“Logan, this is very generous of you.”
“It’s nothing. Just a friend helping out another friend, right? And this is why you keep me around.” I open my mouth to protest, but she holds up a hand to stop me. “Kidding. Send the text, will you?”
I pull out my phone to do as I’m told as she reaches into her bag and takes out her homework. Not long after we both direct our attention to our studies, the responses to my earlier text start pouring in. I don’t notice at first, so focused on what it is that I’m doing; but then Logan kicks my shin. When I look across the table at her, she laughs and then points at my phone. It’s obvious that she’s really excited about her idea, so I don’t waste another minute before checking the replies.
Me: Logan invited all of us to Steamboat to stay the weekend 11/14. Who’s in?
Avery: Um…that’s awfully nice. What does she want in return, our souls?
Claire: lol, does it matter? That sounds awesome.
Grayson: Ave, be nice :P I think we should go.
Jack: If Claire’s in, I’m in.
Sarah: She has room for all of us?
Avery: Queen Bee will probably make all of us sleep on the floor.
My Girl: Hahaha, AJ, be nice.
Grayson: Shorty, if she makes us sleep on the floor, I’ll be your pillow ;)
Claire: Sarah, look what you started!
Me: Gross.
Jack: Whipped!
Sarah: Ha-I will not take responsibility for their shameless flirting.
Avery: Okay, you’ve convinced me. I’m in :)
My Girl: If she really has room for all of us, it could be fun.
Me: She says she does.
Sarah: I think that makes us all in.
Claire: Yay!
“Count me in with six more.”
“Great!” she says, clapping her hands. “I’ll be right back. I’m going to call my mom.” I watch her leave, shaking my head in awe as she goes. I really can’t believe that she’s doing this for us—for me—but I am looking forward to it. It’ll be nice to get away and, hopefully, forget about all the things that are stressing me out, at least for a couple of days. Who knows, by then, I might know whether or not I’m going to med school next year, which has the potential to turn that weekend into one of celebration; or, possibly, one of mourning.
I shake the thought away, take another drink of my coffee, and decide that I could go for a snack. Looking over at the register, I realize that Daphne is working and I should definitely head over there, even if just to say hello.
“Hey, Beck,” she says as soon as she spots me. She waves her phone at me and smiles. “I hear you’ve managed to earn all of us a trip to LG’s Steamboat paradise.”
“Not sure how it happened, but yeah. Have you been before?”
“It’s amazing!” she replies with wide eyes and an enthusiastic nod. “So amazing, in fact, you’ve also earned yourself a treat—on the house. Pick your poison.”
“I’ll take one of those giant cookies—but I’ll pay,” I insist, reaching for my wallet.
“You can only pay if the barista behind the counter takes your money. Too bad for you, I refuse. Here you go,” she responds, handing me my stomach’s desire. I reach into my wallet anyway and pull out two singles before placing them in her tip jar. She laughs and folds her arms across her chest. “Touché.”
“Thanks for this.”
“Oh, hey, are you going to be here tomorrow night?” she asks before I can turn away.
“Uh, for what?”
“Addie’s going to be singing for open mic night. Didn’t she tell you? Maybe she forgot. Anyway—she’s singing one of Roman’s songs. It sounds incredible. They let me hear it last weekend.”
For a second, I don’t know what to say. I had no idea. In all the times that I’ve managed to see Addie in the last couple of weeks, she hasn’t mentioned it. In fact, no one has. I’m not really sure what that’s about, but I know that I don’t like it. The fact that it involves Addie with Roman makes me feel a bit uneasy. I am curious to know what she might be singing, though. I haven’t seen her perform someplace other than church since high school.
“What time?”
“They go on at eight.”
“Cool. Thanks. I’ll be there.”
