Never the Bride (21 page)

“I can compromise.” I fling my arm toward the door. “Brooklyn’s living here, isn’t she?”

He steps toward me. “Even with us—and there is an
us
, by the way—you don’t compromise. You fight Me all the time.”

That stings. Hard. It’s like He’s picking on me. Picking me apart. Seeing all that is bad about Jessie Stone. I fold my arms. “No, I don’t. I’ve done what You’ve told me to do.”

He raises an eyebrow.

“Most of it.” I am about to go sit on the bed, but first adjust the chair I was sitting on so it is nicely aligned with the desk.

God comes over and taps the closed laptop so that it is perfectly aligned on the desk. “Not without complaining.”

“Yes, well, I’m not Go—” Okay. Better not go there. “I’m not perfect.”

God cracks a smile. “Jessie, you’re going to marry a flawed human being.”

“And I’m okay with that,” I say, smiling. I climb on the bed and sit cross-legged in the middle. “Seriously. There was a day that I thought I had to find Mr. Perfect. But now I’m totally fine with flawed and challenged.”

He sits on the edge of the bed and looks directly at me. “You’re not ready.”

I stop at His words. It’s
me?
I kind of always imagined that it was
the other party involved, that maybe God was doing some work on
him.

Since a very early age, I’ve had what I call slow emotional combustion. It starts out with a slight emotive showing. A tease, really, because what comes after it is frightening—and that’s putting it kindly. It’s never a surprise that it’s coming because it honestly feels like it’s crawling straight out of my belly, up my esophagus, and using my tongue as a launch pad. However, this rarely happens when people are around. I have enough self-control to keep it directed at a pillow or my mirror or something like that.

But not this time.

“I’m not married to You!” I yell. I squirm away from His hand that is reaching out to me in comfort. “And You know what? I
wouldn’t
marry someone who treats me like You do!” I cover my mouth because I can’t believe I’ve said it. Yeah, I’m thinking it, but normally I don’t come right out and say what I’m thinking.

God seems relatively unaffected. He’s not tense or even shaken. He just looks determined. “No, I don’t always do what you want. Welcome to marriage.”

I push my wrists up against my cheeks, trying to get the tears to stop. “Oh? So this is marriage boot camp, is it? Without the benefit of the sex part, of course.” I clasp my mouth again. This is so weird. Now I’m complaining to God that I’m not having sex? I have seriously lost my mind. I peek through my fingers, which are now covering my eyes.

“I’m aware of your frustrations.”

Wow, He’s a gentleman. I mean it. At the very least I really opened myself up to some horribly witty joke there. He’s so sensitive, but in
all the wrong areas. “My frustrations.” I sniffle. “You just don’t care about them.”

“Do you love Me?”

I’m caught off guard for the ninetieth time in this conversation.

“I didn’t know that was a requirement for this.”

“It’s one of those commandment thingies.”

That’s funny but I don’t show it because once He gets me laughing, I have a hard time standing my ground. “Do You think this is funny?”

“I’d say amusing.”

“Glad I could entertain You.”

God lies back on the foot of the bed and looks up at the ceiling. “You want to know what I think?”

I pull a pillow onto my lap. “I bet You’re going to tell me no matter what.”

He turns His head to look at me. “I give wisdom only when it’s wanted. Do you want it?”

Okay see? That’s what I mean. It’s a trick question because if I say no, then I sound like a know-it-all, but if I say yes, I have to listen to something that will undoubtedly sway my opinion. I sigh. “All right, fine.”

“I created marriage, so you could say I’m promarriage.” He looks back at the ceiling. “But it’s very hard. Not for the weak of heart.”

“I’m not weak.” My words came out sounding more like a question even though I meant them to be a bold statement.

“I didn’t say you were.”

Another thing He didn’t say, I suddenly realize, is that He wanted
me to spend the evening comforting a heartbroken man. He wanted me to go the Laundromat—away from Clay. “I think I know what You’re saying.”

He looks at me expectantly.

“You’re saying You don’t want me with Clay.” The words are delivered through a soft whisper, all I can manage right at the moment.

He doesn’t answer, but I can see it in His eyes.

I flop down beside God on the bed. “But You won’t show up with the right guy either.”

He holds my hand. “I love you.”

“That’s all You have to say?” I start bawling. Is He never going to give me what I want? I don’t want God’s crazy love; I want a real, live, every-one-can-see-him kind of man. Of course He knows what I’m thinking, but He doesn’t let go of my hand. But I am frustrated, lonely, hurt—and I take my hand away and turn my back to Him. “Please leave.”

He sits up. “You really want Me to leave?”

I throw up a hand in exasperation. “No! I want You to fix this!” I sit up. “I want You to do so many things You just won’t do! I want You, just for once, not to tell me to
wait
!”

I reach over, pull back my covers, and pull them over myself. I feel His hand on my foot. I slide it away. I hope He’s getting the message.

After a few minutes, the air gets hot and I can’t stand it any longer. I peel the covers back.

I’m alone.

Except, the purple pen is back on my nightstand.

I have no idea what time of morning it is when I drag myself downstairs, with my robe undone and my teeth regrettably fuzzy due to my inability to get myself out of bed last night to attend to dental obligations.

If I were a smoker, I’d be smoking chocolate right now.

I flip the kitchen light on and swing open the fridge when I hear a noise behind me. It’s not actually a noise. It’s a voice. “Good morning.”

I whip around. “Blake? Malia? Uh…Nicole?” My eyes dart back and forth between them all.

Brooklyn comes around the corner looking very guilty. “Hey, Jess. Good morning. I fixed eggs.” She’s holding a plate of eggs.

