He sings about hearts and open spaces. It sounds like a love song, but the way his eyes are closed and his chin is lifted towards the sky, I realize it’s one of his worship songs. This is usually the part where I blow the popsicle stand, but I have nowhere to squirm off to. The song is beautiful, especially the way it rolls off his tongue in a low, slight rasp. My heart speeds up without permission.
“Did you write that?” I interrupt during a lull in the song. This man could put me in a trance if I wasn’t so diligent to remind myself of who he is—MY BEST FRIEND. The perfect man. Too perfect for me.
He continues to strum as he responds. “No. It’s called ‘Open Space’ by Housefires.”
“It’s beautiful,” I choke out. He continues to sing, and I find tears pricking the corners of my eyes. The words are penetrating. I want to be open. I want to be open to true, honest love. I want to be worthy of the type of love Braxton yearns to give. I want to be open to God. I want to believe and to follow some power higher than I am. So if I want it, why can’t I? What’s stopping me?
A roaring sound drags me from my thoughts. Headlights shine on our concert for two, and Braxton sets his guitar down and hops off the tailgate.
“Tank?” Braxton asks, walking up to the man who’s sliding out of his truck.
“Yessir,” the man says, then spits at the ground. His Carolina accent draws out slower than Mississippi. “I’ve gotta tire for you. Do you need me to put it on?” He looks from Braxton to me. The man’s beady eyes plant on me with an easy smile. I finally get a good look at him, and my heart stops and my skin grows clammy.No, no, no…it can’t be.He’s greasy, and not just car grease. It’s a vibe that radiates from him. One that screams: no good. One that I’ve encountered before.You’re in North Carolina. You are not in Mississippi. It’s not him.I repeat the mantra in my mind, though I can’t shake off the fear gripping me with black tendrils.
I shrink back, folding my shoulders in, trying to make myself smaller and less desirable. It’s not from a place of arrogance that I know I look good. Experiences through life and with men—one in particular who closely resembles the one in front of me—have told me that I am a desirable woman. But right now, I don’t want to be her.
Braxton is suddenly beside me, wrapping a strong arm around my waist and hugging me close to him. Forget the independent woman gig. I welcome his safety.
“No, I think we can handle it. Thank you for the tire delivery. How much do I owe you?” Braxton stands strong and tall beside me. He radiates Protector, Defender, and Man.
The mechanic—Tank—gives Braxton a number. Braxton steps from my side and shields me from the front while he pays. The man sets the tire beside our vehicle. I never take my eyes off the unwelcome man.It’s not him.
The fear doesn’t fully release me from its grip until the man is so far down the road I can’t hear his loud truck breaking through the silence of nature around us. Braxton, who stepped back to my side after the transaction, wraps me in a signature Braxton Bear Hug. His scent envelops me—a musky, wooded smell. It’s a spicy-sweet combination that indicates home.
“I’m here, Hads. You’re okay.” His deep rumble showers comfort over me, and I let my muscles relax. I’ve never told Braxton about the man who took advantage of me in college. The one who kickstarted my twisted view of sex. I was so ashamed that I had let it happen. After growing up with the revolving door of men Mama kept around, you would have thought I knew how to spot a bad apple. But alcohol, late-night college parties, and the city don’t mix well.
“Thank you,” I mumble against his chest. With one last squeeze, I let him go. “Let’s get out of here.”
We change the tire together and get the heck out of that place.
Chapter Eighteen
Braxton
Wefinallyrollintothe ski resort at dinner time. After lugging our bags up toourroom—yes, another single room we have to share—we explore the resort hotel. My stomach is rumbling and the smell of steak is wafting from the kitchen and dining area, beckoning me like a siren. The way Hadley usually entices me. I can’t even enjoy the fact that I’m going snowboarding tomorrow because of the intoxicating scent of steak. I hope there’s potatoes.
“I’m starved,” she says with a hand clutching her stomach. I nod my head emphatically in agreement, then lead the way to the dining area, keeping my pace just below a brisk jog. That detour and tire fiasco delayed us from Hadley’s surprise destination, Alpine Ski Resort, in Raleigh.
“Flag down a waiter,” I demand. She side-eyes me, but I’m too hungry to care. If Hangry Hadley is a monster, you don’t want to know what Hangry Braxton is. I don’t bother to check the menu. I want a medium-rare ribeye steak, potatoes, and broccoli. I tell the waiter as soon as he walks up. I’ll have to apologize for my abruptness later, but food first.
“What’s up with you?” Hadley asks. “You are like a ball of frustration right now.”
“I’m ready for steak,” I say. I’m pretty sure drool is forming in the corner of my mouth. I have half a mind to jump on top of the table and shout “feed me, woman,” like Max from the movieWhere The Wild Things Are.
“Ah, Hangry Braxton.” She laughs. The waiter drops rolls on our table, in front of Hadley. With a wink, he’s off. A sound between a growl and a snarl escapes my lips as if my body is instinctively reacting to a male hitting on my woman. Even though she isn’t my woman. Yet. How many men am I going to have to fend off her this trip?
Hadley pushes the rolls towards me, pulling my glare from the waiter. “You first.” I don’t argue, but happily oblige.
We eat our rolls in silence. Both of us are too hungry to care about speaking anymore. After three rolls on my end, I sit back with a satisfied sigh. Well, I’m not completely satisfied, but enough to be civil again.
“You could’ve split that last one,” Hadley says. The glint in her eyes tells me she’s joking, but now I feel kind of bad I didn’t offer.
“We can ask for more.”
“Nah, I’m good. I’ll wait for my own steak.” As she says those words, the waiter appears with our food. My stomach and I are pleased at the quick service.
“I’ll pray for us real quick.” I make the statement politely to let her know I’m fixing to pray because I know she won’t join me. She usually eats through my prayers when I attempt them out loud with her.
“Okay,” she says, tucking her head down like she’s praying. What in the world? No mocking? No ignoring? But participating…Thank you, God,I silently offer praise. Then I lead us in a quick prayer.