I’ve been standing in front of my closet for a half an hour. I know that whatever I wear will be fine, but I can’t shake my desire to wear the perfect thing. If I don’t pick something in the next five minutes, though, I’ll be late…or naked. I would ask Ave for help, but she’s out with Claire. I know that Sarah would be able to dress me up in two seconds, but she got stuck doing a group project tonight—which is lame on so many levels. I haven’t told her that Roman and I are performing; we were going to surprise her. I didn’t tell anyone else in the group either, seeing as how open mic night is kind of a Three Musketeers thing; but it looks like it’s just going to be Roman, his guitar, and me.
I finally decide on a pair of mustard leggings and my navy sweater dress. I debate between ballet flats and boots until I’m about to drive myself crazy; I pull on my boots and gather my things before hurrying out the door. It’s just after seven when I arrive at the cafe, making me only a couple minutes late. When I notice the crowd of people that has already started to fill the place, my stomach knots up with nerves. It’s not that there are more people than I would expect, but knowing that I’m about to sing in front of them makes me anxious. And it’s not just a matter of singing by myself, without the familiarity of the worship band behind me, it also has to do with my desire to make Roman proud. It’s a big deal, him sharing his music, and I don’t want to let him down.
Thinking that a hot tea might calm me, I head for the line to order a drink. As I wait, I look around to see if I can spot Roman. Before I do, I feel him come up behind me and rest his hands on my shoulders. I can’t explain why I know it’s him, I just do. When he begins to work my already tense muscles, I relax under his care.
“I could feel your nervous energy from across the room,” he chuckles into my ear. “You should relax. You’re going to be great.”
“I hope so,” I say as I pat his hands and then turn to face him. I smile up at him, grateful for his comforting presence. He’s in a pair of black jeans and a red, button-up, flannel shirt—the sleeves rolled and pushed up to his elbows. With his guitar strapped across his chest, I’m sure he’ll look like a true mountain man. “I’m just feeling a little pressure,” I admit. “I really want them to like your song. I know how important this is to you.”
“Of course they’ll like it; you’re singing it. And you know what? If they don’t like it, I don’t care—I’m just happy to be doing this with you.” My stomach, already knotted with nerves, now tingles, too. His words were probably meant to calm me down, but they wind me up even more. I don’t mind, though, so I won’t complain.
It’s been a few weeks since our front porch moment when he promised that, despite our feelings, we could remain friends. He hasn’t broken his word, but I’ve noticed that he’s become more obvious about what he really wants. He’s constantly telling me sweet things and he’s grown more comfortable flirting with his hands. We don’t talk about Beck hardly at all anymore, and it seems like we’re in contact with each other almost every day. The gradual shift in our relationship isn’t something we discuss; it’s almost as if we’ll ruin everything if we do. Part of me enjoys his attention—because, come on, who wouldn’t enjoy just about any sort of attention from this gorgeous specimen of a man?—but part of me still feels guilty about the whole thing.
I don’t want to lead him on, which is why I think it’s best that we don’t talk about it. The truth is, I don’t know what I want. It doesn’t matter how much I think about it or pray about it or journal about it, I don’t know what I want. I like Roman more and more as time goes on, but I love Beckham, too. My feelings for him have not diminished over the last five months. Sometimes I catch him looking at me and I swear, I fall more in lo
ve with him from afar. I’ll be the first to admit that it’s frustrating and confusing and unfair.
Roman and I have something—and the only thing holding us back from exploring a relationship with one another is me. Why? Because Beckham and I have something, too—or at least, we had something; whether or not we’ll get back together is up for debate, but it doesn’t change the fact that the man I’ve loved for over five years can’t just be discarded because I like someone else. Also, the last thing I want is for Roman to be some sort of rebound.
All that to say, my slutty heart wants both of them and until I can make up my mind about what to do, I’m content to exist in this space where no one talks about how they feel or what they want. I would have never guessed in a million years that I would ever find myself in a predicament like this. I’ve seen or heard of other girls having to go through something similar and I’ve internally chastised them for not being able to make up their minds. I can now attest that it’s harder than it looks.
