These Boots Weren't Made for Walking (7 page)

“Don't worry,” I say sharply. “I haven't given up my faith, Eric, if that's really what's freaking you.” I have to bite my tongue to keep from swearing at him. What an arrogant jerk.

He nods in a self-satisfied way. “Well, good.”

“So is that it then? You came over here just to make sure I hadn't tossed aside my faith because of you?”

“No, of course not.” He looks a little sad now. “I do care about you. I was concerned—”

“Look, Eric,” I say in a surprisingly calm tone. “You hurt me a lot, okay? I won't pretend you didn't. I know that you and Jessica had sex, and that hurts a lot too. But there's nothing I can do about any of it, and I know that I'm going to have to forgive you, okay? But I'm just not ready to do that yet.”

He nods and looks down at his hands. “Okay.”

“And, now, if you don't mind, there's a lovely dinner waiting for me.” I stand up.

“So what's the deal with you two?” he asks as I head for the door.

“We're friends,” I say as we go into the hallway. “We have some things in common.”

Eric follows me back to my door, obviously burning with curiosity about this whole thing. I can see the wheels going around in his head. How long has this been going on? How serious is it? Was I seeing Will while dating Eric? But I am not going to give him the satisfaction of telling him. I may be a Christian, but that doesn't make me a doormat. “And that's all?” he asks.

“Well, that and he's moving into my apartment,” I say lightly as I go inside. “See ya around, Eric.” And then I close the door and lock it.

“Guess we showed him,” says Will as he sets a pair of amazing salad plates on the table.

“These are like art,” I say as I admire an arrangement of delicately placed vegetables and a swirl of what must be dressing.

And the whole meal is like that. By the time we're finished, I want to hug Will, but I restrain myself. “You really are an artist,” I tell him. “And I so want you to find a cooking job.” Then I start listing some of my favorite restaurants and even mention people I know who work there.

“Want to write me a recommendation?” he asks.

“Yes,” I agree. “My laptop computers packed, but maybe when I get to my moms, I could do that and send it here.” I sort of laugh. “Not that it would help.”

“Might not hurt.” He smiles. “This is so weird, Cassie.”

“What?”

“Well, I always thought you were… well, you know.

“No,” I tell him, “I don't know.”

“I don't want to insult you.”

“Hey, go ahead, and then I can tell you what I thought of you.” I give him my best evil eye.

“Well, the truth is, I thought you were this boring stick-in-the-mud. I knew you went to church, and then you're sort of conservative in your, uh, you know, your appearance. And I just never thought of you as very interesting.”

I laugh. “Actually, that's probably just about right.”

“No,” he says quickly, “I was wrong. I'm not sure how to say
it, but…” He squints as he tries to conjure up the right words. “I know what it is. You have a heart.”

“Well, that's good to know,” I say. “Maybe it's showing more since it's been broken.”

“You're a nice person,” he says, “and I wish you weren't moving.”

“Well, we're both moving,” I remind him. “We're moving on with our lives. We're taking control, right? We're becoming the people we were meant to be.” I glance around the slightly messy kitchen. “And it's obvious you are an artiste in the kitchen, Will. I hope someday you own your own restaurant.” Then I point to his hair. “Weren't we going to cut your hair?”

“You still want to?”

“Sure.” I pick up some plates. “Let me start cleaning this up while you dig out those scissors.”

Before long he's back and seated on the barstool, and I am cautiously snipping away at his shaggy brown hair. “I don't want to cut too much,” I say. “I mean, you don't really seem like a button-down kind of guy. But I'll try to neaten it, okay?”

“Sounds good.”

As I'm cutting, I can feel a serious attraction to this guy—I mean, it's like electric—and so I hurry up with the haircut. When I'm satisfied, I step back and think I need to go take a nice cool shower. “Go look,” I tell him, pointing to the bathroom.

He comes back with a smile. “Great job. Thanks.”

Then we both clean up the kitchen, but I'm careful to keep a safe distance. Not that I think Will would try anything on me. I
mean, this guy is used to the looker Monica Johnson. The problem is that I don't trust myself. Finally we finish up, and I say it's been a long day and I have a long drive ahead of me tomorrow. Hint, hint.

“Thanks for making dinner,” I tell him. “It was truly unforgettable.”

“Thanks for everything,” he tells me. “I'm thinking that you're an angel.”

I laugh. “I can assure you that I'm not.” Then I think of something. “But I will be praying for you, Will. I'll pray that you find the perfect restaurant to work in and that life starts going in a really great direction.”

“Do you really believe in prayer?” he asks with a frown.

“You mean, do I believe that you can pray for things and they just magically will happen?” I shake my head. “But I do believe that God is listening, and sometimes when we're listening to him and getting it right, we manage to pray the kinds of prayers that God can say yes to.”

He nods slowly as if he's trying to wrap his head around this.

“The problem is, I'm not sure I can pray like that for my own life right now,” I admit. “But I know I can for you.”

He frowns. “Man, I wish I could pray for you too, Cassie. I really owe you big time, but I'm not really, you know, into that kind of thing.”

“I know.” I smile. “And I actually understand.”

he next morning Will helps me load my remaining things in the U-Haul. There doesn't seem to be much to say as we stand outside in the crisp autumn air. “Thank you,” I tell him, throwing my arms around his neck in a spontaneous hug. “Believe it or not, you have been a real godsend.”

He throws back his head and laughs. “First time anyone said anything like that about me.”

“I'll be sending that letter of recommendation,” I tell him as I walk over to the driver's side. “Not that my seal of approval will help much. And you don't really need it, Will. You are a pro. You just need to believe in yourself and go for it.”

