from the sidelines at our high school football games.
Senior prom. Our first kiss. Lying on a blanket beneath the stars, watching a meteor shower together the summer before he left for college.
All of those memories feel like pure magic.
“Of course I loved you.” Just not the way you deserved to be loved.
And as precious as all of those memories are, a sour one trails behind like a grim caboose.
Adam was visiting me during the spring break of his senior year of college.
I had opted not to go to college, since Dad stipulated that I had to go to the school of his choice or I’d be paying my own way.
Unfortunately, Dad chose Adam’s Bible college.
But there was no way on God’s good green earth that I was going to subject myself to four years of gender-segregated dorm halls, forced Bible studies, and obnoxiously early curfews.
Naturally, those four years apart put a strain on our relationship. By the spring break of his senior year, it seemed like all we did was bicker about what we wanted our future to look like.
I was job hunting on my bed one evening when he said, “You’re not seriously looking for a new job, are you?”
I shrugged. I wasn’t sure I wanted to work at Dad’s agency forever. “Maybe. Why?”
His next words were chilling. “Sorry, Evie, but what’s the point of looking for a new job if we’re getting married this summer? Don’t you want kids?”
“Well, yes, but I didn’t plan on having kids right away . . .”
He looked puzzled. “You’re not on birth control, are you?”
My stomach dropped. “No, but . . . I could be. I mean, I will be.”
Adam frowned. “I don’t know. Seems like the wrong thing to do. God said to go forth and multiply. I know our parents want grandkids sooner rather than later. And if we have kids, I really think you should be at home with them.”
“Evie?” Adam prompts, bringing me back to the present moment.
Our gazes lock, and I’m overwhelmingly grateful that it was only a flashback—that I’m no longer that girl who went along with the status quo, forsaking her own happiness to please others.
As much as I hate what I did to Adam, I’ll never regret the choice I made to end our engagement. We were wrong for one another.
Our waiter appears with our pizza and sets it down onto the table.
Adam sighs when he’s gone. “Look, I’m sorry. Let’s start over. I didn’t ask you to lunch to interrogate you about the past. I really did want to catch up and clear the air.”
I nod, relieved. “Yes, sorry. Let’s start over. Maybe we could start off with a less . . .” I pick up a slice of pizza. “Meaty topic?” I give him a cheesy smile, then pluck up a piece of pepperoni and pop it into my mouth.
Adam chuckles, and the sound is gentle and sweet, and it warms me from the inside out. “I’ve really missed you, Evie. I’ve been doing a lot of thinking lately, and I . . .” He looks down at his plate. “I hate that we’re not friends anymore.”
I reach across the table to squeeze his hand. “I hate that, too.”
He looks up suddenly. “Can we start over there, too?”
“Start over as friends?” I ask skeptically, feeling a little apprehensive. It’s the way he’s gazing at me . . .
I don’t know if Adam ever truly moved on after we broke up.
For years, he kept reaching out, wanting to clear the air.
But I kept shutting him down, afraid to confront the fact that I had hurt him so deeply—and so .
. . publicly. I never gave him the closure he deserved, and after what happened between me and Brandon, well .
. . I now know how soul-crushing that can be.
“Yes,” he insists. “I’m willing to start over if you are. As friends.”
I hesitate, feeling torn.
Adam sighs and lowers his voice. “I know you were scared to get married so young. I asked too much of you. You weren’t ready, and maybe I wasn’t, either.
We were just kids then.” He leans back, surveying the restaurant.
“But I miss you, Evie.” His gaze returns to mine, and he offers a boyish smile.
“You can’t say you don’t miss me, too. And all our antics. ”
I laugh as a memory of us listing his parent’s house for sale on Craigslist springs to mind.
To this day, his mom still doesn’t understand why she kept getting random phone calls inquiring about a viewing.
She was definitely onto me, though. Especially when I kept asking her if she’d gotten any offers on the house . . .
No wonder she never liked me. I was the rotten apple, souring her perfect son’s life.
“I do miss you,” I admit. “That’s never been the issue.”
His head tilts, but he doesn’t ask me to elaborate, which I’m grateful for.
But the way he’s speaking to me . . . it’s as though he’s expecting this do-over as friends to result in a different, more favorable outcome for him—like he thinks I’m going to wake up one day and realize I’ve been head over heels in love with him all this time.
I can’t shake the feeling.
But I refuse to be the type of person who gives someone false hope.
He extends his hand across the table. “Friends?”
The word friends evokes a frown from me. Brandon has ruined that word for me. Still, I reach out and clutch Adam’s hand in mine, forcing a smile as I meet his gaze. “Friends.”
We shake on it.