Even If

by Bethany Riehl

  The waitress came close to refill their coffee cups, but that didn’t deter Chuck from answering, “Weird how? Like you find out I squeal like a girl around mice? Or that I secretly like the Chicago soundtrack?” He feigned shock and embarrassment. “Oops. Didn’t mean to confess that one.” He winked at the waitress who rolled her eyes good-naturedly and walked away.

  Lillian laughed. “I’m serious. What if things don’t work out?” She focused on adding cream and sugar to her coffee and stirred slowly, afraid to look at him. If she did, Lillian was certain he would see her insecurity.

  “Lilly.”

  She didn’t realize how fiercely she’d been stirring her coffee until his strong hand reached out and stilled hers. She blushed and put the spoon down.

  Chuck waited until she met his eyes. A smile played at the corners of his mouth, the light in his eyes emphasized by the bright Sunday morning sun.

  “Lillian, I understand that this isn’t a guarantee. We’re just starting out. But please know that I have felt more alive since the day that I met you than I have in years. I meant what I said earlier—I care about you. Very much. And I have no intention of going anywhere. That’s where I stand. But if for some reason you find that I’m not what you want, that I’m not right for you, I promise it will be fine. We’re both mature adults. We can handle anything that comes at us. I’m in for the long haul if you’ll let me be.”

  His words flowed over her, soothing her fears. She opened her mouth to answer, to say something—anything—in response, but fear held her back.

  Chuck must have read the hesitancy in her eyes. “What do you say we call Felix and Tiffany after this and see if they want to go swimming at Lucky Peak today?”

  “I think that would be perfect.”

  The foursome met in the parking garage a couple hours later and climbed into Lillian’s Jeep for the twenty-minute drive to the reservoir. Chuck sat in the front, and his hand found its way to the back of Lillian’s neck, his fingers playing with the wisps of hair that escaped her hat. She met Tiffany’s saucy smile in the rearview mirror and bit back her own.

  They found an empty dock next to a picnic shelter and unloaded a cooler of soda and water bottles, snacks, and towels. They spent the day diving off the dock, lying lazily on the warm boards in the hot sun, talking and teasing.

  Tiffany and Felix told them about the sermon, and they discussed it together, which led to more conversations and inquiries into different portions of Scripture. At dusk the guys started a fire in the pit near the picnic tables while Tiffany and Lillian grilled hamburgers on the portable grill Felix had brought. Once again Felix, Tiffany, and Chuck told stories from their camp days while they ate.

  “No, no, Tiffany,” Felix scolded when they began to roast marshmallows, “you’re doing it all wrong.” He thrust the roasting stick with three marshmallows on the end into the depths of the fire and brought out a flaming torch of sugary goodness. He blew them out and, after they’d cooled, pulled the gooey marshmallows from the stick and shoved them into his mouth. Strings of white stuck to his chin—and smile. “See?” he warbled. “It’s not good if you have to wait so long for it.”

  Tiffany arched a brow at him, still turning her roasting stick slowly and methodically just above a pocket of coals. “Obviously you’ve never had soufflé or beef bourguignon with that ridiculous logic,” she said.

  Chuck was crouched on the ground, spearing his own stack. “Uh-oh, Lillian, that sounds serious. Are we going to have our first fight over proper roasting protocol? I mean, you agree with me that Tiffany is the one doing it the correct way, right?”

  Lillian didn’t answer. She lined a paper plate with graham crackers and topped them with chocolate squares. Next, she speared two marshmallows on a roaster and did just as Felix had. Felix whooped. Lillian blew out her torch with a saucy grin in Chuck’s direction and quickly sandwiched the blackened sugar between the crackers and chocolate.

  “Oh, Lilly…” was all Tiffany could say.

  Chuck took a deep breath and plunged his roaster in the middle of the fire as well. Tiffany and Lillian gasped.

  “I thought you said I was the only one doing it right, Chuck!” Tiffany protested, her upper lip curling, jaw unhinged, eyes on the flames. They all watched in shock as he blew the fire out.

  Chuck pulled one charred marshmallow off and popped it in his mouth, chewing thoughtfully. His eyes never left Lillian’s.

