Falling for You

by Becky Wade

  “I’m sorry I can’t be here in person.” Her voice broke. “I’m incredibly sorry for that and for everything else.” She knew that talking on the phone probably sounded to him like a lousy consolation prize. But . . . “I’ll take talking to you on the phone, Corbin, because it’s so much better than nothing.”

  “Don’t forget that we’re also going to text and send pictures,” he said.

  “Yes.” She laughed, sorrow clutching her.

  “What about emails?

  “Yes.”

  “Facebook messages?”

  “Neither of us likes Facebook.”

  “Oh, right.”

  They stayed there, clinging to each other, as surrounded by pain as they were by rain, the circle of the umbrella their only protection.

  “I’ll miss you,” she whispered.

  “I’ll miss you.” He spoke in a sandpaper tone, as if his throat was sore. “Come back when you can.”

  “I will.” She looked into his face, committing every detail of it to memory. Telling him, You didn’t read me wrong, without words.

  He gave her one feather-light kiss. It was a respectful kiss. Safe. He’d retreated from her behind a new fortress of his own. “Good-bye, Willow.” He released his hold.

  She walked backward a few paces.

  He remained frozen in place. His big body was full of power. Speed. Strength. Yet standing there alone, he looked both proud and bereft.

  She was certain in that moment, positively certain, that he was the one for her.

  She nodded once, then turned and walked to her car.

  Text message from Willow’s agent, Blythe, to Willow:

  Blythe

  Congratulations on your first day back on the job! I’m so happy for you, Willow. I hope the break in Washington was everything you hoped it would be and that you’re feeling refreshed. In addition to the bookings already on your calendar, I have several more opportunities to discuss with you. Some big players are rabidly interested in signing you. Call me when you get a chance, and we’ll discuss!

  Chapter

  Twenty-five

  I’ve never understood why Christians are so determined to make everyone feel bad about themselves with all that talk about sin and sinners. Sin and sinners.” Joe grunted with disgust. “They go on and on about it.”

  Why had Corbin imagined that talking to his dad about faith was a good idea? At the moment, he’d trade one of his Super Bowl rings for the chance to avoid this conversation and lay tile alone in this bathroom he no longer cared about in this town he no longer cared about now that Willow wasn’t in it.

  She’d left two days ago. That he’d found a way to go on shocked him.

  He and his dad were both wearing kneepads and hunching over to place spacers between slabs of tile. “Christians go on and on about sin,” Corbin said, “because they know that God can’t do anything with a person until that person can admit their sins. Problem is, most of us would rather ignore our mistakes. We want to view ourselves as good at any cost.”

  “Most of the people I know are good.”

  “How good are they, though, in comparison to God?” They worked for a few minutes in silence. “There’s something that the people who want to see themselves as good don’t understand,” Corbin said.

  “Which is?”

  “There’s freedom in admitting that you’re not good, in being accepted for who you actually are. It was a relief for me when I got to that place.”

  His dad positioned another tile on the grout.

  Man, he missed Willow.

  A huge distance separated them now. He had no idea when he’d get to see her again, and the idea that it might be months worsened his already rotten mood.

  When his dad let the discussion drop, Corbin didn’t try to resurrect it. He wasn’t in the right frame of mind to talk about God.

  He wasn’t in the right frame of mind for anything.

  Willow remained perfectly still as the stylist adjusted her hair. She was stretched out on a low-slung white cement sculpture in front of miles of aqua Caribbean sea.

  She’d worked with this photographer several times in the past. He was talented and professional. The location was stunning. Even so, her thoughts were thousands of miles away in a little town called Shore Pine with an ex-pro football player and his dad.

  During her months in Merryweather and over the three weeks that had passed since she’d left Washington, she’d given herself several work-related pep talks along the lines of, Your enjoyment of modeling is sure to come back. This burnout will pass. Be patient with yourself.

  But, so far, Willow hadn’t felt positively enough about the opportunities her agent had presented to her to commit to any of them. Her halfhearted response baffled Blythe.

  Willow understood why. The idea of walking away from a successful career was, on its surface, baffling. Willow herself had some reservations about it.

  One, she didn’t know what God was calling her to next, so leaving modeling felt a little like letting go of a trapeze bar to fall into nothingness. The state of her finances did provide her with a type of net. (Because she had not, thank goodness, frittered away all her income on housewares.) Even so.

  Two, she worried that her distress over Corbin might be unfairly slanting her objectivity. Everything felt drab and boring without him. Had her pining for him made the modeling seem unbearable, even though it wasn’t?

  Three, if she quit modeling, would she regret it later? At the age of thirty-one, she didn’t have many years of modeling ahead of her anyway. Would she be upset with herself twenty years from now if she quit at this point?

  Across three continents in three weeks, Willow had been thinking about and praying through these issues. Gradually, she’d come to accept that her discontent with modeling was not a phase.

  She’d always be grateful for all that modeling had given her. She’d traveled the world, and in so doing, seen and experienced a treasure trove of things she never would have otherwise. She’d met scores of interesting people. She’d been given a platform to help Benevolence Worldwide. For a long time, the exciting job of professional model had suited her. However, Willow’s modeling life was no longer, for her, the model life.

  God had called her to modeling all those years ago. She firmly believed that. And she’d seen how He’d been able to use her profession for His glory. She’d felt satisfaction in her work and peace concerning her direction.

  God had removed her satisfaction and peace some time ago. She’d been blundering along without Him ever since, for longer than she cared to admit. Just because God started you on one path didn’t mean He intended to keep you on that path all your life.

  If God wasn’t calling her to modeling anymore, and she really didn’t think He was, then she had no business continuing in this profession. Her doubts about quitting needed to step to the side and get out of her way because she didn’t want to go where God wasn’t leading.

  He was the one who’d sustained her these past three weeks, who’d traveled with her, who’d doggedly comforted her when she’d been desolate without Corbin. She was determined to live her life in sync with God from now on. So if God was ready to do a new thing in her life, then she needed to collect her bravery and embrace change.

  The hair stylist scampered off. The makeup artist brushed more highlighter onto her cheekbones. The photographer’s assistant modified the lighting. The photographer called out instructions. Willow dutifully obeyed.

  “Yes,” the photographer said. “Yes!”

  No, thought Willow. No.

  I’m really done.

  What she wanted most in the world at this particular moment, sitting by the sea, was to be with Corbin. Grief gathered into a hot ball behind her rib cage.

  Great Scott! Get ahold of yourself.

  It had taken scheduling gymnastics to talk to him each day across time zones and her shooting schedule. But he’d never complained. Nor had he blamed her for leaving. Nor had he said he lo
ved her again. He was somewhat guarded with her now. He hadn’t once asked when she was coming back.

  In addition to the updates she received from Corbin, her sisters had been supplying her with insider information. Nora, Britt, or Grandma had been stopping by Corbin and Joe’s barnhouse every few days. According to her sisters, Joe was slowing down and growing thinner, but still working alongside Corbin on the renovation.

  Willow fervently wished that she could be there. What kind of person showed their love by remaining distant when their loved one’s closest family member was dying? It was a person’s stubborn determination to stick by another when things got hard, in the very worst moments, that defined love.

  “Can you brighten that smile by a few degrees?” the photographer asked.

  And so she did.

  Corbin still woke at the same time each day. Made the same things for breakfast. Drove his dad to appointments. His publicist and agent still called, and he still responded to them in the usual ways.

  He was faking it. He was moving his body through daily routines while trying to accept that Willow was gone and that his dad was dying. It felt as though his true self was looking down on him from far, far away. It felt as though someone else, his shadow self, had hijacked his body.

  Willow had been gone for a month now. It was Christmas Day, and he and his dad were sitting at Bradfordwood’s dining room table with Nora and John and Britt and Tristan, a few of the Bradford aunts and uncles, and some of their cousins. Willow’s sisters and grandmother had done everything possible to take care of his dad since Willow’s departure, including inviting them to this meal.

  He nodded and pretended to listen to what one of Willow’s relatives was saying to him as his attention panned across the table. His gaze paused on his dad. He’d talked his dad into listening to the same audio version of the Bible that Corbin had listened to, which was the only good thing that had happened lately.

  Corbin had excelled at football for most of his life. He wasn’t used to failing at things as badly as he’d been failing at explaining Christianity to his father. They were still having their not-productive talks, but now, at least, Corbin had the comfort of knowing that his dad was getting input from the Bible itself.

  His vision moved over the remainder of the room. The Bradfords had cooked a huge amount of food. Christmas music played. And everyone here, except him, appeared to be happy.

  He felt as happy as an undertaker. Frankly, it sucked to be surrounded by this house and these people when Willow wasn’t here. Spending Christmas at Bradfordwood while Willow celebrated in Africa with her parents was the emotional equivalent of getting sacked.

  Because of their phone calls, he knew how her days went. He knew what was on her mind and where she was in the world and if she was feeling happy or sad. She encouraged him to continue talking to his dad about God. She listened to his concerns. She sympathized with him. She discussed the pros and cons of the decisions he faced regarding his dad’s care.

  The sound of her voice always flowed into him like warm, calming water.

  Their conversations were his lifeline.

  They were also his curse because they weren’t nearly enough.

  A part of him was still coldly and completely furious with her. He knew it wasn’t fair to be angry at Willow for not loving him back, for leaving him.

  Even so, he was angry.

  On top of that, he flat out wasn’t doing well without her. His appetite wasn’t what it should be. He wasn’t sleeping well. The passing of weeks hadn’t helped, and he’d started to wonder if he should see his dad’s psychologist. For as long as he could remember, being diagnosed with a mental illness had been his worst fear. That wasn’t his worst fear anymore. There were a lot of things worse than mental illness. Living without Willow was one of them for him.

  He’d been praying desperately for God’s help, and still, he was just getting by.

  “That’s it,” Corbin said to his dad on the last day of January. They both took a step back to admire the switch plate Joe had just installed. They’d spent the last few weeks doing finishing work on their house. Quarter round. Trim. Paint. Outlet covers. Exterior improvements. As of this moment, they were officially done. Their eight-month-long renovation was complete.

