“Have we met?”
It’s 8:55 p.m. on Monday, toward the end of my shift at Billy’s Buns, and I’m staring at a six-inch hoagie layered with roast beef and cheese. No onion, lettuce, pickle. A plain guy. But when I look up at him, he’s anything but plain. I notice his eyes first—big, dark brown eyes that make me feel like I’m someone he knows—and then his shoulders, the kind guys get only after high school. His light brown hair’s longer than it should be but just barely, which makes it adorable when he blows it out of his face. I suddenly feel ridiculous in my mousy flop of brown hair smushed to my scalp by a hairnet. Holding up the yellow and white bottles like maracas, I’m double-fisting the mustard and mayo, one in each hand, asking him which, but through the plexiglass, he grins and shakes his head.
Neither.
This isn’t your future husband, I remind myself. God would never have me meet my future husband like this. Ordering a sandwich from me? No way. Besides, God’s not introducing us to each other in high school. I know. We’ve got a plan, and it’s not happening my junior year.
I look down at his sandwich. Did I mess up his order? No, he said plain. I look up at him, my throat dry. “Did I . . . ?”
“I’m Jake,” he says. “Jake Evans?”
He says it like a question, like his last name should ring a bell. Kim, my coworker, takes the next lady in line.
“Lovette,” I manage.
“I know,” he says, and I freeze. How does he know me?
Then Jake points to my name tag, and I laugh. “Right.” At the cash register, the plexiglass no longer separates us. There’s something vaguely familiar, but I can’t place it, like the feeling of seeing an old friend.
“Lovette,” he repeats. “That’s different. I like it.”
“Thank you,” I say, busying myself with the bill. “Six fifty.”
“Can you add a coffee?”
I look at the clock.
He notices. “Two-hour drive ahead of me.”
“Of course. Cream and sugar?”
“Nah. