skin looked ashy from the color difference. My skin is too red-toned for blond hair.
My once-favorite picture of the two of us — I am wearing his high school football letterman jacket, standing in front of him; his arms are wrapped around my shoulders; both of us are full-out laughing — drops from the stack.
Man, Travis hasn’t changed at all. Same blond hair, same blue eyes, same tall, athletic build. He led our high school football team to the California state championships our senior year.
He used to tell me he was going to go to Stanford, play four years of college ball, get drafted into the NFL, marry me, and move wherever God led us.
He did go to Stanford, but instead of getting drafted, he tore his ACL in his right knee right before Christmas freshman year. He tried out for the team as soon as the doctor let him the following spring, but he nearly tore it again in practice. He neverplayed again.
And as far as that Christmas went …
I put the pictures back in a stack and wrap the rubber band around them, sighing. It felt so
good,
you know? That feeling of belonging to someone … almost.
Calvin nudges my free hand, dropping his head on my knee. He looks up at me with his sad brown eyes, as if he’s asking,
Aren’t I enough?
“You’re not, bud.” I rub his ears and reach for my Bible.
There’s no biblical evidence that Jesus ever had a girlfriend, but I’m counting on Him being sympathetic to this. Because as much as I hate to admit it, as much fun as I make of Jen being all starry eyed, as much as I get grossed out by Travis’s love notes to her …
I think I miss it.
I open the Bible and flip to Isaiah 40, but instead, chapter 41 catches my attention. “For I am the LORD your God, who upholds your right hand, who says to you, ‘Do not fear, I will help you.’”
Does “upholding” my right hand count as
holding
it?
CHAPTER EIGHT
Friday morning. 6:14 a.m.
Darkness.
Actually, make that fog-ridden darkness. The air is so dense that water droplets are clinging to my car. I squint to see out of my windshield.
I moan and bang my forehead on my steering wheel. “Why am I here?” I say to an empty car.
Foggy, chilly days are best enjoyed in front of my fireplace. Coffee in one hand, remote in the other. Movie in DVD player. Preferably something lighthearted and whimsical. Like
Penelope.
You can’t get more whimsical than Reese Witherspoon in that movie. Adorable.
I get out of my car, grumbling to myself, yanking my jacket tighter around my body. I march to the door, unlock it, open it, and stomp into the cold, clammy coffee shop. I throw my purse and jacket in the cabinet and gripe to myself as I turn on all the lights.
“Well, good morning to you, too, Nutcase.”
“Mmpgh.”
“What’s eating you?” Jack pulls on his apron and joins me behind the counter, sorting through the coffee we’re making today.
“It’s foggy,” I growl.
“It’s not carnivorous fog, so what’s really eating you?” Jack laughs at his own joke.
Zookeepers have a weird sense of humor.
“It’s foggy; it’s cold; and it’s wet; and I’m not at home drinking a caramel macchiato in front of my fireplace with my sweatpants and socks on.”
Jack nods. “You can drink a caramel macchiato here instead! We even have a fireplace and a never-ending supply of caramel syrup.”
Ever the cheerful optimist. I hate him.
Must find another reason to be mad. I point to my toes. “I am wearing work shoes that hurt my feet.”
“Maya, I’m wearing an
apron.
Tell me when the last time was that you saw a straight guy wearing an apron.”
“Emeril Live,”
I answer smugly, folding my arms.
“Emeril wears a chef coat,” Jack corrects. He flicks me on the side of the head. “If any of us get to complain, it’s me.”
“Mmpgh.”
He raises a coffee mug in victory.
I flip the switch on the coffeemaker holding the dark roast, and it starts gurgling.
“Why are you so grouchy?” he asks.
“I’m
My once-favorite picture of the two of us — I am wearing his high school football letterman jacket, standing in front of him; his arms are wrapped around my shoulders; both of us are full-out laughing — drops from the stack.
Man, Travis hasn’t changed at all. Same blond hair, same blue eyes, same tall, athletic build. He led our high school football team to the California state championships our senior year.
He used to tell me he was going to go to Stanford, play four years of college ball, get drafted into the NFL, marry me, and move wherever God led us.
He did go to Stanford, but instead of getting drafted, he tore his ACL in his right knee right before Christmas freshman year. He tried out for the team as soon as the doctor let him the following spring, but he nearly tore it again in practice. He neverplayed again.
And as far as that Christmas went …
I put the pictures back in a stack and wrap the rubber band around them, sighing. It felt so
good,
you know? That feeling of belonging to someone … almost.
Calvin nudges my free hand, dropping his head on my knee. He looks up at me with his sad brown eyes, as if he’s asking,
Aren’t I enough?
“You’re not, bud.” I rub his ears and reach for my Bible.
There’s no biblical evidence that Jesus ever had a girlfriend, but I’m counting on Him being sympathetic to this. Because as much as I hate to admit it, as much fun as I make of Jen being all starry eyed, as much as I get grossed out by Travis’s love notes to her …
I think I miss it.
I open the Bible and flip to Isaiah 40, but instead, chapter 41 catches my attention. “For I am the LORD your God, who upholds your right hand, who says to you, ‘Do not fear, I will help you.’”
Does “upholding” my right hand count as
holding
it?
CHAPTER EIGHT
Friday morning. 6:14 a.m.
Darkness.
Actually, make that fog-ridden darkness. The air is so dense that water droplets are clinging to my car. I squint to see out of my windshield.
I moan and bang my forehead on my steering wheel. “Why am I here?” I say to an empty car.
Foggy, chilly days are best enjoyed in front of my fireplace. Coffee in one hand, remote in the other. Movie in DVD player. Preferably something lighthearted and whimsical. Like
Penelope.
You can’t get more whimsical than Reese Witherspoon in that movie. Adorable.
I get out of my car, grumbling to myself, yanking my jacket tighter around my body. I march to the door, unlock it, open it, and stomp into the cold, clammy coffee shop. I throw my purse and jacket in the cabinet and gripe to myself as I turn on all the lights.
“Well, good morning to you, too, Nutcase.”
“Mmpgh.”
“What’s eating you?” Jack pulls on his apron and joins me behind the counter, sorting through the coffee we’re making today.
“It’s foggy,” I growl.
“It’s not carnivorous fog, so what’s really eating you?” Jack laughs at his own joke.
Zookeepers have a weird sense of humor.
“It’s foggy; it’s cold; and it’s wet; and I’m not at home drinking a caramel macchiato in front of my fireplace with my sweatpants and socks on.”
Jack nods. “You can drink a caramel macchiato here instead! We even have a fireplace and a never-ending supply of caramel syrup.”
Ever the cheerful optimist. I hate him.
Must find another reason to be mad. I point to my toes. “I am wearing work shoes that hurt my feet.”
“Maya, I’m wearing an
apron.
Tell me when the last time was that you saw a straight guy wearing an apron.”
“Emeril Live,”
I answer smugly, folding my arms.
“Emeril wears a chef coat,” Jack corrects. He flicks me on the side of the head. “If any of us get to complain, it’s me.”
“Mmpgh.”
He raises a coffee mug in victory.
I flip the switch on the coffeemaker holding the dark roast, and it starts gurgling.
“Why are you so grouchy?” he asks.
“I’m
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