He lowers his head into his hands. Looking up, he stands.
“Let’s go,” he says, his hand reaching for mine.
I step back from him. “You don’t have to say goodbye.”
“What?”
“Come here,” I say. I take his hand and lead him to the edge of the grave. The smell of fresh dug dirt mingles with the sweet smell of the roses.
“There’s a CD I have by a band called MercyMe. There’s a song that really helped me when my Dad died. It says in Christ there are no goodbyes. In Christ there is no end. So I’ll hold on to Jesus with all that I have to see you again.”
He looks at me and I can see the hope in his sad eyes. It’s mingled with his tears.
I lean over, pull a rose from the spray and hand it to him. “So Ashton, don’t tell her goodbye. Just tell her you’ll see her later.”
CHAPTER 15
I had asked myself earlier if Ashton’s grandparents were rich. The answer is yes. A definite yes. They live in a little mansion (okay, I know that’s a somewhat contradictory statement, but it’s true) off of Riverside Drive.
The house is beautifully decorated in deep rich burgundies, blues and golds, an elegant yet comfortable style. Silk drapes, throw pillows with tassels, and thick rugs add style and grace to Ashton’s grandfather’s home.
My offer to be of any sort of assistance was turned down, so now I’m kind of like the wife at her husband’s class reunion, sitting alone, not knowing anyone while Ashton stands next to his grandfather, receiving condolences from a long line of people.
So here I sit, people watching. And trust me, there are plenty of people to watch. I can’t begin to count how many.
A fairly young woman, (well, older than me but younger than the majority of the blue-haired attendees) slides her gracefully made-up self next to me on the couch.
“Did he desert you?” she asks.
“Desert?”
“Yes. Ashton. He left you here all alone?”
Her voice is pleasant and she is expensively put together. I wonder if she can tell my shoes are from the Shoe Carnival and my dress was a fifty percent off the clearance price special from Macys.
She looks like the type who would know these things.
“Actually, Ashton’s with his grandfather.”
“Of course. So are you Ashton’s latest girl?”
You know the way she says “latest” really sets me on edge. Her whole tone is catty.
And really, does she mean “his girl” according to Ashton or according to me. Since she’s asking me I’m going with my take on our relationship.
“No. I’m just a friend.”
And I was proud to say it.
“Sure you are,” she says, smiling like she knows what I’m not telling her, but whatever she thinks she knows she really doesn’t because there’s nothing to tell.
“I am. Don’t you know, good Christian girls don’t lie?”
She looks taken aback. (Don’t you love that phrase, and there really are far too few occasions to use it.) And apparently she has no comeback for me, because she just stands and leaves.
Drat. I don’t even know her name.
But she has given me food for thought. I’m sure everyone here thinks I’m Ashton’s girl. And I probably am according to their mentality. Because he did call me his girl. But I have to remember I don’t really know the criteria for fulfilling the position. I guess part of it would be attending major events, like funerals.
Part of it I’m sure would not be smart-mouthing guests while at said funeral. And being a Christian smart-mouth is probably against all the rules.
I try hard. Really I do. I know I shouldn’t have said what I said, but she shouldn’t have either. So I sit up straighter on the couch, cross my legs, and avoid eye contact with the people milling around the room. I don’t want another incident to happen.
Ashton followed me to my house so I could change. Which I did into a pair of jean shorts and a T-shirt. He then drove us to his new condo. Well, new to him. The neighborhood is older, but nice. The condos are being renovated.
His was done by the previous owners.
Finally, I’m seeing a part of his life. I’m just sad it took a funeral to do it.
We had stopped and picked up a pizza and some Cokes on the way. I’m carrying the pizza box up the steps.
“Remember,” he says as he unlocks the front door. “I’m still unpacking, and moving stuff around. So it’s a mess.”
He flings open the door and he’s right. It’s a mess. But cool. Wide open spaces, lots of light. We walk down a couple of steps into his living room. The kitchen is up some stairs off the other side.
“What do you think?” he asks.
We’re walking to the kitchen to set down our combination lunch/dinner.
“I think it’s great. I love the feel. And you’re right. It’s a mess.”
He pulls two Cokes out of their plastic holders and slides the rest in the refrigerator. I set the pizza on the counter. Ashton fumbles through a couple of boxes until he comes up with some napkins. He holds one out to me.
“Here you go. We’re using the fine china today.”
“Why thank you. This printed pattern is all the rage now,” I say nodding toward the vegetable drawings on the napkin.
He moves the boxes from the counter to the floor and motions to a bar stool.
“This is better than what they were serving at my grandfather’s,” he says, biting into a slice of pizza.
“Normally, funeral food is good,” I say. “When my Dad died we had food for days. Good homemade southern fried chicken, pies, and everything in between.”
“Did you notice Grandfather had the food everyone brought put up then he set out the catered fare he ordered in. I hope nobody was offended.”
“Interesting. Probably not. Although I’m not familiar with the upper echelon. There were a ton of people there.”
I remember the lady, woman, whoever she was. I don’t think I made a very good impression. But that’s okay. Neither did she.
