~*~
Brock sat in his truck—Cheryl had left the keys tucked in the visor like he usually did—and stared out the windshield.
“What were you thinking?” The words left his lips in a whisper and floated around the cab until they seeped into his heart. Rage suddenly exploded, and he looked up at the laughing stars. “What were you thinking?” he shouted to the heavens. “I didn’t ask for this! I didn’t want a woman in my life again—I told you that. I didn’t want her to rearrange my world, let alone grab my heart and turn it wrong side out.”
He slammed a palm against the steering wheel, and a sharp pain shot through his wrist. It was nothing. Not enough. Balling a fist, he punched the dashboard over and over again until cool blood oozed from his knuckles.
Trembling, he gripped the wheel and fought for self-control. “I can’t, God. You picked the wrong guy, and I can’t do it.”
With the heel of his palm, he wiped at the moisture that had trickled onto one cheek and then jammed the keys into the ignition.
Cheryl could leave. He’d move on with his life. They weren’t going to work, and somehow he’d get past the devastation.
People made choices every day, and they had to live with them. She’d made hers long before. That wasn’t his fault.
I knew it was too good to be true.
Love has its limit.
You had to keep digging, searching, probing. You found the ugly. And you did exactly what I knew you would do.
You turned around and walked away.
~24~
Fighting the leftover haze from her Mary Jane brownies, which were now legal in the great state of Colorado, Cheryl pushed back against the padding of her coach seat on the small aircraft. Just like she had on her flight into Denver, she tightened her fist around the letter that had started this whole stupid trip. She shut her eyes and let her mind circle around the mystery of why this mattered so much. She’d just left one of the worst nights of her life behind in Hayden. Why did she replay things from the past that were irrelevant?
I have no excuse, Cheryl. I treated you terrible. I have asked God to forgive me, for everything I did to you, to others, and for the rebellion I’ve waged against Him, and He has given me grace upon grace. But I know that I hurt you—I saw it in your eyes the day you told me good-bye. Please forgive me.
She was obsessed. That was the only explanation Cheryl could find for keeping Andrew’s letter. The paper bore the marks of abuse. She’d crumpled the page and restraightened it at least a dozen times. It had landed in three trash bins, only to find its way back into her possession.
Andrew had been one of the biggest jerks she’d ever met—when he wasn’t being charming. Mostly, the bad happened when he was drunk. Her research on his life had produced more of the expected dirt after they’d broken up. Dirt that involved the woman he eventually married. Surely Jamie, his bride, knew at least some of his offenses. There wasn’t a way Andrew could hide them all. Two car accidents. License suspension. Probation at work… The list was too long for her not to have known.
Plus, that waitress seemed to know that he should not be drinking. She definitely gave him the don’t do this scowl.
Jamie had to know Andrew’s sins. There was no way around it. But she’d married him.
Why?
Indeed, that was the reason she kept thinking about it—the big why question.
Why did Andrew get another chance at life, at love? Was he so much less of a sinner than she? Were her crimes simply unforgivable, while his were able to be bleached?
Why were some forgiven and others eternally punished?
You’re unfair, God.
Blasphemous. That was what that reckless thought was. She’d chosen the path of rebellion. God punished the crimes of a sinner. Wasn’t that the truth?
But Andrew…
She pushed the arguments away. It didn’t matter. Andrew’s life had no bearing on hers. Some things were irrevocable, which meant they couldn’t fit under the umbrella of forgiveness.
Apparently Brock thought so too.
I love you…
She pushed away the memory of the way his breath heated the skin on her face. Some kind of love. She’d pushed him to the edge, and he broke. From one skip of the heart to the next, his feelings changed.
Love was an illusion. She’d known better than to try to grasp it.
She should have known better…
The force of the aircraft as it pushed its way off the ground shoved her into the backrest of her chair. Nausea rolled, and she squeezed her eyes shut. A surge of panic sent her heart rate galloping as her vision skipped and blurred. She dug her fingernails into the seat beneath her and worked to steady her breath.