“Well, hello, my two song birds,” calls Daphne, as we’re apparently the next in line. “What can I get for you tonight? Besides a proper dose of good luck?”
I turn and offer her a smile before I order myself a hot tea. Roman mimics my order and then insists on paying for both of them. While we wait for our order, the first act takes the stage. He and I watch as the male artist, with his keyboard, belts out a beautiful ballad. I stand, transfixed, even after our order is up. When he’s finished, I look up at Roman and flash an oh, great, I have to follow that? face. He chuckles as he takes my hand and leads me to the table in the far left corner near the front, where all of his stuff is.
I take off my jacket and hang my purse over the back of my chair before I settle in to enjoy the next few acts. Most of them are okay, another one is really good, and then the one right before we go up is pretty bad—and I can tell by the reaction of the crowd that I’m not the only one who thinks so. For a second, knowing that we get to follow that, my confidence is bolstered. Then, our names are announced and my nerves take over. Roman pats my knee before he reaches for his guitar and offers me his hand. I take it and we make our way up onto the small stage. He gives my hand a squeeze before he lets me go and introduces us. That done, he props himself up on the stool beside me and I take the vacated space in front of the mic. As he starts playing, I close my eyes and say a quick prayer before I take a deep breath and begin to sing.
She looks breathtaking up there. It’s not just the way she can make a sweater look like the finest piece of clothing ever known to man; it’s not just the way the lights shine against her silky black hair; and it’s not just the sound of her voice as she sings the fast ballad that reminds me of a really good Indie band. It’s also the way she fidgets with her fingers, because she’s nervous; it’s the way she sways to the beat created by the guitar; and it’s the way she smiles as the audience encourages her and Roman as the song continues.
That’s my girl.
I showed up just before they took the stage. I almost missed it, so caught up in my homework that I didn’t notice the time. The cafe is packed, so I opt to stand in the back of the room. I don’t mind, though; I’d stand all night just to listen to that voice. She sounds amazing—different and better than I’ve ever heard her before. As I admire her, I realize that she’s a different version of the woman I love. Up on that stage, she seems bigger and stronger, more vibrant and confident. I wonder how I’ve managed to not notice it until now.
The lyrics speak of living for today instead of trying to fix yesterday or worry about tomorrow. I’m not sure if it’s because I relate to what she’s singing or just because she’s the one singing it, but I start to think about today and all the worrying I’ve been doing about tomorrow. I imagine her speaking the words to me and all at once, I’m struck with an epiphany.
It doesn’t matter whether or not Stanford or Baylor wants me.
If they do, awesome; if they don’t, that doesn’t change the fact that I want to be a doctor—it just means I have to try again. Simple as that. It doesn’t make me a failure, it doesn’t speak ill of my intelligence, it just means that this time, things didn’t go my way. And you know what? There’s nothing wrong with that. If I’ve learned anything in the last few months, it’s that things aren’t always going to go my way. I might not understand why, but that doesn’t mean that there isn’t a good reason.
I don’t know what’s going to happen next year. Maybe I’ll be in California, maybe I’ll be in Texas, maybe I’ll still be in Fort Collins—but wherever I am, I’ll be fine. Furthermore, wherever I am, God's got my back. He knows what I want, He knows my heart, and I believe that He had a hand in making me this way. If that’s true, and I continue seeking Him and following Him, eventually I’ll be wherever it is that I’m meant to be, doing exactly what I’m meant to do, with the woman I’ve chosen to spend my life with.
Wherever I am, I want Addie.
Good. Lord.
I think I just got my when.
My core suddenly feels like it’s on fire and heat spreads from my center all the way to the top of my head and the tips of my toes. I bring my hand up to my heart, which feels like it’s beating so fast it could carry me away.
Wherever I am, I want Addie. I can spend the next year anywhere doing anything and it wouldn’t matter as long as I have Addie. Not just any Addie, but that Addie—the Addison Jane whose voice fills this coffee shop. And not just Addie, my friend—but Addison Jane, my wife.