Ashton is eating well. I’m glad. He actually looks like he’s lost some weight since I’d seen him last. Just like a man. Stress, grief, and they lose pounds.
Not so with women. Stress, grief, can you say bring on the pounds? (And the chocolate.)
Of course there’s always the exception. Like my mother. Maybe I should bring home pizza once a week. That might fatten her up some.
I look around at all of Ashton’s disarray. “Do you have a place for all this stuff?” I ask.
“Yes,” he says. “Why? Doesn’t it look like it?”
“Well,” I start. “It seems like there are a lot of boxes and I didn’t know if you were going to put some in storage.”
“Are you saying my place is too small?”
Oh, brother. Have I put my foot in my mouth again? It wasn’t my intent to indicate his place was small.
“No, that’s not what I meant. Forget it.”
“Hey, I’m giving you a hard time. Smile.”
I did. A very smirkish smile.
“I’m glad you didn’t have to go to work,” he says.
“I’m sure you are. Otherwise I couldn’t have come over here and helped you unpack these boxes.”
“You’re gonna help me?”
“It’s the least I could do for this fine meal served on this fine china.”
“I did go all out, didn’t I? Ordered almost all the toppings.”
“I know. So where can we start?”
He looks around. “Pick a place.”
“Why don’t I start in the kitchen and you can tackle the living room. Unless you’re partial to where your dishes and such are placed in the cupboards.”
“I don’t even know what kitchen stuff I have.
He cranks up the stereo. I unpack the kitchen to the beat of old Beatles tunes.
By the time we break down the boxes and haul them to the dumpster, it’s already dusk. We walk back to the condo and
he opens the door.
“Wow,” I say. “Now it looks like somebody really lives here.”
I walk around the living room basically being nosy, but he doesn’t know that. I’m surprised at the lack of baseball paraphernalia. I thought it would be his décor of choice, but it’s not.
He has some very contemporary pieces of art. His color choices span a wide range. I guess there’s no real name for his style. It’s just him. But he does have quite a few pictures around.
I take a picture off the mantel.
“Is this your grandparents wedding photo?” I ask.
He walks over.
“Yeah.” He shuts his eyes momentarily, like he’s cherishing a memory. “Braedyn touched it up for me. She’s been working on some of their old pictures. I had planned on giving them an album for Christmas. Now I don’t know what I’m going to do.”
So Braedyn’s been working for Ashton. His interest isn’t personal. Praise God.
“You can still give it to your grandfather. I bet he’d cherish it even more now.”
“Do you think?” he asks.
“I’m pretty sure.”
I say the words for comfort as I place the picture back on the mantle. I mean, who am I to really know? When my father died, my grandma and I both moved in to help ease my mother’s grief.
There are no lights on his living room. Dusk is settling and it’s more dark in the room than light.
We’re standing really close together. Too close, in my book. Because there’s something about this man, and it takes a real conscious effort not to wrap my arms around him at times like these.
“What’s going on with us, Allison?” he asks. “I mean really going on.”
Good question. One I’ve been wondering myself.
“What do you want to be going on with us?” I ask.
And why I asked such a stupid question I’ll never know. Just give the man an out never mind leeway to say anything he wants.
“Right now I want to see what happens when I do this,” he says as he steps closer. He holds me with his gaze as he reaches behind me and somehow, without fumbling, pulls a bobby pin out of my French twist. He sets it on the mantle and pulls another one out.
He continues until my hair is no longer bound, wound and pinned. He smooths it with his hands. Then his fingers skim the back of my neck before entwining intricately through the mass of my hair as if each strand is special. Beautiful.
“This,” he whispers as my hair gently sweeps between his fingers, “is reserved for me.”
His voice and his touch carry my senses to places beyond belief. Beyond real.
The journey continues as his lips claim mine, and from this point on I’m no longer who I was, and I know I’m heading into dangerous territory.
In his condo, alone with him, hair down, lips being kissed, caressed, heart racing, knees weak, and the desire for it all to continue forever.
And ever.
But I can’t let it go any further.
Not that Ashton is trying to go any further. His hands have stayed in very gentlemanly places. My hair, my shoulders, my neck. But I’m not stupid.
What I am is a virgin. And I plan on staying that way until I’m married. I know the concept is basically out-dated and not understood, but I made a promise to God a long time ago.
Breaking this absolutely, wonderfully fabulous kiss is better than breaking my promise to God.
And right now it seems like the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do. But I do. I break the seal of our lips, take my hands out of his hair (two can play that game), unmold myself from his body and step back, away from his warmth, passion.
My passion.
We both look spent, like more than a kiss has happened. I’m out of breath, shaky and scared. Scared that I’m never going to feel like this again.
Scared that I am.
CHAPTER 16
“Ashton,” I say, my voice shaky, unsure.
“I know, baby,” he says, his smoky hazel eyes full of what I’m afraid is a level of passion I never knew existed. “Come here.”
I walk back into his arms, and rest my head against his chest, his lips far out of reach. He smooths my hair as we stand there, holding each other.
