Total pages in book: 32
Estimated words: 32532 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 163(@200wpm)___ 130(@250wpm)___ 108(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 32532 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 163(@200wpm)___ 130(@250wpm)___ 108(@300wpm)
But I’m already moving and climbing out of the ambulance, and my own heart starts to bleed as I force myself to walk away without looking back.
I’m sorry, Zacharie.
I’m sorry.
Everything in me is begging to take one last look at him.
But I know if I do, I’ll break.
I’ll be selfish and let him convince me that everything will be okay...
Even if my foolishness keeps putting him in danger.
The automatic doors of the emergency room slide open ahead of me. The police have arrived, but not one of them even looks my way.
I keep walking.
Past a small courtyard, a lonely concrete bench, and a grief-stricken couple.
I walk until I can’t walk anymore.
And that’s when my knees crash to the ground, sobs crawl out of my throat, and I just...cry out in my mind, hoping that what everybody say is true and that God is real because it hurts so, so much that I can no longer breathe.
I love him, God.
I love him.
But how can I stay if he’ll end up dead because of me?
Chapter Fifteen
FORTY-EIGHT HOURS HAVE passed since I last saw him.
But at the same time, it feels like it’s been 48,000 days.
Or just 48 seconds.
It depends on whether I wake up crying or I’m up all night and still crying.
I feel like I’m losing my mind, and Dane seems to think so too, because when I finally work up the courage to visit him, he looks at me like I’m the one who recently got shot, not him.
“What happened to you?”
“Um, you look good too, thanks.”
His hospital room is standard-issue depressing: beige walls, fluorescent lighting, a window with a view of the parking structure. Get-well cards line the windowsill, and there’s a half-eaten cup of Jell-O on his tray table that makes my artist brain want to sketch it as a still life titled “Institutional Despair.”
Dane shakes his head, and it’s only when he turns that I belatedly realize he’s not alone.
“Mira, this is Pastor Chandler, my grief counselor.”
Oh!
The guy whose organization’s business card Dane gave me!
The pastor rises from the visitor’s chair—a kind-faced man in his sixties with silver hair and the sort of gentle eyes that make you want to confess things you didn’t even know you were hiding.
“Pastor, this is Mira.”
Is it just me, or did Dane give the good pastor a meaningful look?
“Ah, so you are Mira.”
So it wasn’t just me then.
“Whatever he’s told you, Pastor, it’s absolutely—”
“I’m very sorry about your loss, my dear. Dane has been telling me how kindhearted you are.”
“—just Dane being nice,” I manage to finish, and I ignore the way Dane smirks. I usually love him like a brother, but there are times like this when I’m incredibly tempted to give him a little kick. Maybe I would have, too, if he wasn’t the one wearing a hospital gown between the two of us.
“How are you faring?”
His choice of words makes me smile despite myself. He makes me feel like I’m talking to C.S. Lewis, but in Christian mode, not Narnian.
“I’m...surviving.” I feel like I have to be honest, since it’s an honest-to-goodness pastor I’m talking to, and one who legit has Jesus in his heart.
Pastor Chandler nods in understanding. “Because of your beau.”
Like...ribbons?
“He’s also confined here, if I’m not mistaken?”
Oh, now I get it. And the moment I realize he’s talking about Zacharie—
No no no.
Don’t do it.
Don’t.
But it’s too late.
My face has already started to crumple. “I just miss him.”
“Then why not go to him?”
“I can’t.”
“Is he still under intensive care?”
I shake my head.
“Have you had a misunderstanding?”
“I had to leave him.” It’s a struggle to get the words out when sobs keep clogging my throat. “I keep putting him in danger.”
“And what did he say when you told him that?”
“I didn’t.”
“What did you tell him then?”
“I lied.” The confession scrapes out of me like broken glass. “I told him I didn’t want to stay with him. So he’d give up trying to take care of me.”
And now I’ll never ever see him again, and the thought hurts so, so bad I can barely breathe.
“I’m sure there are more factors at play than what you’re telling us,” Pastor Chandler says gently. “But do you know what I can say for certain right now?”
I shake my head.
“You have a good and loving heart. But you’re trying to carry a burden that’s not designed for your shoulders to handle. Nor his, for that matter.” He leans forward slightly, his voice warm but firm. “We can always try to be more careful. We can always try to change for the better. But who continues to live for another day was never our choice. Do you believe in God, Mira?”
Tears fall endlessly down my cheeks as I nod.
“And do you believe that everything He does is good?”
“Y-Yes.”
“And everything He allows to happen and wants to happen is also good?”