“You too,” he says. Then he frowns. “By the way, what exactly are you going for?”

I make a face and shrug. “Good question.”

“We talked so much about me and my future, but you never said what you want to be when you grow up, Cassie.”

I laugh. “Maybe it's because I haven't grown up yet.” Then I hoist myself into the cab. “Hey, maybe I'll become a truck driver
and drive one of those big old semis cross country and smoke big cigars and learn how to cuss.”

He shakes his head. “Nah, I can't really see that.”

“Stay in touch,” I say as I start the engine and adjust the mirrors, sitting up straighter.

“You too.”

Then I pull out, and the last thing I see as I drive away from Part One of my adult life is Will, Monica's ex, waving at me in the side mirror. So surreal.

I quickly realize that I need to focus here. For one thing, I don't drive all that much anymore. I gave up my car when I moved to the city. And this is a pretty big truck. But soon I'm on the freeway and haven't run over any little old ladies. Finally I slip into a comfort zone of sorts and randomly wonder if I might actually make a good truck driver. It could be interesting to see the country from this perspective. But before long I feel bored with the three lanes and fast-moving traffic. I turn the radio to an FM soft-rock station and replay Will's question in my mind. What do I want to be when I grow up?
What do I want to be?
Have I ever really known?

I was one of those kids who never make up their minds about a career. I liked so many things, and my attention span was about as long as a TV ad. For a time I wanted to be a ballerina and even took lessons for a couple of years, until I realized my slightly chunky body wasn't exactly cut out for it. Then I wanted to be a teacher, until I overheard my favorite teacher talking in the teachers’ lounge, sounding so grumpy and unhappy. Next I thought I'd
be an artist when I got attention for some of my works in junior high. But shortly after that, I discovered drama and wanted to be an actress. And on it went. I changed my mind with the seasons. As high-school graduation approached, my dad tried to get me to follow his example and go into law. And for a short while (probably to please him, since that had always been such a challenge), I considered it, but academics was never my strong suit.

The brains in the family belong to my younger sister, Cammie. Her SAT scores blew everyone away—even my dad. But being a healer at heart, she decided on med school. When she graduates in June, she plans to go to Uganda, where she will help thousands of AIDS orphans and probably become the next Mother Teresa. I can just imagine people calling my petite baby sister Mother Camilla (although we're not Catholic). But Cammie really is an angel.

On the opposite end of the angel scale is my older sister, Callie. Not that she's a devil exactly, but she has always been pretty self-centered, looking out for the big number one. And what Cammie got in the brains department, Callie got in looks. Tall, blond, classy, beautiful.

In some ways Monica Johnson reminded me of my older sister. Well, other than that litde lying-and-stealing thing, because Callie can be obnoxiously moral. She got even worse after having kids. The only thing I can imagine Callie lying about would be her looks, like if she secretly got lipo or a tummy tuck. Last Christmas she complained about how much her body changed after giving birth to the twins three years ago. And unlike Monica, Callie has
no need to steal. Her husband is an executive with a big recording company in Nashville, and they live in this humongous house in Brentwood. I suppose if I could switch lives with either of my sisters, I'd choose Callie, which I know is pure selfishness on my part. To be beautiful
and rich
, ahhh… But to be perfectly honest, I'd probably choose a trade that would make me a combination of my sisters. I would like to be rich and beautiful like Callie and have the brains and generous spirit of Cammie—which might make me into something that resembled God himself, and then I'd be in big trouble.

Instead, I am just me. Cassie in the middle. And right now, as I drive down the middle lane of this freeway with cars passing me on both sides, I feel so lost. Not lost as far as my destination goes. My turnoffis only fifteen miles ahead. I feel lost as in I really don't know who lam or who I want to be. Even Will seems to have a better handle on his life than I do. What is wrong with me?

And this is nothing new. Good grief, it took me four years to declare my major, and by then my options were getting limited. I settled on an MBA with a minor in art and didn't graduate until I was nearly twenty-six. When I got hired at the marketing firm right after graduation, I felt pretty proud of myself, and I thought I had life all figured out. I mapped my course, deciding that I would work hard and be successful in my career. Then I would meet and marry a nice Christian guy with a really good job that paid well enough to support both of us, plus our three lovely children—two girls and one boy—along with two golden retrievers and
a calico cat, in a nice house in the suburbs. Out of that dream, all I have right now is a cat, and he's not even a calico. Nor is he happy at the moment. Poor Felix has been making his grumbling sounds all morning. I glance over at his crate and wonder how he'll adapt to living at my mom's house. At least he'll have room to roam there. And maybe he'll cheer Mom up. She always did like cats. Especially those big black-and-whites like Felix.

This thought encourages me some. I remind myself that I'm not just going home because I have failed at my life. I'm going home because Mom needs me. She's needed me for a year now, but I've been too busy to notice. All three of us girls have been too busy to notice: Cammie with her last year of med school, Callie with the twins, and me ruining my life by being totally oblivious. Poor Mom, all alone, rattling around in that big old house as she tries to survive a broken heart. Shortly after Dad left, Mom confessed to me over the phone that she usually slept in until noon or later. I told her it was probably just depression and suggested she watch
The First Wives Club.
But the last time I saw her, she was still in the thick of it. She tried to act cheerful for the sake of the rest of us, and she promised to renew her real-estate license, but I could tell she was tired and depressed and that she'd put on even more weight. Her usually light brown hair had turned gray. It was as if she'd aged ten years in just a few months.