Page 62 of It's Always Been You
My eyes widen as I do a double take. Never in my life has someone expressed that they’reproudof me for walking away from that chapel. “What?”
She shrugs. “Marriage is a huge commitment, and you spared yourself and Adam a lot of heartache by admitting that you weren’t ready, you know?” My eyes continue to widen in utter disbelief. Once she notices the gobsmacked look on my face, she straightens. “I’m sorry! All I’m saying is I respect that, and youshouldn’t feel bad.” She pauses. “Ifyou feel bad. Not saying you should.” She cringes. “I’ve just totally put my foot in my mouth, haven’t I?”
I chuckle. “No. You won’t believe how badly I needed to hear that, actually.” I lower my voice, even though Adam is too wrapped up in his conversation with Phil to be eavesdropping. “You’d think they all learned I was a witch or something when they found out I was missing. Especially his mom.”
Abi laughs once. “Was it poor timing? Totally.” I wince. “But hey, nobody’s perfect. Life happens. People make mistakes. And you were so young.”
The grace Abi is extending me is completely unwarranted. I had plenty of time to think through my decision to marry Adam, and I still left him standing at the last minute. If anything, my actions demonstrate how much of a heartless coward I was. Adam deserved—deserves—so much better.
He deserves someone like . . . I glance over at Penelope. She has a floral-covered Bible clutched firmly in her hands, and she’s wearing a modest pink sweater dress, her thick hair twisted into a complex up-do like she spent hours learning how to perfect that very hairstyle. She looks like the kind of girl who prays through every decision and hears back from God on a regular basis.
In short, she’s probably nothing like me, and she’s probably everything Adam’s parents would’ve wanted for him.
And she’s exactly the type of girl someone like Adam deserves.
“Are you Bill Benson’s daughter, by chance?” I ask Abi after a moment, eager to shift the spotlight off me.
“That’s me.”
I’m in the presence of royalty. “You know that man makes the best chocolate chip cookies this side of the Mississippi, right?”
She grins indulgently. “So I’ve been told.”
“What’s the secret ingredient? Everyone has one.”
“Prayer,” she says instantly, as though she really does believe that.
“Prayer, huh?” Prayer has never seemed to work for me.
Abi is silent until we’ve gathered our food and found a spot away from the guys. “I love them to pieces,” she says, waving a fry around as she studies the men. “But there’s too much testosterone in our Bible study group.” Penelopelaughs. Abi’s focus shifts to me. “You should join us sometime. See how you like it.”
“Me?” I squeak. Abi nods. “Oh, uh, thanks . . . but no thanks.”
She’s quiet for a few seconds. “I get the feeling that you had a question about prayer earlier,” she says, gazing at me. “When we were in line. But you didn’t ask.”
I lean back. “Um . . .”
“Go on,” she insists, smiling patiently.
“Well,” I start, pulverizing a fry between my fingers. “It’s never worked. At least, not for me. People always talk about God performing miracles . . . and I keep waiting for Him to do the same for me.”
“What’s the miracle you’ve been praying for, if you don’t mind me asking?” she inquires gently.
“Well, that’s the thing. Ihaven’tbeen praying for it. Not since I was a kid, actually.”
She nods, still waiting for me to elaborate. For some inexplicable reason, I get the sense that she’s a safe place. A soft spot to land with heavy truths. Someone I can trust.
“My mom,” I whisper eventually. “After my parents divorced, I used to pray that my mom would come home. And that they’d get back together.” My eyes cloud with tears. It sounds very juvenile out loud. “But that’s dumb.”
“Not dumb at all,” Abi affirms.
Penelope reaches out and squeezes my hand. Her kindness is so unexpected that an errant tear slips from my eye. Frantically, I wipe it away, embarrassed. And here I was, judging her for her perfect hair just minutes ago.
I’m an awful person.
“I guess it just hurts to know that she’s out there, living her life without a care in the world that she has no communication with me or my brother, Jamie, whatsoever. Does she notknowhow much that hurts? Or does she just not care?” I huff, surprised at how much I’m unloading on these venerable strangers. “I just don’t understand why—if God can perform miracles—that He never did that for me. I mean, I got baptized and everything, so technically I’m one of His children, too, right?” I pause, considering as I gaze at my reflection in the dark windowbeside us. “Have I done something wrong? Is He mad at me? Does He notwantme?”
Emotion wells up inside of me, and my chest swells with sudden indignation and pain, like a geyser threatening to blow. Nobody wants me. The realization is bleak. Not my parents. Not Brandon. Not even God Himself.
