He’s grinning. “I figured—it felt like…us.”
“That’s crazy,” I say, jumping up and nearly tripping over the blanket.
I pull a wrapped rectangle from my bag and hand it over, heart doing that dumb drum thing. “Your turn,” I tell him.
He opens it, and his face goes soft. It’s a black journal withDr. Sebastian Ramospressed into the cover.
“This is…wow,” he says, fingers tracing his future like it’s already true.
“Open the first page,” I tell him, suddenly nervous.
He opens it and looks down at my handwriting that fills the page.
Isaiah 43:1.
Do not be afraid, for I have redeemed you.
I have called you by name—you are mine.
When you pass through the waters, I will be with you;
and through the rivers, they shall not overwhelm you.
When you walk through fire, you shall not be burned.
And the flame shall not consume you.’
Love you always, Lydia
He looks at me, then back down, then laughs—head thrown back, joy unguarded. “Are we a cliché?” he asks, then shakes his head. “Don’t answer that. I’m okay if we are. I love it, thank you, babe.”
“I love you, Bash.”
He kisses me again, and we stay there wrapped in our little love bubble for a little while longer, the movie murmuring to itself.
We slip back into cuddling and watching all the other silly Christmas movies I’ve never watched before—The Grinch, Home Alone, A Christmas Story…and I just let myself fall into all the swirling thoughts. How perfect this man is, how every part of me still wants to say it’s all too good to be true, how I know I have to keep working on making that voice be quiet and not sabotage it all, how my healing journey is still long, but I want to be on it. I want to behere.I couldn’t have said that less than a year ago. I want to heal. I want to be happy. I’m still learning what that means and how it looks, but I want it.
I turn my head an inch to look at Bash behind me. “How did you do it?” I ask him, catching him off guard a little. “How did you heal from it all? How did you not let the grief keep drowning you, how did you never go back to the alcohol, or all the ways that seem easier to cope with?”
He moves his hand up to my shoulder. “Well…the formula was super simple. I just gave it all to God. But…nothing about the journey was or is simple. I’m still giving it to him. I don’t have all the answers, but he does…even if he doesn’t like to share them all with me when I ask him to.” He laughs a little. “There’s norightway to heal. There’s no one-size-fits-all. It’s messy and a lot of trial and error, but the only thing you have to do iskeeptrying. Eventually, something works. Eventually, it just starts sticking.”
I nod. He doesn’t try to sell me anything with it, which is how I can hear him. He’s never been the picture of a Christian that I used to have in my head. He’s not the showy, throw hell and fire and fear in your face kind of Christian. He’s this pure, beautiful, just living in it with his faith. It’s inspiring. It makes me want to know what that’s like, too.
“When we go back,” I whisper. “Would you—Do you think…” I stumble over the words. “Could I come with you to your church at some point?”
He sits up a little, cups my face, and smiles. “If you want to…I’d love that.”
A little while later, after we’re all movied out, we walk down the hallway in socked feet, wearing the matching PJs his mom made everyone put on after dinner.We stop at the door to the room I’ll be in, and he leans against the frame, hands in his pockets, looking at me like he wants to memorize this day before it ends.
“This feels like walking you home,” he says, smiling. “Old-school style.”
“Yeah,” I say, smiling, and let out a little laugh. “Old me would have invited you in,” I tell him, flirting a little. I can’t help it; the man is sex appeal in capital letters, hidden behind a sweet gentleman.
He gives me a look that says trouble and a future promise and everything we aren’t rushing. “Old me would havedefinitelycome in,” he murmurs and winks at me.
The butterflies swarm.
“Goodnight,” I say.
