Page 58 of Love and Other Chances

“I never pressured a girlfriend physically, broke up with her when I wasn’t satisfied, then said degrading things behind her back. So, I wouldn’t say my brand of immature was quite the same,” Logan jabs.

Our overlapping voices create one simultaneous mess.

Mom—“Logan!”

Me—“Stop it!”

Brooks—“He’s right.”

We’re all quiet as Logan continues glaring Brooks down. Brooks tugs on my hand, which is when I realize that I’m standing. Brooks slides my chair back to me as he continues speaking, “Logan’s right, and it’s a fair question. The simplest answer is that Jesus is why I’m a different man. In high school, I had no faith, nothing beyond myself that I was living for. In college, a couple of my teammates, Brody and Rylen, were involved in FCA, and their lives sparked my interest.

“They were the hardest workers on the team, even if not the most talented. They treated women with respect—everyone with respect. They were the first to show up to drive guys home from parties during the off-season, were always there to listen without being judgmental. And they had a genuine contentedness that I knew I lacked. I started attending the FCA meetings with them and reading the Bible, and God slowly transformed my life. He’s still transforming me day by day,” Brooks concludes.

Logan’s face has softened slightly, but he still looks skeptical. “And teaching? How exactly did you wind up in education? Doesn’t seem like the thrilling type of career I would have guessed for you.”

Brooks gives the same explanation I’ve heard him share, and Logan continues drilling him with question after question about his life (and dating) experiences since high school. I assume Logan’s still searching for loose threads to pull on, but so far, he’s coming up empty-handed. Brooks answers with candor and confidence, not flinching back from explaining any of Logan’s interrogations. The only sign he’s nervous is his grip on my hand, which is propped on his knee under the table. He’s clutching my hand like I’m a helium balloon that might float awayif he’s not careful. I try to rub a reassuring message along the side of his hand with my thumb.

I’m with you. I’m not leaving. We’re okay.

As Brooks shares about his life, about all the ways that God has changed him, Logan visibly relaxes. Logan shares my dad’s darker hair and eyes, which can project an intimidating demeanor when he’s irritated. Thankfully, his hackles are fully disarmed by the time Brooks mentions his mom’s passing.

Shock and sadness mingle in Logan’s brown eyes. “I’m really sorry to hear that, man. Your mom was always so nice to the team when we’d hang at your house.”

My mom adds her condolences, and I feel Brooks’ escapist energy building up, eager to move on from the sadness.

“We’re supposed to get to Dad’s house in time for a late brunch tomorrow,” I tell Logan, abruptly changing the subject. “We’ll have time to open presents here with Mom before we go over.”

“Yep. Got it,” Logan replies.

Brooks squeezes my hand under the table.

We round out the meal with my mom’s homemade apple pie and vanilla ice cream. Everyone pitches in to put away leftovers and load the dishwasher.

When it’s time for Brooks to leave, Logan walks with us to the foyer. “Sorry about earlier, man.” Logan looks sheepish as he apologizes. He holds a hand out to Brooks, who shakes it firmly.

“You were just being a good brother. I don’t fault you at all,” Brooks replies.

Logan stays inside as I walk Brooks out to the front porch, crossing my arms to fend off the chill.

“Thanks for coming tonight. I’m glad I could see you for the holidays,” I say. Untangling my arms, I brush a thumb across Brooks’ jaw, where a faint bruise is forming. “I really hope this doesn’t hurt too much.”

Brooks leans into my touch then reaches a hand to grip my waist, gently pulling me closer to him. His other hand clasps around my fingers on his jaw, and he turns to press a kiss to my palm.

“Trust me—I’m not feeling any pain right now,” he says, voice thick. “Thanks for letting me back into your life. I don’t deserve to be here.”

My brow furrows. “Brooks, you have to stop saying things like that.”

“What do you mean?” he asks, brow now similarly furrowed.

“You constantly talk about how you don’t deserve to be with me now, or how you were trying to earn your way back to me. That’s not how forgiveness works. You know that,” I say, but his expression remains troubled.

“I know that in theory.” Brooks sighs. “But in reality, I can’t erase the memory of what I did to you. That ugly side of who I was then. The effect it had on you. Like William Faulkner said, ‘The past is never dead. It’s not even past.’”

My eyebrows raise. “You’re just pulling William Faulkner quotes out of your back pocket now? How do you even know that?”

“History teacher,” he says with an attempt at a light-hearted shrug. But his fingers are tight against mine as he swallows hard. “It may have been a past version of me, but it was still me.Ihurt you. And I can’t escape the feeling that I need to somehow justify the grace you’ve shown me.”

“But it’s not grace if you earned it.” I pause to raise my other hand to the side of his face. “You are sincerely sorry, Brooks. You’ve changed. You’ve apologized numerous times. And I’ve chosen to forgive you. That’s it. You can be sweet to me because you care about me, but not if you’re viewing it as a form of penance, okay?” My voice is unwavering, and I hope the words sink in.

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