“You gave me a gift,” Amy says. “By asking a question and starting the dominoes falling and then standing strong. Despite your parents and your school. You shared your story. That was a gift. Not only to me but to many others. And this—this is the least I could do. I mean, come on—I’m regifting.”
“This looks valuable.”
Amy laughs. “Oh, it is. And it’s yours. But here—I wrote something too. I want you to see why. There’s always a why, at least in Amy Ryan’s wacky world.”
Amy hands her the folded note. Brooke opens it and begins to read.
The truth is, sometimes there’s something magical about written words. So many are spoken, and too many are typed and shared online. These are written in Amy’s own handwriting. Her one-of-a-kind signature.
Dear Brooke:
This is a gift to you because you are a gift. To see someone so young standing up for what she believes is truly inspiring. I’ve seen faith lived out in you. And it’s been startling, stunning, and it’s helped the Spirit move in me.
There’s a song I heard not long ago by a singer/songwriter named Christa Wells. I’ve thought about it when it comes to you. It’s called “Shine,” and that’s exactly what you’ve done with everything to do with Ms. Wesley and the trial.
This gift—it’s just fancy jewelry. Very fancy jewelry. That’s all it happens to be. But this represents your faith. This is just a tiny representation of your faith, and how God shines through you.
The song says it better than I could. Check it out sometime. The best part is in the chorus, where it says, “We give back what we’re given, to color this world. . . . Be the friend you never had. Be the one to take a stand. Say it your way.”
Brooke—I hope as you continue to grow, you will continue to be this type of friend and to take those necessary stands and to color this world and say it your own way. Just like you did with Ms. Wesley.
Never stop shining, Brooke.
Your friend,
Amy
60
THERE’S A KNOCK on my office door. It makes me think my partner is outside with some bad news. Instead I find someone a lot more lovely and likable than Roger.
“What are you doing here?” I ask Grace.
“I saw the lights on. Starting work on another big trial?”
I laugh. It’s been a week since I said good-bye to her. We’ve corresponded via e-mail a few times, but that’s been it.
“Actually, I’m working on level 275.”
“Level what? What’s that for?”
“Candy Crush.”
She rolls her eyes and lets out the slightest bit of a chuckle. “That’s sad,” Grace says.
“Is this an intervention? Or are you handing out tracts?”
“I see you’ve got the facial-hair thing going again.”
“Yes. I played the part of the polished lawyer for one day. I’m back to just plain old me.”
“Good for you.”
“How are you doing?” I ask.
“Doing well. The students had a big welcome party for me. Principal Kinney has avoided me as much as she could.”
“I’ve seen quite a bit of you in the news.”
“I’m glad it’s all over,” she says. “I just wanted to come back to my class. That’s all.”
“I was going for winning $333 million,” I say. “But they say that was a different case.”
“Ever the jokester.”
“Yes, I am.”
I would invite her to sit, but the one guest chair I have is full of stacked folders from my good ol’ days. I’ve been doing some housecleaning. It’s time to let go.
And maybe let God?
Okay, that’s just a saying. But it still has swirled around in my head from time to time.
I walk over to my desk. Just to feel less awkward standing right next to her by the doorway. Perhaps I feel better having something official between us. It’s nice to see the casual Grace in jeans and a T-shirt. But she doesn’t look sloppy or like someone who’s staying in on a Friday night.
It is a Friday night, you know. And it’s only nine o’clock.
“Can I ask you something?” Grace says.
“Sure. But if it’s about those rumors of me becoming an associate with Peter Kane, they’re absolutely false, for the moment.”
She shakes her head. “I swear you’re like one of my students. Are you ever serious?”
My hands clutch the top of my faux-leather armchair. “More than you know,” I say.
“So tell me: what you said in your final insane outburst—do you believe those things?”
I chuckle and look at the mess on my desk. A decade of papers telling the story of my life. “I was quite full of it,” I tell her. “I believed a few of those things. Other things were just for drama.”
Grace moves closer to the desk, then picks up a paperweight that’s a heavy stone gavel. “I like it,” she says.
“It was a birthday present.”
From another time and another place.
Grace seems to get it and puts it back. “Tom—I know something. I know that all the closing arguments in the world still sometimes won’t change someone’s mind.”