I look at the stove. Sure enough, a pan. A glass of orange juice is poured. I hadn’t even noticed it when I walked in.

“What’s going on?” I notice I’m the only one in pajamas. I close my robe and squeeze it tightly like it might moonlight as a girdle.

Brooklyn sets the plate on the counter in front of me. “Thought you might like some breakfast.” Brooklyn smiles. Everyone else smiles on cue too.

“What is this?” I shove the plate away. “And I don’t mean the eggs.”

“Honey, Brooklyn invited us all over,” says Malia. “Thought you might want to talk about it.”

“You know how much we all care for you,” Nicole says, reaching out for my hand, which I yank away.

“Look,” Blake says casually, “I know this is unimaginably embarrassing for you, but we all love you.”

“Love me.” I snort. Loudly. It vibrates all the way up my nasal passage. “Really. That seems to be the common theme around here.
Everyone loves Jessie Stone, but nobody’s willing to do anything about it.”

Malia tilts her head to the side. “That’s not true. We’re all here for you.”

“Because, no doubt, Brooklyn has convinced you that I’m crazy.”

“It happens to the best of us,” Nicole says. “When I had my third child, I locked myself in the bathroom and cried an entire Sunday.”

Brooklyn steps toward me. “They’ve got great medications these days.”

“Okay,” I say, backing up with my hands out in front of me. “You all need to leave. This is ridiculous. I’m not talking about this.”

“But see,” says Brooklyn, stepping closer, “that’s the problem. You are talking about it. To imaginary people. That’s why we’re worried.”

“Go home! All of you!”

Blake suddenly stands. I’m backed against the refrigerator but he keeps walking toward me. Now he’s close. Real close. He smells like mint and chocolate. I want to know why, but now doesn’t seem like a good time to ask because frankly, he looks like he’s about to kiss me.

“Jessie?”

“Yeah?”

“You’re into me.”

“Huh?”

“You’re into me.”

I glance behind him at Malia, who is nodding enthusiastically.

“Uh. No. No, I’m not. Why would you say—”

“You’re into me. But you’re chasing Clay. Why?”

I lunge for the eggs and gobble them up, throwing back the orange
juice and chugging it in three gulps. “Look, I’m eating. That’s what you want, right?”

“Why are you chasing Clay?” Blake asks again, moving in closer. The others step closer too.

I try to back away, “We’re here to talk about God! Me and God! And how He’s interfering with my life! Right?” I ask. “Right?”

“Maybe you shouldn’t leave the house anymore,” Brooklyn says.

“That’s harsh,” Malia says. “She’s just confused, that’s all.”

“I’m voting for the antidepressant,” Nicole says, raising a hand.

I look at Blake. He looks at me. Our eyes meet and I am so regretting not brushing my teeth. And then, to my shock, I feel the urge to recite poetry, which is odd, because though I love to write poetry, I never, ever recite it out loud. At least not since third grade when I read a poem to Billy Stuber and my fourth most embarrassing moment was etched in stone. I take a deep breath, like I’m on a stage or something, and begin a poem called “Love Unseen” that I wrote in my blog a couple of nights before.

I stare hard at Blake. He stares back.

“Jessie?”

“What?” I snap at Brooklyn. She’s behind me now, shaking my shoulder.

“Jessie?”

“What? What?” I move her hand away from me.

“Jessie? Wake up!”

My eyes fly open and I sit up, clutching my heart. I swear I have egg taste in my mouth.

“Jessie? You okay?”

My eyes snap upward. Brooklyn is standing over me, her face strained with concern.

“You were having a nightmare. Except it’s morning. So maybe it’s a morningmare?”

“Oh.” I catch my breath. “It was just a dream.”

“What were you dreaming about?”

“Killer eggs.” I throw back the covers and spot the pen next to my bed. So that wasn’t a dream. I wish it had been.

“I came in to wake you up. You overslept. I’ve got to get to the store.” Brooklyn is already dressed. “I’ll get everything started. Take your time, okay?”

I raise an eyebrow. Why is she being so nice to me?

“I’ll be there in a snap. I can get ready fast.”

Brooklyn walks to my door, then turns. “Jess?”

“Yeah?”

“Who were you talking to?”

“Huh?”

“Last night. I heard you. You sounded mad at someone.”

I blush. “It was nobody.”

“It was Clay wasn’t it?” She looks sympathetic.

I don’t answer.

“I’ll see you at the shop, okay? And seriously, take some time.”

I check the address twice. This is it. The house stands smaller in this luxury neighborhood. It’s flat-roofed, with modern stucco design, seventies color, and lots of windows facing the street. Bushes are trimmed to perfect box shapes.

I don’t turn into the large circle driveway yet. My Beemer idles in front of the house as I wonder just how crazy I really am. First, I’m crazy for showing up here. But the reason I’m here is to find out if I’m crazy. So welcome to my black hole.

I let my foot off the brake. I don’t even touch the accelerator but coast into his driveway like a sleuth. I turn the car off and pull the emergency brake. I’d hate to accidentally roll onto this grass, which looks like it costs more than my car.

I’ve pulled myself together nicely this morning. I learned early on, even as a little girl, you don’t want to look disheveled when you’re
visiting a head doctor. They read every part of your body language. Everything means something in their world. One bad hair day and they’re certain you’re going to jump off a bridge.

I am seriously doubting myself, even as I emerge from my car. The gentle wind in the hills blows through my hair, and for a moment I think I feel Him behind me. I glance backward but there’s nobody.

From inside the house, a dog is barking as I head to the front door, which is tall enough to let Goliath through. I press the doorbell and squeeze my eyes shut. This is such a ridiculous thing to do.

The doorbell chimes out something by Beethoven. The dog is becoming frantic. So am I.

The door opens.