That thought is like a punch in my gut. I don’t even know this woman, yet I have these negative feelings fluttering like bats in my stomach. Ugh.
Instead of driving to the diner, I call my mom to let her know I’m heading home.
By ten o’clock, I’m still awake, shifting restlessly around in my bed. My mind keeps replaying Finley’s visit and the way Sol responded to her. And each time, my heart hammers painfully inside my chest at the visual.
Finally, when I can’t take it anymore, I climb out of bed, then grab a pair of sweatpants and an old T-shirt from the dresser. After putting on a jacket, I shove my feet into a pair of Sketchers and snatch my keys from the bowl, then head out.
As soon as I hit the walkway illuminated by the dim light from the streetlamp, I start walking faster, careful to avoid the scattered lumps of ice. Walking turns to jogging, and before long, my feet are thumping on the hard ground as my heartbeat pounds in my ears. I’m not a runner. In fact, I go out of my way to avoid it, but right now, I’m running, though I’m not sure what from. My demons, maybe? My thoughts? All I know and feel are freedom and relief. Not used to the workout, my lungs burn, and it feels wonderful.
Thirty minutes later, I stagger into the apartment, sweaty and clutching my chest. After a quick shower, I collapse in bed, my mind empty and my body tired and warm from the shower. It doesn’t take long before sleep welcomes me like a lover’s embrace.
Monday evening finds me hunched over my laptop, going through the notes and school assignments MJ sent me. After I told her I’d be staying home this week, she promised to collect assignments from my professors and email them to me. Once I’d filled out the leave of absence form on the college’s website, Mom called to make sure it went through.
Earlier today, Mom drove me to the hospital for a checkup. After taking care of the stitches, the doctor didn’t see the need to continue using the bandages as the wound was healing nicely.
Father Foster and I haven’t run into each other yet. Call it pure luck or a sign. Personally, I prefer the latter, but only time will tell. I know I have to face Sol’s uncle at some point, though.
Sol officially started working with his new therapist today. He texted to update me on how the session went. That unfamiliar burn from Sunday when I first saw Finley sears through my chest.
I take a few deep breaths, then do it again. And again until that awful sensation fades.
With a sigh, I’m annoyed at myself for wasting time on such petty feelings and return my focus to the screen. But a soft knock on the door has my head snapping up.
“Grace?” Christopher’s deep voice rumbles on the other side of the door.
“Come in.” I straighten in my chair at the same time the door swings open, and he peeks in.
“Can I talk to you?”
I close my laptop and fully face him. “Sure. What’s up?”
He walks in, hands stuffed in his pants pockets. “Dinner’s almost ready.”
My stomach growls as if acknowledging his words, and I slap a hand around my middle and laugh. “I’m famished as you can tell.”
He chuckles, but stops and palms the nape of his neck, rubbing repeatedly. His eyes dart from me to the laptop, then back to me. I can’t remember ever seeing him this nervous, and it makes me worried.
“What’s going on, Chris?”
“I wanted to run something by you before your mom comes home.”
“Okaaay.”
“I love your mother very much, and there’s no one I’d rather spend the rest of my life with. So I want to ask you if, you know, um, you would be . . .” He growls in frustration, which is also new. “Okay. Let me do this again. I want to ask your mother to marry me, but I didn’t want to propose until I talked to you.”
My vision blurs as tears fill my eyes, and I nibble my cheek to stop myself from full-on sobbing. “Are you asking me for my mother’s hand in marriage?”
He nods. “I guess I am.”
I wipe my cheeks with the sleeve of my sweater, then rise from my chair and fling myself at Christopher. He stumbles back a few steps with an oomph.
“Is that a yes?” he asks, kissing my hair. His arms wrap around me tight.
I nod, hugging him back. “When are you planning to propose?”
“At dinner.” He tightens his arms once before pulling back and digging a small box from his pocket and opening it.
“Oh my God,” I whisper, gaping at the diamond solitaire rose-gold ring.
“What do you think?” He rubs his palm over his forehead. “It’s nothing fancy, but—”
“It’s beautiful,” I cut him off. “It will look so great on her.”
He smiles wide. “You think so?”
Before I can answer, the sound of a door opening and closing, then my mom yelling, “I’m home!” has Christopher snapping the box shut and stuffing it back in his pocket.
I squeal and clap my hands. “I’m so excited!”
He chuckles as he turns and walks out of my room. I jog after him, my school assignments forgotten. He kisses my mother’s cheek with a whispered, “Hey, beautiful. How was your day?”
“Busy.” She tosses her bag on the coffee table, then heads to the kitchen.
I raise a brow in question. Christopher just rolls his eyes at me, smiling, then trails after Mom. “Grab the silverware and set the table, kiddo.”
We are all sitting at the table ten minutes later, and I’m dying. Christopher keeps darting warning looks in my direction. Mom seems distracted, and she hasn’t caught on that something’s going on. Until Christopher takes her hand and stands, pulling her with him. Then he drops to one knee and pulls out the little black velvet box.
“What are you doing?” my mother whispers, eyes big as saucers and tears already pooling.
Christopher swallows, his hand shaking and almost dropping the box. “I’m not a writer, so I’m not even going to wax poetically and tell you how much I want you in my life—”
“I don’t need words. I know your heart as if it were mine, Christopher Goldberg.”
“From the moment I met you, I knew you were the woman I wanted to spend forever with. I love Grace as if she were my own. You two are my family, my home. I love you, Debbie. Will you marry me?”
“Yes, I’ll marry you.” She smiles through her tears. “What took you so long to ask me?”
He laughs, carefully slipping the ring around her finger. “Nerves, mostly.” Inhaling deeply, he pockets the box and arches his head up to meet my mother’s gaze, eyes shimmering with tears.
“Get up here and kiss me, Mr. Goldberg.”
And with that, I stand, hug, and congratulate them both, then escape to my room. I grab my phone and open a playlist, cranking up the music so I can give soon-to-be Mr. and Mrs. Goldberg their privacy.
Mom’s words run through my head on a loop. I don’t need words. I know your heart as if it were my own.
Such powerful words. So romantic.
I scroll down my contacts. My thumb hovers over Sol’s name before scrolling back up and tapping MJ’s name.
Me: Hey chick! Guess what? Chris just asked my mom to marry him. SO. Romantic. He got down on one knee and proposed. And the ring! Oh my gosh!