She turns and glares daggers at me but doesn’t speak.
“I’m sorry. Again. Ugh!” I release her wrist and run the hand through my hair trying to control the frustration within my voice. “This is why I can’t be with you right now. Because of no fault of your own, I can’t resist you. You are heroin—without an ‘e’— to me, Lucy May. I’m the problem, and the notebook will explain that.”
She stares blankly at me, so I continue, bringing my voice to a calmer, albeit pleading level. “You almost used sex to keep me with you that night after the Halloween Bash. You should never feel the need to use your body in such ways. You are worth so much more than that. I was conflicted, going back and forth on whether to keep you all to myself while not giving you what I know you deserve or letting you walk away and thrusting my hand into my chest, ripping my own heart out. But the moment you reached for your zipper, I had my answer. I abhorred myself that I brought you so low.”
Shame covers her face, and even though I’ve tried to make it clear it wasn’t her fault, that I recognize that as the man, I led us to that moment. I have no doubt she’s thinking if she wouldn’t have done that then everything would be okay right now between us.
I cup her face in my hands, needing her to truly hear my heart. “Lucy May Spence. I love you. Most ardently.” My lips twitch upward as her hazel-green eyes widen at myPride and Prejudiceconfession. But I’m not done, and while I’d love to stop there and kiss her senseless, I can’t. Not right now. “And it’s because I love you that I cannot be with you right now. I’ve shown you lust, and now I am determined to figure out how to show you love. Genuine, pure love.”
Her brows knit together, and I can tell she wants to punch me, so I hurry and continue. “There’s no doubt in my mind that I want you. Lucy, no woman has ever had me like you do. Please, read my little book I wrote for you. See yourself how I see you. Understand that what I’m doing, though I know it hurts you as it does me, isforyou. For us.”
“Stone, I—” She opens her mouth, but I cut her off.
“I’m working on processing emotions that I’ve shoved down for a long time.” I take a deep breath; all of this being one-hundred percent open stuff is draining. “Step one was surrendering my life back to Christ. Step two was realizing and admitting to myself that I loved you. And now I need to become a man worthy of you. I need to understand God’s love for me so I can love you fully. But Lucy, I can’t do that alongside you as much as I wish I could. And that’s not your fault.”
“So you’re walking away again, right?” Her voice is tinged with franticness, and I can’t blame her. Maybe I shouldn’t have said I loved her before telling her I had some things to work on before I could be with her. But I couldn’t wait to at least speak those three,honest words to her. Even if it’s going to take a minute to figure out how to show her.
I drop my hands from her face and take a step backward. “This is not a cop-out or an excuse, Lucy. I pray you believe that. I will come back for you when I’ve worked on rebuilding my relationship with Christ. He has to come first. It’s only then I can be the man you deserve. Be the man that can stand solidly by your side when you’re feeling so low yourself. I understand you may not wait, nor will I ask you to. I can’t give you a timeline as much as I wish I could. But if you’re still here and will have me when the Lord gives me the green light, I would be over the moon.”
The slim string of hope I had that she would understand me is cut when she spins on her heel, steps into her apartment, and slams the door, solidifying it with a lock.
Right then and there, I whisper a prayer that God will restore me quickly and that He will also heal Lucy. Tears burning in my eyes, I walk down the stairs and battle the urge from Satan to run back up there and beg her to take me as I am.
But I can’t.
I have to be a better man for myself.
I have to take the time to be better for the woman I want to make my wife.
I’m learning to trust God again.
Chapter 20
Lucy
Darkness envelops me, but I can’t complain. I never bothered to turn a light on when I arrived at the apartment earlier this afternoon after Thanksgiving lunch with Grandma Netty. I didn’t even turn on the light when the sun set or when the moon casted shadows of the dead Bird of Paradise plant onto the white walls, painting them gray.
I sat down in the reclining chair, opened my laptop, and poured my heart onto a blank, white page using size-twelve, black Palantino font. A desperate plea to escape reality. An earnest attempt to live out my dreams and get the happily ever after I’ve always hungered for. I’ve built characters and worlds and conflicts that come with clear communications and healthy resolutions. At some point, I made coffee, and that was my dinner.
How many hours have gone by since I’ve sat down? I couldn’t tell you. Seven thousand words have appeared on the screen, each one containing a piece of my soul until I was left with nothing. An apparition of a woman haunting her own safe space like adespondent ghost. That’s where I am now—sitting in my reclining chair while the dim light of the laptop shines upon my face. If you were sitting in front of me, you would think I had glass skin. But not because of good skincare products.
I’ve cried a thousand tears, each one reminding me ofhim.Of the future I thought I was building. Of the hope that was shattered when he never turned around. Of the things I screamed in the midst of my anger. Of the time I slammed the door after he fed me lines about needing to grow closer to God. How low of him was that to use God as an excuse? How dare he say he loves me and then leave me!
This is why the whole “married in your heart” argument for sex outside of the marital covenant is not sufficient.
I stare at the plant’s shadow on the wall, made visible by the orange glow of the apartment light outside my window. Loneliness lurks around every corner. It’s found within every nook and cranny. But if I’m being honest, regardless of the hurtful things we’ve said to each other, I still love that man with everything inside me. I love him so much that I refuse to read that pink composition notebook he gave me. I can’t bear to see myself through his eyes and shatter the illusions I cling so tightly to. He might have thought it was just lust, but for me, it was so much more.
It’s why I’m writing tonight… because I can’t cry to him. I’m cutting open the wound and bleeding out onto the page; my truest thoughts, feelings, and emotions ingrained in the dialogue spoken by dysfunctional characters in a reprehensible setting. The real me.Ha,I snort.My readers would run for the hills ifthey read this.
How do I even have readers? Why am I writing as if I have the experience to write romance? I’m unmarried. With no kids. No prospects. I can’t be a good friend to those who love me because I’m obsessed with finding the man who will keep me warm on cold nights and carry groceries into our home while I put them away and hold me while I cry when melancholy strikes.
What grounds do I possibly have to ask people to buy any romance book I craft? I’m an imposter. A fake. I promote healthy relationships, characters who communicate clearly, flawed—but nottooflawed—leads, and strong faith elements. But what if my readers knew who I truly was? What if they knew I’ve had sex outside of marriage? What if they knew I battled with intense sexual fantasies from time to time? What if they knew I let myself get blackout drunk after he left my apartment that day in order to avoidfeeling,a secret not even my friends and twin know? What if they knew all of my relationships have failed because I demand too much too soon and don’t know how to set and uphold clear boundaries for myself? What if they knew how desperate and starved for love and acceptance I am? What if they knew I’d do just about anything to beliked?What if they knew I questioned God at every turn and lacked the belief that He can do what He says He can do? What if they knew I questioned His existence?
They’d never pick up another one of my books.
Hypocrite! Liar! False Christian! Jezebel! Deceiving, wayward woman!
I can see it now. Hear it now. Echoing through my brain and etching into my heart like a scar. I’d be hanged by the Christian community like a witch in Salem, trending on social media asthe next blacklisted Christian to be canceled. Do my questioning thoughts make me not a Christian?