“I’m not a fan of flying either.” The middle-aged woman next to her patted her arm, which was tight as a wire strung between power poles.
I’m not a fan of living.
No sense in voicing that thought. Cheryl swallowed, but her eyes remained shut. “I’ll be fine.”
“Sure you will, sweetie. Just rest.” More patting.
Please stop touching me.
“I’ll order you some ginger ale when we hit cruising elevation. You just relax, sweetie.”
Sweetie… Her mother’s voice touched her memory. You’re fine, sweetie. It looks scary, but this climb is amazing. A difficult but glorious path.
Cheryl hadn’t been able to see the glorious her mom had been talking about on that climb. She’d bowed to fear, and they went home defeated.
The theme of her life, it seemed. Someday, around her grave, the maybe one or two people on earth who cared about her would remember her in one phrase: She bowed to fear.
One. There would only be one person there. Brock had left her, so that left only Ethan.
The air in her lungs felt heavy and dirty.
Clean. I am desperate to be clean.
A surge of hot moisture gathered behind her eyelids. A drowning man may be desperate for air, but the longing for it wouldn’t produce the oxygen for his lungs. Eventually he would succumb to the reality, and death would claim its victory.
Death. So tempting. Maybe then I could hold her. Just once…
That thought had been streaking through her heavily guarded defense of indifference way too often lately. It wouldn’t happen. She’d sealed her sentence with one desperate mistake. Even if the Great Judge allowed a single moment with her unborn—which He wouldn’t—why would she think that her child would ever want to see her?
No. She would be miserable in life and worse after death. There was no way out.
A voice next to her cut through the despair. “This lovely friend of mine needs a ginger ale.”
Lovely friend? Lovely only if one looked on the outside, and Cheryl worked pretty hard to make sure that was all anyone saw. Strict diet. Religious exercise. Expensive beauty products. Everything to defer attention from her ugly heart.
Until Brock.
Her chest lurched with breathtaking pain.
Cool sweat beaded along her hairline and gathered in the small of her back. There were countless clubs in downtown LA, and hungry men for the choosing. She’d shower, change into something sultry, and lose herself to the varied distractions. Until morning…
Then what?
Not a big mystery. She’d been starring in this show for ten years. Clean up, go to work, fight against the bad guys, and hope Someone above took notice of the small amount of nobility she could muster. Evening would come again, and she’d start the whole cycle over. It’d been working for her.
Until Brock.
Shut up. He was just another man. With a quick intake of air, Cheryl sat forward and opened her eyes. A plastic glass of amber fizzed liquid sat on the tray in front of her. To her right, the woman who had ordered it for her sat quietly reading.
The title of her book caught Cheryl’s attention.
Her Choice to Heal.
Something unraveled in Cheryl’s chest, causing a mighty tremble to unleash in her heart.
Choice.
It seemed like a secret code—a phrase known to the inner circle of the silently miserable.
She had to be imagining things. It was a book title, not a calling card.
The book niggled, and she couldn’t resist subtle glances at both the woman and her reading material. Emotion occasionally flitted across her face, but as Cheryl continued to sneak an assessment, she determined this was not her neighbor’s first time through the words. Worn pages, some dog eared, spoke of previous use.
She studied the title again, and this time one word in the subtitle snagged her with a strangling grip.
Abortion.
Cheryl squeezed her eyes shut and moved so that she faced the window. Though her emotions were frayed and physically she was exhausted, sleep would not claim her. For two hours she focused on keeping her eyes shut, swatting at any invading thoughts about Brock, her neighbor, and that book.
LA, then shower, then clubs. That was her battle plan, sprinkled heavily with a dose of any kind of whatever she could drink, snort, inhale, or shoot into her veins that would dilute the power of reality. Nothing was off limits tonight.
