Chapter Twenty-Two
Hadley
IwatchBraxtongatherhis things like a tornado leaving a path of cleanliness rather than chaos. He kisses me goodnight, then walks out of my room. I collapse on the bed, reveling in the fact that it still smells like him—earthy pine with a hint of spice.
A small part of me feels rejected. Men haveneverturned me down in the past. In fact, I’ve had to do most of the turning away. But logically, I understand why Braxton felt he needed to leave. If I was worthy of him, I would have been the one to suggest it in the first place. So maybe I’m not worthy of him, but I don’t care anymore. He wants me, so I’m staying. I’ll abide by his rules and wishes in the physical department as long as he still lets me have those delicious lips that I now know taste like a cool drink of water (yes, it’s a taste. I’m fully familiar with it now).
We’ve crossed the friendship line.
It’s sink or swim.
Do or die.
As Taylor Swift sings, it’s going to be forever or flames.
And from where I’m at tonight, no matter the nagging voice in my head telling me that Braxton doesn’t actually want me because he walked away, forever is looking mighty fine. Hadley Anne Rawls has a beautiful ring to it.
It’s a visual clear as day: Braxton in the front yard teaching our sons how to throw a football. Me in the bathroom teaching our daughter how to apply makeup in a totally healthy way and not like Mama taught me. Family dinners around a round table. Stick figure drawings on the refrigerator. Closing my eyes in the arms of the person I love most in this world every single night.
The illusion shatters.
Braxton works offshore.
Which was one of the reasons I said we’d never work.
Again, I know with sound reason I can trust him. He is the epitome of a good, honest, loving man. In the twenty years I’ve known him—and somewhere along the way fell in love with him—he’s never been NOT good to me. But will my brain allow me to rest in that knowledge, or will it constantly wonder if Braxton is remaining faithful when he’s gone? Will thoughts of him leaving one day and never returning torture me for the months he’s gone out of the year? Can I handle it?
“Shut up, brain. You’re spiraling again,” I chastise myself aloud. “He loves you. You've heard him say it even when he didn’t know you were listening. He prayed for you.”
And therein lies another issue: Braxton is a Christian, and I’m not. I’ve heard people talk about how Christians shouldn’t date non-Christians. Will this be an issue for Braxton? Will he try to convert me?
Do I want to give this Christian thing a chance?
“Gah, shut up!” I slap a hand to my forehead. I don’t have to think about this tonight. I allow memories from tonight to flood my anxious thoughts away. Thoughts of Braxton’s lips on mine, his (totally surprising) dance moves, his megawatt smile, and his hands in mine like they were the missing piece to my puzzle. I swim in those memories as I head to the shower to wash the sweat from the long night of dancing off my skin.
The long night of dancing with my best friend.
My boyfriend.
Thepoundingofthedoor jolts my body out of bed.
“Dawson, get up,” an angry male’s voice shouts from the other side of the door. I look at the time: six-thirty in the morning.
Shoot.
I rush to the door and fling it open to let Braxton in before I realize what I’m doing. He stares at me, eyes traveling from my hair I assume is sticking up like I was electrocuted, down to his t-shirt I stole out of his luggage while he was requesting a new room last night, and then to my bare legs and feet.
I slam the door in his face, thankful his shirt is big enough to hit mid-thigh.
“Hadley, what are you—”
“Just a sec!” I dash to the bathroom and take a brush through my knotted hair. The bra I left on the countertop after my shower last night will have to do.
“It’s past time to go.” Impatience plagues Braxton’s voice outside the room.
“One more moment!” I secure my bra, wincing through the pain in my wrist, then throw his t-shirt back on. I dab a light coverage foundation on my face, pencil in my eyebrows, and swipe on a coat of mascara. I rush out of the bathroom to find pants. I sweep my eyes across the room I managed to destroy in the span of one night. Clothes hang from the chair in the corner of the room, one boot is halfway tucked underneath the bed, and I CAN’T FIND PANTS.Why am I such a slob?
“I’d prefer if you called yourself a beautiful, chaotic storm.” I halt my search at his words from behind the door. I didn’t realize I was talking aloud again. His words replay in my mind, sinking into my soul as I stand in the middle of the hotel room.
