Page 48 of A Surefire Love
She was unexpected and enchanting.
She reappeared, hugging her leather jacket closed, and made for the exit without a look in his direction. She’d proven she kept tabs on her audience, so she knew he was there. Even last week, she’d waved at Anson when he’d left while she talked with Philip. Why ignore him this time?
He abandoned his empty glass and caught up in time to open the door for her. “You were right.”
She turned a hesitant gaze his way. She rolled her lips inward.
He propped the door open with his shoulder, since she wasn’t rushing out. “Not many high schoolers were interested in raking. I was too focused on the ideal—that they’d want to pitch in out of the goodness of their hearts—to correct course by offering other incentives. Along the way, they might discover the joy of helping people, but until then, your idea was the right choice. I should’ve asked for your input sooner.”
“Even a broken clock is right twice a day.” She maneuvered past him and onto the concrete porch.
He stepped out after her. “Who’s the clock in this instance?”
Lights strung from the overhang cast a soft glow on her features. Her dark hair fell between them as she descended the steps into the parking lot.
He followed. “If it’s me, I’m not offended. I’ve been called worse.”
“And if it’s me?”
“Can’t be.” His certainty won him another glance. “You’re not broken.”
She exhaled a puff of air. “I have it on good authority that I am.”
“I have it on the best authority that you’re not. You’re healed and new in Christ.”
“And yet ….” She edged between parked cars, forcing him to fall back.
He jogged to catch up again afterward and touched her coat sleeve. The supple leather was cool against his fingertips, yet warmth radiated up his arm and into his chest. He lowered his hand. “Why do you think you’re broken? Did something happen?”
She hit her key fob. A row away, her taillights flashed. “Anxiety. Apparently.”
Anxiety happened?“I’m gonna need more to go on.”
“The doctor says I have anxiety, not ADHD.” She yanked open her back passenger door. Her purse landed on the seat with a dull thump. “He said to quit coffee and start meds, and it’s two days in, and I haven’t felt this awful since my wild days.”
“What did those entail?” Now, more than ever, he craved the details of her story.
“Six to eight months of bad choices before I realized I was becoming my mother, hated myself—and the constant hangovers—and landed in church.”
The sip of information didn’t quench his curiosity, but he cared more about her present well-being than her past. “You did what your doctor advised, and you’re back to hating yourself and feeling hung over?”
She crossed her arms, hunched like he’d once again sent her out into a cold, wet night. “Something like that. My head is killing me. I can’t focus. I feel like ….” She pressed her fingers to the bridge of her nose. “I’m going to go.” She pulled open the driver’s door.
“Blaze.”
She paused, one hand on the roof of her sedan.
“You quit coffee cold turkey?” The question seemed trivial in the face of the upheaval she’d expressed, but he wasn’t sure what other help he could offer.
She nodded.
“I only have one or two cups a day, but if I skip it, I get a headache too. If you’re used to drinking a few cups a day and just quit, it’s no wonder you’re feeling bad. Starting anxiety medication at the same time has to be a lot for your body to process.”
“It’s not even anxiety medication. It’s an anti-depressant. I guess that’s the go-to, and it’s not that I think anxiety’s worse than anything else, I just … Is that me? I never thought I was anxious—at least, not abnormally so. But he says that’s why I can’t focus or meet deadlines. And why do I want a disorder so bad anyway? But anxiety’s a disorder too, so I win after all.”
“Blaze.” He reached out again. Found himself taking her hand and dipping his head to look her in the eyes. When her fingers curved around his palm, protectiveness sparked within him. “I don’t know what the answer is, but I do know you need to give yourself grace. And maybe a cup of coffee.”
“Is that the best you can do, Pastor? Coffee and Jesus?” She freed her hand from his. Her helpless tone softened the challenge in her question. “I’m pretty sure I could get the same advice from a T-shirt.”