I think he’s holding onto me a little tighter than I’m holding onto him. What am I doing? He’s the one who needs comforting and here I am, all riled up about a kiss and staying a virgin.
Talk about not being a good Christian friend.
“I asked you what was going on with us for a reason. I need to talk to you,” he says.
Why, oh, why does he always want to talk after totally frying my brain with his kisses?
As my senses return to nowhere I’d call normal, but less unnormal than five minutes ago, I realize there’s only one place this conversation can be going.
Knowing I can’t go there, I step back, out of his arms.
He doesn’t let me go far. His hand wraps around my wrist, and he tries to pull me closer.
Shadows caress the walls as dusk descends, begging nightfall to begin. I’m surrounded by everything that is Ashton. His style, his home, his scent, his substance, him, as I meet him half way. His hand still softly holds my wrist. I don’t make him let go.
My heart is hammering, my lips feel swollen, sweetly foreign as my tongue barely flicks the edge of my lip where I can still taste him.
My eyes shut momentarily, my imagination having no concrete place to take me. I can only imagine what comes next as beautiful and sacred.
I open my eyes to Ashton’s pensive look. I lower my eyes, hoping he can’t read them. I now know what wanting is. And right here, right now, in these circumstances with this man who is not my husband there is not one thing I can do about it.
“This whole thing with my grandmother has me thinking a lot, Allison. About the future, and how life is really short, and we should make the most of it while we have the chance.”
I look up. Now my throat is dry. My heart is really pumping. Is he heading towards an “us?” Towards something I can’t say yes to? Not that I couldn’t say yes to an us. But there are certain aspects of being an us that I’m not participating in. My beliefs have ended more than one relationship.
“I’ve been working with a pitching coach these last two months. Working hard, but I wasn’t sure what I was working towards. It’s almost impossible to make a comeback, so I’ve been trying to decide what I’m going to do with my life.”
Pitching? This man is talking about pitching? I’m stressed over having to tell him I can’t sleep with him and he’s talking about pitching?
“I’ve been praying, Allison. I really have,” he says, pulling me close once again. He brushes my hair behind my ears then rests his hands on my shoulders. “And I’ve decided to go for it. I’m going to try and make a comeback. The trade deadlines are at the end of July, and even though I’m a free agent, now is the time. Everybody’ll be making decisions before the deadline. It’s now or never, Allison.”
“Ashton—” I start, but he puts an index finger up to my mouth.
“Just one minute. There’s something I have to say. Leaving you here is going to be the hardest part.”
The desire to laugh and cry all at once nearly consumes me. I’m such an emotional wreck at this point you’d think I was the one who’d lost a grandparent.
Pitching. Virginity. Leaving. Kissing.
My mind is in a whirl while my heart is torn between already missing him and relief that he hasn’t asked me to compromise my beliefs.
I don’t have time to dwell on either my heart or my mind, because his lips have claimed mine again. I wrap my arms around him, losing myself in his kiss. His declaration sounds like the beginning of the end of something that hadn’t really begun in the first place.
I want to savor every moment of my goodbye kiss.
Men are really from Mars, women are really from Venus. I know this for a fact, now.
Ashton is driving me home from the prayer meeti
ng. He has an energy about him. He made his big comeback announcement to the mission team, then assured us he’d be on the trip. He said nothing usually happens until right before the deadline which means he could be leaving two days after my mother’s surprise party.
Okay, like I don’t have enough to worry about.
The reason I say men are from Mars, etc. … is because his big announcement makes him really happy and makes me really sad.
My not-quite-boyfriend, who I’ve yet to have a real date with, is leaving me. Is that a sad scenario or what?
And I don’t think he sees it the same way at all.
The more time we spend together, the more I like him, hence the more I become attached. Yes, I am talking about Ashton here, not the classic Jag or those incredible-edible kisses.
I’m not sure how it’s working for him. On the inside, I mean. His heart is probably numb with his grandmother dying and his mother not showing up. Maybe I don’t want to be in his heart right now. Maybe later would be a better time.
Who am I kidding?
“Everybody seemed happy for me, didn’t they, Allison?” he says as he turns a corner near my house. His voice holds an excitement I haven’t ever heard before.
“Of course they’re happy. We want what’s best for you.”
There. I’ll lump myself into that “we” category.
The Jag rides like a dream. It seems to drive itself. We move along, passing trees, houses, mailboxes, dogs. People doing their normal routines in their normal houses on their normal streets.
I’m sure that’s what people think when they drive down my street and look at my house. But I am far from normal. Especially now.
“It feels good to make a decision, you know?” he says. “I had been struggling with what to do. My pitching coach tells me I’m coming along great. You should come watch one day. Would you?”
I think he forgets that I have a nine-to-six job Monday through Friday. Maybe he works with the pitching coach on Saturday. That does seem to be one of those days I never see him. “How about Saturday?”
He smiles. I mean a really big smile. “Sounds good. I’ll pick you up at seven.”
“A.M. or P.M?”
“A.M. We get started early.”
Her Best Catch Page 12