  “Well, that was…disgusting.” He winked and reached an arm around Lillian’s shoulders. She leaned into him, loving how she fit perfectly against his side. She shivered with pleasure when he pressed a tender kiss to her temple and spoke for her ears alone.

  “But, Lilly, I would eat blackened marshmallows just to be with you.”

  ***

  If Chuck had realized how much he was going to enjoy dating Lillian, he would have found a way to accomplish it the first time he’d met her in Daily Bread. For all her worry that she was somehow “tainted,” Lillian had more grace and innocence than most women he’d met growing up in church. She carried herself as a representative of Christ, from the way she graciously interacted with the tenants, to the way she served the youth at their church. She challenged him, encouraged him, made his heart race when she was near.

  As the summer weeks marched on, they spent most evenings working in the rooftop garden, developing new relationships with the neighbors that found their way upstairs to enjoy the community atmosphere Lillian worked hard to create there. When Saturdays rolled around for Lillian’s rooftop “Family Dinner,” Chuck would watch in amusement as she’d run around her kitchen to prepare her contribution to the meal.

  He’d think back to when she’d approached him about building the table and garden boxes, remembering how he’d been afraid she’d get her hopes up only to be disappointed. But he couldn’t have been more wrong. The tenants of the Idaho Building drank in the excuse to gather and break bread once a week. Already plans were being made to clean up the basement for winter gatherings.

  Their work relationship remained mostly the same—except for the hugs Chuck stole in Lillian’s office or the handholding in the stairwell on the way to a tenant’s apartment. He complimented her often, loving the effect his words had on her countenance. When her smile was chased away by shadows of fear, he would pull her close or kiss her forehead and change the subject to something light, never wanting to pressure her. He just wanted her to know she was cared for.

  She sent him texts throughout the day, sometimes about the building, sometimes just to say hi. Often he came home to sticky notes stuck to his door. During office hours she left him texts and notes, all signed, “The Management.”

  Chuck, the tenant in 410 says his door keeps sticking and making an awful “crunching” noise. Whatever that means. Can you check into that today? We can’t have crunchy doors ;) Thanks, The Management.

  Chuck, Mrs. Newman said her garbage disposal is acting up again. Pretend not to notice the way she hides her dog. She forgets that she paid a pet deposit when she moved in ten years ago. I think feeling rebellious brings her joy, so go with it. Thanks, The Management.

  Chuck, I think you should take your girlfriend to Enrique’s tonight :) Thankyousoverymuch, The Management.

  Chuck, your apartment smells like feet. Your neighbors are complaining (haha!). You’re welcome, The Management.

  A few weeks into their relationship, Chuck knocked on her door to surprise her with dinner from her favorite taco truck. He held the bag and flowers up for her to see, waiting for the door to open. Finally, he heard her feet shuffling toward the door. She opened it, face pinched, but brightening when she saw his bounty.

  “You’re good to me,” she said, opening the door wider and stepping aside for him to come in. But the smile she wore fell flat as she turned to walk quickly into the kitchen, her movements stiff. He caught up with her, set the bag and flowers on the island and reached for her shoulders, gently turning her to face him.

 
“Hey, hey, hey. What’s going on?” He slid his hands from her shoulders down to her arms to intertwine his fingers with hers.

  She rolled her eyes toward the ceiling. “I just got off the phone with my mom. I was trying to tell her about you, but she kept interrupting me. She wants me to come to some huge welcome home party for my step-dad’s son this weekend. I guess he’s home from being deployed, and it’s the first time Wade’s sons have been in the same state in years. I’ve never met either of them, so my mom really wants me there. Our first time as a family, I guess. She and Wade got married on a whim at the courthouse, so we’ve never been all together,” she narrowed her eyes and twisted her lips, thinking.

  Chuck hated the vacant look in her eyes, knew that it would take many more months and possibly years to understand her relationship with her mother. He leaned close and pressed a kiss to her forehead. “So, is that an invitation for me to come meet your mom?” he asked, wiggling his brows at her, hoping to find her smile.

