Did I have the good sense to get my name on the deed too, after I helped him pay it off?
No, of course not. I was young and in love…and incredibly stupid.
“So…who gave you a loan?”
He kisses my forehead and strokes my back. “It’s confidential.”
I nearly snap my head off my own shoulders pulling away from him. “Excuse me? Confidential? I thought we were a
team.”
“See, you’re getting all pissy about this, like I knew you would. Why can’t you let me handle things? You gotta trust me, Sage.”
“Trust you? How can I trust you when you keep things from me? We’re supposed to be a team, Brett.” I let out a heavy sigh as I curl a wave of hair behind my ear. I can already feel the fact that this conversation is going nowhere. If I argue with him, he’ll shut down. I’ve done it enough in the past to know. “What is the money for?” I ask as gently as I can.
A smile creeps across his face. “I’m hiring a consultant.”
“A consultant?”
“Yeah, this chick who’s worked with other clubs, and she knows exactly how to make ours even better.”
All of the air is sucked out of the room, making it hard to drag in my next breath. My chest tightens, and my eyes water.
“What?” The small word slips through my lips.
“This is what you wanted, princess. You wanted me to do something to make the club better and finally put real work into it, and that’s what I’m doing.”
I have to look away, running this through my head a few times to be sure I’m not overreacting or putting too many emotions where they don’t need to be. But no matter how many times I think this through, there’s no version of this news that doesn’t stab me like a knife.
I turn back toward him with teary eyes. “You hired another woman to help you run this club, but you never, ever listen to me.”
His jaw tightens. “She’s a professional, Sage.” His tone is flat, and the implication stings.
“But she doesn’t know this club like I do. She hasn’t helped you build it from nothing. She doesn’t know the patrons and the city like I do.” I’m getting irritable and heated.
Suddenly, the room feels so small and I have the burning need to cry. It’s building in my throat like bullets, and I will not let him see me break. When he tries to place his hands on my arms, I shove him away.
“I need to get out of here,” I snap, unable to keep the shaking out of my voice. When he lays a hand above my elbow to stop me, I turn back toward him, sending him a hateful, angry, don’t you dare glare. Within seconds, he lets go.
He calls after me one more time just as I tear open the door to the office and rush out.
Five
Adam
L ucy smiles politely at me over the table. With her long, blonde hair curled at the ends, so it flows in flawless waves over her shoulders, she really is stunningly beautiful. Tall, thin, fit, educated, and probably most importantly, Christian.
If only I felt as enamored by her as my mother is. All throughout dinner, I keep trying to think of things to ask her to keep the conversation moving as my mom watches from the head of the table like she’s rating my skills on a first date—if that’s what you would call this.
When I showed up for dinner tonight, I was surprised to see Lucy’s Prius parked in the long drive. I silently cursed my sweet mother and her good-intentioned meddling. She’s clearly trying to get me to invite Lucy to the charity event next month.
At the head of the table, my father watches without a word, and I take his silence as a sign that he’s pleased with how this is going.
As Lucy talks, mostly about the big plans for her cycle studio expansion, I try to see myself with her. Our wedding photos would be flawless. Even our kids would be cute. My life would be picture perfect, as everything from the outside looking in would be exactly as it was meant to be.
But I don’t see much when I try to imagine Lucy and me alone. Even if I picture her naked body under mine, it lacks something.
Although, to be fair, sex has always lacked something for me. I like it. It feels good and scratches the itch from time to time, but that’s all it is—satisfying. And maybe that’s all it’s meant to be. For so long, I’ve been holding out for earth-shattering and mind-blowing, which would explain why I’m still single at thirty-seven.
“Adam, you should go to her studio,” my mother says as she pours herself another glass of sweet tea.
“Are you calling me fat?” I ask with a laugh.
Lucy’s reaction is a tense, humorless smile.
“Not that everyone who goes to your studio…”
“I was not calling you fat,” my mother says, shooting me a stern glare.
“That’s not what I meant,” I reply, trying to overcorrect. “It was a bad joke.”
“It’s okay,” Lucy replies with a smile.
Abigail sends me an awkward, wide-eyed expression that says, Good job, idiot. The rest of the family around the table sit in silence. Even they can tell how painful this date is.
It was an ambush date, really.
“When will we get to see you preach again?” Lucy asks, and I glance up quickly from my plate to stare at her in surprise. Then my eyes dash over to my father at the head of the table, sitting proudly with his hands clasped under his chin with a haughty smirk.
It’s been months since I’ve stood at the pulpit and delivered a sermon of my own creation. Often for special occasions or because my father had prior engagements, but it was never spoken about as if it would become a regular occurrence. And it certainly was never requested.
I clear my throat. “I’m not sure,” I reply to Lucy.
“Hopefully, soon.”
She nods, looking pleased.
“Adam is a wonderful preacher,” my mother adds, and I scrutinize the woman across from me for her reaction.
When her eyes meet mine, there’s a sparkle there, and a certain excitement inside me starts to grow. Suddenly, I can see so much more of our future. I see her standing next to me on Sunday. Before my sermons, we can greet the congregation together. Serving meals on Thanksgiving. Praying together.
It’s promising, but it’s still from the outside looking in.
“Pass the ketchup, please,” Caleb says, knocking my shoulder, and as I glance over at the bottle sitting next to Lucy, it feels as if I’ve been abruptly snatched out of a fantasy. And for the thousandth time this week, I think about the pink hair and chipped black nail polish of the woman I shared a fifteen-minute meal with two weeks ago.
“Yes,” I mutter, grabbing the bottle and practically tossing it at my brother.
As Lucy strikes up a conversation with Briar, I try to refocus my mind on the possibilities of the woman across from me, but it’s like trying to start a fire with wet matches. Nothing comes.
Instead, I think about the way Sage fiddled with the ring in her lip. Or how her eyes twinkled in my direction as she passed me a bite of her breakfast.
Irritability swells behind every memory of her because it’s been two weeks and I still go back to that moment when I know in my rational mind that it means nothing and I will literally never see her again.
And yet…the pipe-dream fantasies of her feel a little less perfect from the outside looking in but probably a bit more fun the other way around as well.