Chapter 41
Brandon
“Ijust thought you should know that I’ve started seeing a therapist.” Those are the first words out of Evie’s mouth when I open my front door to find her loitering on my porch.
My security camera alerted me to her frantic pacing.
She’s wearing a leather skirt over a pair of lace tights, shivering as she blows air into her cupped hands.
She must be freezing.
I move aside. “Come in.”
Frowning, she scans my lackluster appearance with curiosity as she strides past me. Wiping a hand down the front of my stained shirt, I close the door behind her, feeling self-conscious. It’s three o’clock on a Saturday afternoon, and I’m still in my pajamas—a fact I’m not exactly proud of.
I’ve had a rough morning. Heck, a rough week. I needed to veg out on the couch with some takeout while watching one of my favorite war films.
I gesture for Evie to make herself comfortable, and she bounds toward the couch, surveying the messy space. “Not just any therapist,” she continues, wrinkling her nose at the coffee table cluttered with empty takeout boxes. “But someone Gladys recommended. Once a week.”
“That’s great, Evie. What inspired that?”
She looks down. “Working for you.” She smiles up at me. “Well, Grandma, too. I’m trying to take better care of myself. Not just for me, but for the people I love.”
I nod slowly, pleased for her. “I’m proud of you, Spitfire.”
She sighs heavily, sensing my next question.
“You were right when you said I don’t really .
. . deal with things.” Her face falls, and she picks at her thumbnail.
“At least, not in healthy ways.” She pauses, glances up at me.
“I just had a conversation with Dad about Mom, and it made me realize some things.”
“Oh?”
Sinking down onto my couch, she begins bagging my trash. “Yeah.”
I hurry over and shoo her hands away. “I’ve got it.”
She melts against the couch, allowing me to clean up the rest. “I’ve been totally unfair to Dad,” she explains. “Not just to him, but to you, too.”
I set the bag of trash aside. “Unfair to me?”
She swallows, her eyes falling as she reaches out to clasp my hand. “Yeah.”
I study our joined hands and rub my thumb along the ridge of her knuckles. It’s been so long since we’ve touched like this. She’s been so busy over the past month that we haven’t had the chance to talk. “What do you mean?”
“Well . . .” She takes a deep breath, retracts her hand. Picks at her thumbnail again. “I’ve been doing a lot of thinking. Especially since I started seeing my therapist.”
“About?”
“About what happened between us,” she whispers. “Lately, I’ve been reading through all my old diary entries.” I wince, and she laughs meekly. “Just to reacquaint myself with what happened.”
I cringe, wondering what else she wrote about in her diary.
“Anyway, I realized that you were fighting your own battles at the time. You were a new Christian, and you only wanted to help me deal with some of the stuff I was going through because you love me, and that’s what you do.
We got close because of it, and . . . well”—she rakes in a breath and combs a hand through her hair—“it just happened. But it wasn’t premeditated.
You never set out to hurt me. I understand that now. ”
“Evie . . . that doesn’t excuse what I did.”
“I know it doesn’t. But I just needed you to know that I’m sorry. Because you tried to stop it, and I all but pressured you into it.”
I laugh incredulously. “You what?”
She blushes. “You tried to say no that night. Remember? But I ignored you.”
I laugh despite myself. “Sweetheart, you hardly coerced me into bed.”
She rolls her eyes. “Look, all I’m saying is it takes two to tango, Brandon. I’m sorry for pinning all the blame on you and then icing you out afterward. It wasn’t fair or right.”
What Evie doesn’t seem to understand is that my attempt at talking us out of the act was half-baked at best. Unfortunately, I was young in my faith, and old habits die hard. That particular habit—jumping into bed with women—went down screaming with Evie. I wanted that experience as much as she did.
So I gave in to the temptation.
“I was the one who ignored you for weeks on end afterward,” I whisper brokenly, glancing away as I recall how ashamed and embarrassed I felt afterward. I acted like a coward. “You have no reason to apologize. Everything was my fault.”
“No,” she insists, grabbing my chin and forcing me to look at her. “See, that’s what I’m saying. It wasn’t all your fault.”
“But it was.”
She scooches forward, shifting her body so she’s facing me. Her eyes comb my appearance, taking in my unbrushed hair and unwashed clothes with a tilt of her head. I say nothing as she scrutinizes me. The silence stretches between us like a runway carpet. Loud and colorful.
“Brandon, are you . . . okay?”
I blink. Shrug. “Never better. Why?”
Her eyes narrow as she plucks at my tattered shirt like that says it all.
I know I look like a slob right now, and my house is a mess, but .
. . Over the past month, Evie has been busy doing what she does best—taking care of her loved ones.
We haven’t spent much time together because of that—apart from work and when we bump into each other at church.
She’s switched from Maggie’s Bible study to Adam’s, and I can’t help but take the transition personally, considering I’ve been hosting Maggie’s studies at my place while she recovers.
But during our time apart, I’ve been fighting my own battles.
I’ve been thinking nonstop about what Jamie said to me at the hospital—how he’s nervous the old Brandon is still in there somewhere, and it’s only a matter of time before I mess up.
Yes, I might be a new creation in Jesus Christ, but Jamie’s right.
I still make mistakes. It’s not a matter of if I mess up, but when.