The aircraft finally shifted, signaling their descent. Relief was coming closer. Next to her, the woman moved, repacking her travel bag, which meant it was safe for Cheryl to look away from the window.
Energy in the cabin buzzed as seat belts clicked open and the shuffling of papers and bags filled the air, lending Cheryl a sense of relief. Almost done. The woman next to her remained silent in her seat, almost pensive as she stared straight ahead.
Guess she had a lot to think about.
The wheels skipped on the ground, making that high-pitched scuffling noise. Muscles tense in her neck and shoulders, Cheryl stretched to her left and then to her right.
“Did you have a nice rest?” the woman asked.
“Yes.” Civil lies were acceptable, weren’t they? In her case, it didn’t matter. She was black-marked by heaven either way.
Her neighbor nodded, her lips tight. The plane rolled to the terminal, and suddenly everyone was on their feet.
Except the woman next to Cheryl. Which meant she was trapped.
“Everyone is always in such a hurry,” the woman said, “as if they think we won’t all get a chance to deplane.”
Cheryl forced a calm voice. “Anxious to be done, I guess.”
“Hmm.” The woman nodded, her expression still strained. Suddenly she drew a long breath and turned toward Cheryl. “I feel like I need to say something to you.”
What the…
“You’re never beyond God’s grace. Never.”
Cheryl drew back, pushing herself against the seat as if she hoped it would engulf her.
“I saw you glancing at my book—and I know that look.” The woman leaned down, withdrew the paperback from her bag, and pushed it toward Cheryl. “I want you to have it.”
Wide eyed and appalled, Cheryl didn’t move, even when the woman set the book on her lap.
“There’s hope, sweetie. I promise you—there is hope. Because the point of the Bible was never perfection. It is always redemption.” With that, she rose and joined the line to exit the plane.
Cheryl sat trembling until the crowd was gone.
If I am forgivable, why am I forever condemned?
~25~
Misery didn’t die quietly. In Brock’s case, it wouldn’t even stop screaming long enough to draw a new breath. Visions of Cheryl pushing him away, rage etched into the features of her usually beautiful face, continued to saturate his mind. He saw her when he shut his eyes, his peace entirely crumpled by her memory. When he walked by the piano in the dining hall, the music book he’d ordered for her pierced like a javelin into his soul. When he stood on the dock looking over the pond in the late evenings, a time he’d previously relished as his quiet moments with God, the tranquility was now interrupted by her anger.
The aching misery of being angry right back at her and yet heartbroken for her crumpled every part of his life, challenging his everyday normal. To play Frisbee with a trio of boys after dinner. To sing along with Brandi as she strummed her guitar. To lead the exploration at Fish Creek Falls alongside Ethan while Brandi took So-J over the mountains for visitation. He felt detached and empty. Like the colors of life had seeped away, leaving a monotone image as a depressing reminder of what had been.
Friday evening found him on the back portion of his deck, facing away from the voices that floated up from the pond on the other side of his house. He should have been down there, making s’mores with E and Brandi and So-J. But maybe this was better anyway. They were to become a new family, those three. They’d need every moment to begin solidifying what God was weaving together. Especially since So-J seemed determined to combat Brandi’s every effort. Strange that. Brandi usually found a way with the kids rather quickly. But it was Ethan, and not his new wife, who seemed best at gaining So-J’s more personable side. And that seemed to bother Brandi to a surprising extent.
Not his problem. Heaven knew he had enough of his own to worry about. Ethan and Brandi would figure it out.
That left Brock…alone. Except not really. He still carried Cheryl in his heart, aching in ways he couldn’t understand.
How could she have done such a thing?
And yet, how could he really hold it against her? She’d screamed in her fury that he wasn’t there—he couldn’t know. That was true. He couldn’t. Couldn’t wrap his head around her choice, but couldn’t let it lie either. And with every hint of judgment he felt rise within, an equally strong sense of conviction met it. Who was he to keep an account of her mistakes? The Bible said that rebellion was “like the sin of divination.” Guilty. He’d gone his own way, took a gift that God had blessed him with and used it for his own self-serving glory.
