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She smiles, a radiance illuminating the very air around her. “Thank you. You look pretty amazing yourself.”
I glance down at the dark blue jeans and black button-down I’m wearing. It’s nothing compared to her. I’m a shadow in her bright light, and I’m one hundred percent okay with that.
Crossing over toward her, I wipe my palms against my jeans. “It’s not too much?”
“Not at all. It’s perfect.”
“Come on, have a seat.”
She reaches out for me, so I take her hand, soaking in the feel of it against mine.
I pull out the chair, and she sits down, so I scoot it closer, then take a seat across from her. “Since we don’t drink, I thought this might be fun.” Raising the bottle of sparkling cider I bought for Thanksgiving a few weeks ago, I pour the carbonated liquid into two champagne flutes, then offer her one.
“Thank you.” She lifts hers and holds it up. “To God. Who brought us together.”
I clear my throat. “To God,” I agree. The words come a lot easier than I thought they would, and they feel just so right.
We each take a drink; then I set my glass aside to scoop some salad onto each of our plates. “There’s lasagna in the kitchen and tiramisu for dessert.”
She beams at me. “I cannot wait.”
“Good.”
“Do you want to bless the food?” she asks, then reaches across the table for my hand.
“I don’t know what to say.”
“You don’t have to have it planned out.” She squeezes my hand. “Just speak from your heart.”
It surprises me that I actually want to try. That, because of this woman across from me, I’m starting to genuinely believe God is up there and that He truly does have a plan. Because…like she said when I asked how she believed even after everything…how could I not?
Bowing my head, I take a deep breath. “God, I know that I’ve not come to You before, but I’m starting to feel the desire to. So I want to thank You for this food. But, I uh, especially want to thank You for this woman sitting across from me. Thank You for saving her and for bringing her here. Amen.”
“Amen,” Sadie repeats.
I look across the table at her, nerves turning my stomach into a churning mess. How do I put into words all that I’m feeling? How can I possibly explain the unexplainable?
We eat our salads in near silence, with just the soft music to keep us company. And the longer the silence stretches on, the more ridiculous I feel. Which is crazy, of course. I’ve never really had much to say, and it hasn’t ever bothered me before…until now.
“So you said that you never really dated?” she asks. “But looking at this? I wouldn’t think you were anything but a romantic.”
I laugh. “You can thank Sawyer for some of it. He helped while Anastasia was upstairs.”
“They’re so great, right? I’ve never really had any girlfriends, but Anastasia is someone I could see being friends with.”
“She’s sweet.”
“Thanks for introducing us. You brought me a friend when I needed one.”
“Don’t mention it.”
“Why do you do that?” she asks. There’s no judgment or anger in her tone, just genuine curiosity.
“Do what?”
“You always downplay yourself. Like you’re trying to fit into everyone else’s expectations of who you should be.”
The statement holds far more truth than she realizes. For years, I hid the parts of me that I worried were weak. I kept my voice quiet because speaking up was not something one did in my house. At least not when they were trying to avoid confrontation.