  Joe looked across at Corbin and gave him the old grin he used to give Corbin when Corbin brought home an A on a paper, scored touchdowns, or had dinner waiting for his dad when he got home from work.

  “Good work, son.” His dad extended a hand.

  They shook. “Good work, Dad.”

  That old grin made his dad look ten years younger. Maybe the doctors were wrong. Maybe his dad still had plenty of time left in him. Maybe his dad would recover and his story would become a miracle story.

  The next morning Joe wouldn’t get out of bed.

  His dad’s doctor had instructed Corbin to call with any change in condition, so Corbin called. Dr. Benton drove to the house that evening and went upstairs to treat his patient.

  Corbin waited downstairs. He sat at the kitchen island in his finished house, turning his coffee mug around and around. His loneliness pressed in on him from every angle, heavier than gravity, as inescapable as chains.

  Dr. Benton was a nice man. But when he came downstairs and told Corbin it was time to call in hospice care, Dr. Benton might as well have clubbed him in the head.

  After thanking the doctor and showing him out, Corbin stood inside his front door, one hand splayed on the smooth wood, head dipped. It wasn’t going to be a miracle story.

  He’d known for a long time that it wouldn’t be. It’s not like this fate had snuck up on him. Even so, he felt stunned by it.

  Hospice? No.

  He wasn’t ready. His heart began to race with panic.

  He pulled out his phone and dialed Willow.

  “Corbin?”

  He exhaled raggedly, thankful that she’d picked up. “I’m sorry to wake you. I know it’s the middle of the night in Paris.”

  “It’s okay.”

  He sat on one of the chairs that guests had sat in to watch football the night he’d hosted a party so that he could see her. Max and Duke lay on the floor at his feet, staring at him with worry as he told her what the doctor had said.

  “I’m so sorry.” Her voice was slightly husky from sleep.

  “Hospice, Willow?” He hated the sound of his own anxiety. “I’m not ready for that.”

  “I’m not sure a person can ever be ready for what you and your dad are going through.”

  “He was just working on the house with me yesterday. How could he have gone down so quickly?”

  “If I had to guess, I’d say that he willed himself to finish the house, regardless of how he was feeling physically. He told me once that completing work on the house was extremely important to him.”

  “He did?”

  “Yes.”

  “So now that the house is done he’s throwing in the towel?”

  She hesitated. “I think it’s more that his exhaustion has caught up with him, now that he’s accomplished what he wanted to accomplish.”

  He swore. “Sorry,” he immediately said.

  “It’s all right.”

  “I’m not up for this, Willow. I can’t take care of my dad as well as he should be taken care of.”

  “Yes, you can.”

  “I should have insisted that he meet with a pastor. I can’t convince him to believe in God.”

  “Just you wait and see. God’s the one who will convince Joe. Keep trying, and I’ll keep praying.”

  “I can’t watch my father die,” he said flatly.

  She didn’t answer. They both knew that he had no choice. He loved his dad, and so he’d remain right here, with his father, until the end.

  “Corbin,” she said. He loved her voice, the timbre and the clarity of it. “You have a history of responding to hard things by going into a tailspin.”

  “If that’s a pep talk, it needs a little work.”
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br />   “Hear me out. We discussed what happened to you when I told you I was worried that I might be pregnant. And after we broke up, your dad told me you were in a bad place for a long time.”

  “True.”

  “You went into a tailspin again after your shoulder injury.”

  “Also true.”

  “Your dad is dying, which is worse than anything that’s come before. . . . Yet you haven’t gone into a tailspin.” She paused. “You said just now that you’re not up for this. But don’t you see? You’ve been bearing up under this for months. You are bearing up under this.”

  Surprise froze him for a long moment. “I’m struggling.”

  “Yes, but that’s to be expected, considering your circumstances. God has been giving you enough strength to get through each day. He’s steadying you, Corbin.”

  He was too stunned to speak.

  “You might not feel as if you know God well yet, but He knows you very, very well. He’s with you, and He’s providing for you.”

  They said good-night a few minutes later. Corbin set the phone aside and went to stand at the empty fireplace.

  Willow was right. As heavyhearted as he’d been lately, he hadn’t reached for alcohol. He hadn’t gotten in his car and driven someplace far, far away. He hadn’t done any of the destructive things he’d done in the past when life had sent him reeling.

  God had been holding him together.

  His shoulders relaxed as the worst of the stress that had gripped him since Dr. Benton mentioned hospice began to loosen.

  God was holding him together.

  Not so long ago, he’d wanted to believe that Willow had the power to make the loss of football and his shoulder pain and his dad’s condition bearable.

  Then she’d gone away.

  Even without her here, the loss of football and his shoulder pain and his dad’s condition were bearable. Awful. But bearable. Because God was on his side.

  He, his dad, and Willow had all been scarred in ways that made trusting difficult. In the months since he’d asked God to save him, he’d continued to waffle. He’d never been completely certain whether he could trust God.