I nod. “So you’re basically saying my job is meaningless?”
“No, you know I don’t mean that.”
“So if they don’t change someone’s mind, what can?” I ask.
“Being there,” she says. “Talking. Listening.”
“Like you did with Brooke, right?”
Those eyes land on mine and don’t move this time. “Like I’m doing now.”
I nod, unsure what to say.
“Can I be so bold as to ask you out on a date?” Grace says. “Not a Grandpa Walter sort of date. But a real one. Dinner. Adult conversation. No lawyer talk.”
My heart has suddenly decided to water-ski and has gotten out of the murky water on its first try. “No lawyer talk?” I exclaim. “That sounds like the best date ever.”
Then suddenly I become a boy again, looking at her and then my desk and then having this really dumb question. I can’t help asking. “So, when you say date . . . are you meaning—?”
“Tonight,” Grace answers. “Now.”
“Okay. Good—great. That’s what I thought.”
“I’m still wondering about the whole graduating third from Stanford thing.”
As I grab my wallet, phone, and keys, I nod. “I wonder about that every day of my life.”
It’s not far from the truth.
A few hours later, we step out of Sweeney’s Grill. The conversation hasn’t stopped once or gotten weird or awkward. I feel stuffed on shrimp tacos and guacamole. But more than that, I feel full from simply talking and laughing and being real in front of this lovely woman.
We walk toward our cars and I’m already wondering how to end the night. I want to be appropriate and I don’t want to step over the line but I’m also thinking about a good-night kiss. Over the line? A tiny thing like that? I know, but then again I don’t know—I’m assuming—I’m not sure.
Can you be any more of a fifteen-year-old?
We’re approaching her car when I hear her say something.
“So I figured it out.”
I look at her with curiosity and amusement. “You figured what out?”
“I made a vow.”
I nod again. Still not connecting with what she’s saying. “Oh yeah?” I say.
“To carry you home.”
Suddenly I get it. Just like an opposing attorney, she’s using my words against me. And I couldn’t be more impressed. That random comment about the song I shared with my ex—
She remembered.
I’m reminded that Grace Wesley is a history teacher. A very good history teacher too.
She remembers lots of things.
“I weigh more than you,” I tell her.
“Well, I know I might not look like it, but I’m strong.”
“I know exactly how strong you are. But—
you know—my home is really not that far from here.”
The outline of her face is bathed in the glow from the streetlight above. We stand on the sidewalk next to her car. She just looks up, grinning.
“That’s not the home I’m talking about.”
There’s something nice between us now. We can talk about a topic as personal as faith because that’s the whole reason we met. It’s come up from time to time tonight, but never in some kind of me-versus-her sort of way. There’s no opposition here. There’s just two friends. Or two people who are friends and might be more one day.
“What? Are you going to pull me up there with you?” I say with a half smile.
“Nope,” she says. “I just want to help you see the road.”
I nod, glance down the sidewalk in the direction of my house, then back at her, standing in front of her car.
“You already have,” I tell her. “In more ways than you realize. It’s just—I know that road. It’s bumpy. It’s like a kid having a nightmare experience on a roller coaster and vowing never to get back on one.”
Grace looks at me, seeming to understand. Always this look of genuine empathy. “The great thing about faith is that it has no past. It’s not weighed down by memories and doesn’t have a shadow. God’s light is too bright for that.”
She steps closer to me. “Everyone has his own road in front of him, a road only one has ever traveled down before. It’s up to us to decide whether to follow him.”
She leans in and gives me a gentle kiss on the cheek, then gets into her car and drives off.
I watch Grace drive away, and make a promise not to let her go.
About the Author
TRAVIS THRASHER is one of the most prolific and diverse writers in the publishing world today. He’s the bestselling author of over thirty-five works of fiction and nonfiction. Travis’s variety of inspirational stories have included collaborations with filmmakers, musicians, athletes, and pastors. His books span the spectrum: from love stories to supernatural thrillers, from memoirs to YA fiction, Travis has explored many ways to tell incredible stories.
Travis and his wife, Sharon, live in a suburb of Chicago and have three daughters. You can visit his website at www.travisthrasher.com.
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