“Then why not go to him?”
“I can’t.”
“Is he still under intensive care?”
I shake my head.
“Have you had a misunderstanding?”
“I had to leave him.” It’s a struggle to get the words out when sobs keep clogging my throat. “I keep putting him in danger.”
“And what did he say when you told him that?”
“I didn’t.”
“What did you tell him then?”
“I lied.” The confession scrapes out of me like broken glass. “I told him I didn’t want to stay with him. So he’d give up trying to take care of me.”
And now I’ll never ever see him again, and the thought hurts so, so bad I can barely breathe.
“I’m sure there are more factors at play than what you’re telling us,” Pastor Chandler says gently. “But do you know what I can say for certain right now?”
I shake my head.
“You have a good and loving heart. But you’re trying to carry a burden that’s not designed for your shoulders to handle. Nor his, for that matter.” He leans forward slightly, his voice warm but firm. “We can always try to be more careful. We can always try to change for the better. But who continues to live for another day was never our choice. Do you believe in God, Mira?”
Tears fall endlessly down my cheeks as I nod.
“And do you believe that everything He does is good?”
“Y-Yes.”
“And everything He allows to happen and wants to happen is also good?”
Memories wash over me as he speaks, and all I can do is nod as my tears fall faster. I remember the days I spent with Zacharie, and they’re all...good. So, so good.
“Now, I don’t know what God will impress upon your heart and your beau’s, but because our God does not lie, and He is always faithful to His promises, when He says the truth shall set us free—”
Oh.
“Maybe we can start with that?”
OH.
Everything’s suddenly terrifyingly but also wonderfully clear, and Dane and Pastor Chandler just laugh as I speak in a rush while scrambling to leave. I’m not sure I was coherent, to be honest. I just wanted them to understand that they’re a blessing to me, and I hope to treat them to dinner one day, but right now I have to go, like ASAP.
Eden was kind enough to text me his room number two days ago—back when I still had the courage to read messages from anyone connected to him—and so I know where to go. I find myself biting my nails while the elevator slowly makes its way to the top floor.
This is going to sound really bad, but since I’m the type to blend into the background rather easily, I’ve never had the need to say sorry much, and that’s why I’m not sure if I’ll do this right?
I’m only halfway done with the recipe for my humble pie when the elevator doors slide open with a cheerful ding that feels wildly inappropriate for the magnitude of what I’m about to do.
The hallway stretches before me, all polished floors and muted lighting and the faint smell of expensive flowers masking hospital antiseptic.
My heart is pounding so hard I can barely hear anything beyond it.
1.
