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CHAPTER 1
READY FUR LOVE
“One more piece. Just one more,” I bargained with myself as my eyes were nearly closed. It was already past 11 at night, but I was making so much progress on this puzzle, it was hard to find a stopping point. Feeling a second wind, I reached for the puzzle box to remind myself of its level of challenge, but instead saw my phone illuminate and grabbed that instead.
‘1 Notification from FindMeChristianDate.com’flashed across the screen. My heart sank as my finger tapped to see what it was. While it was loading, I pictured my wedding speech.
“Imagine my surprise, all those months ago as I was sitting up late in my little apartment, working on a puz- err, my master thesis, and I virtually met my husband for the first time.”The crowd cheered and we were clinking glasses when my slow internet finally loaded revealing I had no new matches or husband waiting in the wings, but rather my free trial period had expired, and if I didn’t pay $159.99, my account would be closed by morning. “Bye-bye, dating website.” I plugged my phone into the charger and made my way to bed.
BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.I awoke from a deep slumber to a horrible sound. My arm couldn’t find the alarm clock in the darkness. Tearing off my sleep eye mask, I realized I’d rolled over to the other side of the mattress and was grasping the air.
Beep. Beep. Beep.Whack!
I called out to my voice-activated virtual assistant: “Virtual assistant, find a better alarm clock that isn’t so… rude.”
“I’ve added an alarm clock to your shopping list and compiled a list of alarms that are popular among shoppers, along with the features of each.”The answer echoed through my small apartment.
“Thank you,” I smirked at the ease of technology, yet remembered it was also the reason why I was so tired and rolled over into the pillows. The down feathers greeted my face, poking my eyelids.
“Studies have shown that by regulating your circadian rhythm, waking up naturally can be achieved.”There she goes again, always wanting the last word.
I lay in bed for a few more minutes, depleting all the extra time I had before getting ready for church. I only had myself to blame for my exhaustion, staying up too late and the disappointment of the Christian dating website.I’ve never contacted anyone in its three-month free trial period; I just browse the bios and see if anything caught my eye. But without paying, I never saw the profile pictures of any of the men, which was fine for me; I liked thelove is blindtheory anyway.
I groaned at the idea of leaving my comfortable bed, but I tried to barter with myself.
Get up now. I might have time for a few puzzle pieces.
My mind and legs argued with each other.It worked, partially anyway. I sat up.
Just the life of a 30-something painfully single paralegal.
“I should write that one down for my personal ad title.” I laughed at my joke.
I took out my prayer journal in my nightstand with its matching floral pen, reviewing the prayers and praises of the week, while jotting down a new one and speaking it into my heart.
“Dear Jesus,
I believe I am ready for love,
when you're ready to send it to me.
Love, Katie.”
I let the memories flood my mind.There had been many attempts at love over the years. As my mother called it,premeditated attempts at matrimony.But I tried not to use her crime lingo when speaking of my romantic interests, as it really seemed to turn men off. Personally, I had no interest in true crime outside of the walls of my office, and thankfully, we mostly handled family law. But my mother was another story. She didn’t view it as entertainment; rather, she picked up on things from the psychological standpoint of ‘bettering her street smarts.’
Myserialsearch for love started when I was a preteen trying to call my celebrity crushes on 411 for weeks on end. They weren’t my first totally impossible love interest. I seemed always to be drawn to the unavailable. But it could be worse. I could have chosen to marry my incarcerated prison pen pal like so many other women. Not that I have one of those… anymore. I had to stop replying to him once the price of postage skyrocketed. It was only a week later that I saw on the news he had escaped. I kept thinking over and over: I’m so glad I used a fake name. But then it dawned on me: he had my address!
I recall asking my mother what to do in this situation. She hung up the phone, only to appear at my front door a half hour later with a paper bag. “Let me in. We don’t have time for dilly-dallying.” She emptied the contents of the bag onto my dining room table, holding up a box of black hair dye. “If we dye your eyebrows too, this will make you totallyunrecognizable.”
“Is that what I want?”
“Of course, it is, Katie.He’s a fugitive.”
“But I never sent him a picture of me. He doesn’t know what I look like.”
“Well, okay then. If he shows up here, I could answer the door. Maybe he won’t want anything to do with an older woman like me.”
Wait, I just remembered I had omitted something else. “He doesn’t know where I live, though.” I sheepishly hid my eyes from her, only then recalling I hadn’t given my home address on the envelopes because my mailbox in the house Iwas renting had been mowed down by a school bus earlier that spring. Who could blame the driver, though? Driving in six-inch heels like she was had to have been a challenge—especially after her recent glaucoma diagnosis.
