Mama still dragged me to church for Christmas and Easter services or when something else special was going on. Other than that, I haven’t had much experience in a church.
Braxton, on the other hand, is the son of a pastor.
Just another reason we would never work.
“Have you heard the music David composed? His story?” he asks, knowing good and well I haven’t.
“I guess I’ll have to let you play for me at some point,” I remark, hoping to change the conversation. His eyes light up when he talks about God, but it just makes me squirm and feel uncomfortable.
“I brought my guitar.” He winks.Oh boy.I’m in for it tonight.
“Great.” I roll my eyes. I do love listening to him sing and make music. He has a rich, masculine voice that caresses your body when he sings. But it won’t be a love song he sings tonight. He will break out the Psalms.
I’ll just have to distract him later.
“I would be a mom and a wife,” I say, directing the subject back to the Bavarian lifestyle. “You know, because I’m a woman and that would be all that is offered to me.”
“And that wouldn’t be enough?” He stops mid-step to turn and face me. I swallow, his face inches from mine. When did he lean down like that? I’m swimming in a sea of green and the scent of woodsy pine mixed with beer and bratwurst.
“Maybe,” I whisper. I’d be a much better mom than mine was to me. I hope I would be, at least. I’m not doing such a great job of not being her as it is. Snapping out of my trance, I add, “Or I could be a crazy cat lady.”
He laughs, taking my hand like it is the most natural thing in the world. Does he even realize he’s holding my hand?
“Crazy sheep lady. You hate cats.”
“But why sheep?” I ask.
He stops us again, looks me square in the eyes, and whispers, “Because I’m the shepherd.” Braxton squeezes my hand before leading us forward.
Well, he knows he’s holding onto my hand.
But does he know that it feels like he is caressing my heart?
Chapter Eleven
Hadley
BraxtonandIstumbleinto the cabin in a fit of giggles.
I never took a sip of alcohol, so I know I’m not supposed to feel like I’m floating amongst the clouds right now. What. A. Day.
The only thing anchoring me to earth is Braxton’s hand in mine.
I’ve held his hand so many times before. But today? Tonight? His hand feels like it was carved out just to fit with mine. Our fingers interlace perfectly, not an ounce of an awkward fit.
“Want to go to the hot tub again?” he asks.
“It’s cooler tonight. Maybe we could stay in, get a fire going, and watch a movie or something?” I ask. He walks over to the stone fireplace and begins chucking the firewood that sat beside it into the furnace.
“What about giving you a personal concert?” he pipes up, holding a log out beside him like it’s weightless while the other hand extends in the other direction. I would typically sit criss-cross apple sauce on the floor to listen to him sing and play. But I have a feeling it’ll be worship music because of our conversation before, and I’m just not here for that tonight.
“Eh…” I say, mindlessly massaging one of my shoulders. “I’m tired and just want to chill. Rain check?”
“Sure thing, Bully,” he says, tossing the last log into the fireplace. I try to respond, but I can’t form the words. This could be our life if I let it. If I could get past my mistakes. My late teens and early twenties weren’t pretty. I abused alcohol to numb the pain fromhim. From life. From the crappy hand I was dealt. I quit alcohol three years ago in my quest to be better than Mama. I healed eventually with the help of therapy, but I don’t ever want to risk falling back into that dark abyss.
I watch Braxton start the fire. Better yet, I admire the way his arms bulge through his red flannel and the way his Wrangler jeans tighten around his bottom when he bends over.
Good gosh. Get a grip, Hadley.