I shiver and stifle a laugh.
I don’t care how or why or what, I only care about when—and when is now. I can feel it. I’m as sure that I want to marry her as I was that I needed to break up with her. It’s like Pastor Doug said: One day, you’re going to look at her and it’ll hit you. You’ll just know that you can no longer go on like this.
The patrons that fill Little Bird cheer enthusiastically as their song ends, pulling me from my thoughts. I’m so caught up in my most recent change of heart that I start to make my way over to Addison without delay. As soon as she and Roman step off the stage, he pulls her in for a hug. It lasts only a second before he lets her go. Then the unthinkable happens.
I stop dead in my tracks as I watch him slide his hands down her arms until his fingers meet hers and they lace them together just as he leans down to kiss her.
My heart sinks when I watch her close her eyes and surrender to his affection.
What. The. Hell?
I’ve got to get out of here.
This can’t be happening. Is that for real? Is this my life?
I’ve got to get out of here.
I make my way to the door as fast as humanly possible and inhale a gigantic breath of the cool night air. I’m not certain about what I just saw, but it looked like my Addison might not actually be mine anymore.
Shit. I’ve got to get out of here.
“Thank you,” he murmurs as he looks down at me. My heart is racing as I try and calm down after that unexpected kiss and I can hardly find any words to speak. Luckily, he doesn’t seem to have that problem. “You were fantastic; absolutely amazing. So, thank you.”
I force myself to swallow before I can speak. “You’re welcome,” I stammer.
“I’m going to go speak to Daphne. I’ll be back in a minute.” He presses a kiss to my forehead and then begins to walk away. “You were so great.”
He leaves me as if we didn’t just share our first kiss—like maybe that was our second or third or one hundredth kiss. As I watch him go find his sister, I’m in awe of how natural that felt and how unaffected he seems. Maybe I’m wrong and he’s going completely crazy on the inside. Either way, I know one thing—I’ll never be the same again.
It’s definitely starting to get too cold for my morning runs, but I’m determined to stick it out until it starts snowing. I do pretty well in my long workout pants, a turtleneck, a jacket, mittens, and my earmuff headband; but as I walk through my cool down after my six miles, my sweat makes me instantly cold
.
I was the first to wake up this morning and decided that I’d head out and come back before everyone else got started with their days. I haven’t talked to Sonny about his plans before tonight’s game, but I’m hoping we can spend some time together—maybe have some breakfast, at the very least. However, as I’m walking back to my building, my plans seem to fall apart as I spot him heading to his car. I call out to him and he turns toward me as I approach.
He’s wearing a pair of fitted navy slacks and my favorite brown leather shoes with the green sweater I bought him for his birthday underneath his light jacket. It’s barely eight o’clock and he’s dressed and out the door headed who knows where? Well, I’m going to find out—wherever he’s going is stealing my boyfriend from my boyfriend breakfast plan.
“Hey,” I greet him as I close the distance between us. “Where are you going?”
“Hey.” He reaches for my chin and leans down to kiss me hello. He kisses me once. Twice. The third time he tarries and it makes my stomach tingle with delight. “How was your run?”
“Good. Cold but good.” I realize as I answer him, he didn’t answer me. “You’re up and out pretty early. Where are you going?”
“I just have something I have to take care of,” he replies, running his hands up and down my arms to help warm me up. I love it that he thinks to do such a thing without a single word from me. His vague reply to my question, though, leaves me wanting.
I squint up at him suspiciously. “Something you have to dress up for? On a Saturday? Before you can have breakfast with your girlfriend?”
“Yes, yes, and yes,” he answers, punctuating each yes with a kiss on top of my head. “And I should probably get going.”
“Are you really not going to tell me what you’re doing?”
“I’m really not going to tell you what I’m doing.”
“But why?” I ask, folding my arms across my chest with a pout. “I think, seeing as how this something gets to have you when I don’t, I should get to know what this something is.”
The Promises We Keep (Made for Love Book 1) Page 49