  Her eyes widened in panic, and she focused on him for the first time since he’d walked in. “Oh, Chuck, no…” she shook her head so hard he didn’t know how she remained upright.

  “Why not? You don’t want me to meet your mom and step-dad? You’re embarrassed of me, is that it?” He tucked a lock of hair behind her ear and grinned at her, still hoping to put her at ease.

  Her eyes softened and she placed a palm against his chest, right over his heart. “No, not at all. I’m not even embarrassed of them. My mom just has this way of saying really inappropriate things, especially when she’s been drinking. And around Wade and their friends, she will definitely be drinking. I love her it’s just…it’s not like a church party or going to your mom’s house for milkshakes, Chuck. My mom works with bikers. It’s a very…eclectic crowd. I don’t want you to be uncomfortable.”

  He ducked his chin to catch her gaze. “Hey, Lilly? I don’t care about any of that. You think some drinking and some cursing, or inappropriate comments are really going to affect me or send me packing? I worked in construction for years. And I care about you, Lilly. Nothing you or your family can do will change how I feel, okay? That stuff doesn’t offend me.”

  Her gaze climbed his chest and met his eyes. He smiled and pressed another kiss to her forehead. “Are you hungry?”

  She sighed long and deep, and reached to give him a squeeze around his neck. “That depends on if you have chips and queso in that bag.”

  “Of course, I do. I know what my woman needs.”

  * * *

  It had been nearly a month since the morning Chuck asked her to give him a chance, since she’d decided to try for a new beginning.

  Three weeks of flirting and laughing, of Chuck keeping his promise not to kiss her behind closed doors. Not that he hadn’t stolen plenty in the hall outside her door, at the park, on hikes, waiting in line at the ice cream shop, and while walking to church together. Every one of them had been short, sweet, and fully successful in knocking her socks off. Even more, they had been meaningful, loaded with promises, and wholly sincere.

  Three weeks of Chuck not only showing her in a thousand little ways that he cared for her—from opening doors, to killing hairy spiders she found in the building, to bringing her dinner and flowers—but telling her as well.

  “You are amazing, Chuck,” she said after dinner and plopped onto the couch next to him. She leaned back into him, stomach blooming with pleasure when he slipped his arms around her, crossing them over her middle. She rested her hands on top of his. “Thank you for the tacos. And the flowers,” she added, smiling at the arrangement in the vase she’d set on her kitchen island. “But especially for the queso.”

  “You’re welcome,” he said. His breath on her hair stirred the butterflies in her stomach. “How was the rest of your day?”

  She narrowed her eyes, trying to think past the lazy pleasure she felt in his embrace. “Uh, Jeni Ryan—Pastor Ryan’s wife—called me. We talked for a while after church last week about books. So, she called to invite me to a book club she’s just starting. We’re going to read The Hiding Place first.”

  “Corrie Ten Boom’s story, right?” he asked.

  “Yes. I know it’s a famous book, but I’ve always been afraid of it. Nazi stuff scares me,” she admitted. Lillian sensed him smiling against her hair and rotated to face him. Yup. Smiling. “What?”

  His grin stretched even wider and he pressed a kiss to her temple. “You’re cute.”

  Lillian squinted at him and wrinkled her chin in mock offense. Suddenly, the light in his eyes shifted, and his grin began to melt. The air around them tingled, as it often did, and she turned back around to lean further into him. She moved her hands lightly over his knuckles, treasuring the feel of him. She could feel his breath hitch as she moved her caress up his forearms, tracing the pattern of scattered freckles near his elbow. His heart beat harder against her back.

  “Hey, Chuck?” Was that her breathless voice?

  “Hmmm?” the low bass rumbled through her.

  “You think we should go grab some ice cream?”

  A handful of heartbeats.

  “Uh, yup. I think that’s a great idea.”

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  “I just can’t believe all that she went through and her attitude about it. I mean, thanking God for fleas! Can you believe that? Thanking Him for fleas and finding ways to have worship services in a concentration camp. It’s so crazy.” Lillian sat on the couch in Chuck’s apartment a few days later, watching as he searched the messy living room for his keys.