And, admittedly, I’m struggling with the news of Evie’s miscarriage. My coping mechanism has been to spend more quality time with my son, but Cora has taken him on an impromptu vacation with Malcolm’s side of the family this week, and so here I am, all alone in this big empty house—yet again.
Evie grabs a handful of my shirt, rubbing the threadbare fabric between her thumb and forefinger. “This mess is unlike you,” she continues, searching my eyes. “What’s going on?” Her voice is soft, gentle. Caring.
This is my Evie.
The thought strikes me as ironic, considering she’s not mine, never has been, and probably never will be.
“I’m struggling,” I admit, swallowing as I look away.
She sidles closer. Takes my hand in hers and rests her head on my shoulder. “With?”
“Many things.”
“You can talk to me.”
“I know,” I say, smiling. It would be so easy to unload on her right now. But I’ve made that mistake before. Flown too close to the sun.
“So?”
“I keep thinking about . . . the baby.”
She inhales and lifts her head. “Ours?”
“Yes.”
Her gaze falls to her lap. “I guess I’ve had more time to come to terms with it than you have.” Guilty eyes lift to mine. “I should have told you sooner.”
“Can’t blame anyone but myself for that.”
A small crease forms between her brows. “You always say stuff like that.”
“Like what?”
“That you’re to blame. That you deserve things.” She hesitates. “You’re too hard on yourself, Brandon.”
Shrugging, I stand and cross the room, eager to put some distance between us. Now that I know she’s taking the initiative to take better care of herself, I’ve made my decision. I’ve been wrestling with this for weeks, but now’s the time.
Lord, give me the strength.
Swiping my hands through my hair, I pace around the room. “Evie, we need to talk.”
Instantly on guard, she springs from her seat and crosses her arms. “About what?”
When I look over at her, I’m expecting her to be glaring daggers. But she looks calm. Composed. Ready, even—as if she can sense what’s coming. Maybe she can. I’ve been out of sorts about this for weeks, and I think she’s caught on. “I think it’s time for you to leave the practice.”
She chews on my words. “You’re firing me,” she surmises slowly.
I hesitate. “Not exactly. I’m giving you notice.”
Her jaw works back and forth. “Giving me notice of the fact that you’re firing me.” Her arms drop to her sides as she glances around the room incredulously. “I don’t get it. We work well together.”
“We do, but . . .”
Her eyes dim with realization. “You’re done.”
“Done?”
“With me. With . . . this.” She gestures between us, her head tilting. “Am I right?”
My mouth pops open and closed, but no words form. No words would do this moment justice anyway. She’d never believe my reasons. She doesn’t need to believe me, though. This is obedience. Sometimes it doesn’t make sense. Sometimes, it hurts. Sometimes, you want to rage at God and demand answers.
Sometimes you lose people for it.
“I had a hunch,” she says quietly, swallowing as she looks down. “You’ve been distant lately.”
My chest fills with pressure. “I love you, Evie. But I believe this is His will.”
Her eyes flash with hurt. “He’s asked you to fire me?”
“No. Not exactly. To let you go.” I’m still not sure why. Or what it means.
Her eyes well up, and fresh tears rain down her cheeks in rapid procession.
The agony on her face is almost too much for me to bear.
Somehow, I remain rooted where I am, knowing that any comfort I bring her will be fleeting and make things that much harder for us when I pull away again.
But I can’t deny that I’m doubting my own convictions.
Is this really Your will, Lord? Or have I just convinced myself it is?
“Why?” she chokes out.
“I don’t know why, but I trust Him.”
She sniffles, wiping her tears with the backs of her hands. “And here I thought . . .” She pauses, closes her eyes, and breathes in deeply through her nose. Her eyes are hard when she opens them again. “Never mind. It doesn’t matter.”
“Evie—”
“Look,” she starts. “If this is really God’s will, then who am I to argue?”
I swallow uneasily. Take a step toward her. My resolve is crumbling around me as she draws back. I’m seconds away from backtracking on the whole thing. This doesn’t feel right. Something is off.
Lord? Have I gotten this all wrong?
She turns away. “But I love you.”
“I love you, too,” I assure her quickly, reaching for her.
“I know.” She evades my grasp and beelines toward the door. Her head ticks in my direction as she cracks it open. “But for some reason, that never seems to be enough for you.”
“Evie, wait—”
She slips out, slamming the door behind her.
I look frantically around the room. Lord, should I go after her? Make sure she doesn’t do something stupid? Or give her space?
My eyes snag on the small, wooden escritoire beneath the front window.
I never sit there, considering I have a home office.
But I keep it stocked with paper, envelopes, and stamps in case I want to pay bills or send a letter in a pinch.
Evie’s letter springs to mind as I stare at the legal pad resting on top of the desk.
That simple, sweet letter still brings me hope and encouragement—even in my darkest hours.
There’s something uniquely powerful about a letter.
You can convey your thoughts succinctly and completely, without the threats of misspeaking, interruptions, or misinterpretations.
I get the urge to write Evie a letter of my own.
My feet carry me toward the pad of paper like they have a mind of their own. Dropping into the chair, I grab a pen and scratch the stubble forming along my jaw as I stare at the page, mulling over all the things I’ve wanted to say to Evie but never have.
Before I dare to put pen to paper, I bow my head, clasp my hands together, and begin to pray.