And what about Kayla?
They’d spent over a year living together. What if…
Yes. What if? He’d probably never know. But now he was acutely aware that there was that possibility, and he’d have to live with it. He could call her, ask, but the thought gave him no peace. Either way, he’d gone down a path that led to destruction. He’d failed to be the man that God had called him to be.
There really wasn’t a difference between him and Cheryl. He knew it, but when he’d gone back to try again the morning after she’d told him, she’d already left. For good. The hand-scrawled sign at the bakery said so. Still, he felt that divine imperative weighing deep within his soul.
Love her.
Straight up, he didn’t know how. Clearly he had a whole lot of emotions twisting around concerning her, but love wasn’t simply emotion, and he didn’t know how to carry out the action. What would they look like together—a life intertwined from two lives that had been worn thin? The headaches, her aversion to participate with the kids, the constant underlying anger that surfaced so easily…all of it was coming into focus. How was he going to continue the life he’d carved into this serene piece of property—the life God had called him to after his own heart-shattering repentance—if Cheryl became a part of it? They weren’t compatible, Cheryl and Kelly’s Ranch. Was it wise to try to bridge the two?
The thread of questions took him by surprise. He’d let her go. Cheryl was gone. Why was he asking how questions when there didn’t even seem to be an if in regards to any of it?
She was gone.
Gripping the deck railing, Brock lifted his face to the darkening sky. He’d been facing east, but he looked to his left, to the north. Cassiopeia rested against the peaks. A shiver crept over his arms. He’d looked up the mythology that was associated with that particular constellation. Not exactly a fairy tale. The beautiful queen suffered from vanity and arrogance, which led to another god’s anger…and eventually to the sacrifice of her daughter, Andromeda, who was rescued from death by the mighty Perseus. Talk about twisted.
He turned away from the W-shaped constellation, his gaze traveling the width of the night sky. Why did beauty have to be
marred by such tellings?
Why did life have to turn ugly sometimes?
The sound of footfalls against his deck redirected his thoughts. He released the railing and stepped away, leaving the stars and their beautiful, violent mysteries in the sky above.
“Hello?” He rounded the corner of his house toward the front door.
“There you are, son.” His father stood with his hand raised as if he was ready to knock. “I wondered. Didn’t see you with the group down below.”
“Yeah.”
Dad studied him for a moment, his eyes thoughtful. Brock’s relationship with his parents had been restored over the past five years as he’d shed his arrogance and rebellious attitudes in the refining discipline God had recently put to him. Discipline that included the removal of a dream and being deeply wounded by a woman he’d thought had been committed to more than his career. Losses and gains. A renewed relationship with his father had been on the positive side of that equation. However, Dad simply showing up on a Friday evening was a bit on the unusual side.
Brock motioned to the two chairs he kept near the front door. A favorite spot for morning coffee. Dad’s hand fell to his side, and he nodded before both men took a seat.
“Mom doing okay?”
“She’s fine. Had one of those girly jewelry party things women do sometimes. You know.”
“Sure. So you’re on your own tonight.”
“No. I’m here.”
Brock looked as his hands, his knuckles on his right fist littered with crusted-over scabs. Discomfort began to throb in the silence.
“I could make some decaf or something,” he offered, hoping his own needling emotions would stay below the surface.
“No. I’m good. Thanks.” Dad leaned against his legs, folding his hands in between his knees. “I hear that you’re not so good though. Wondered if maybe you’d want to talk about it.”
He’d heard, huh? “What’d Ethan tell you?”
Dad chuckled quietly. “That something happened between you and his sister, and now she’s skipped town and you’re not good.”
Red Rose Bouquet: A Contemporary Christian Novel (Grace Revealed Book 2) Page 20