  He lifted a stack of mail on the counter to check underneath before turning to survey the room, hands hung on his hips, lips twisted in thought, making him temptingly kissable.

  “Chuck?”

  His eyes met hers. “Hmmm?”

  She laughed. “Man, you’re distracted.” She held up the worn, red paperback she’d been telling him about and set it on his side table.

  Chuck furrowed his brows, “Sorry. I just…those guys always do this. And it’s amazing the new places they think of to—”

  He stopped midsentence and dropped to his knees in front of the couch, shoving an arm elbow deep to feel under the cushion.

  The youth group boys had been over the night before for a pizza party. Lillian heard them late into the night, stomping, shouting, wrestling—Chuck’s quiet voice doing his best to hush them. She’d gone to bed smiling, imagining a pack of wild dogs running through his place. When she’d knocked on his door for their date and stepped inside, she laughed because it looked like a pack of wild dogs had run through the place.

  Lillian stood and began to gather empty pizza boxes, soda cans, and sticky bowls of ice cream. She stacked the boxes on his island, planning to take them out to the dumpster on their way to the parking garage. Chuck continued to crawl on his knees, looking under the couches, pillows, and cushions. Lillian ran hot water in the sink and rinsed the bowls, stacking them neatly to be loaded into the dishwasher later. She found a washrag in a drawer near the silverware and ran it under the faucet before wiping off his counters.

  There. At least now the kitchen wasn’t such a disaster. If only she could do something about the smell. Sweat, stale pizza, and…teenage boys. But mid-July in Idaho was no time to be opening windows. And she’d used all of her air freshener to get the smoke smell out of her Jeep.

  “You should sleep with your windows open tonight, Chuck.”

  “Huh?” He’d moved in to his bedroom, his voice muffled.

  “To air it out in here. Those boys stink,” she called. No response. The clock on the microwave told her they were going to be late if they didn’t leave soon. Not that her mom would care, but Lillian was feeling antsy and wanted the evening to be over with. She couldn’t shake a heavy feeling of foreboding. Her mom was going to be…herself. She adored her mom. Loved her and appreciated all that she had sacrificed for Lillian. But…there was an edge to her. Chuck said he could handle it, that it didn’t bother him. Bu
t meshing this world—where the conversations centered on things of the Lord, the laughter was genuine and not at all influenced by alcohol—with the one her mom lived in—with stories about bar escapades, trips to gamble in Vegas, or crude jokes—had Lillian’s stomach in knots.

  “Chuck, why don’t we just take the Jeep?”

  “I’m not making a first impression by being some bum that lets my girlfriend do all the driving. I want to escort my beautiful lady,” he called back.

  She rolled her eyes, and bit back a smile. Men. “Your first impression will be immediately destroyed by not showing up on a Harley,” she murmured.

  Chuck emerged from the bedroom, keys hooked on one finger, his smile triumphant.

  “They hid them on top of my ceiling fan—on one of the blades.”

  “Clever.”

  Chuck strode to the side table and gathered his wallet, a pack of gum, and a tube of lip balm. “You ready, Beautiful?”

  She took a deep shuddering breath. “As I’ll ever be.”

  They drove to an older neighborhood in Boise with the radio on to keep them company. Chuck’s thumb tapped the beat into the steering wheel. At last, she directed him to turn into the quiet street that Lillian had grown up on. For all the unsteadiness of her childhood, her mom had kept two constants—her job and their house. Lillian loved the large lots on this street—each one an acre. Most of her neighbors had horses, but Lillian’s mom could never afford such an extravagance.

  The house was a small, brown rectangle when they’d found it. The lot was overgrown with weeds, and a broken fence bowed low to the ground. Over the years, the Rodgers women—Lillian, her mother, and aunts—had worked long weekends to clear the weeds, plant shade trees, and build up the borders with layers of flower beds.

  Chuck parked around the corner of the house, the street already lined with motorcycles, but also a few trucks and cars. Sheila Rodgers had worked at Harvey’s Harleys since before Lillian was born. Lillian had long suspected that her father had once worked there as a motorcycle mechanic. At least, that’s the type her mom usually fell for.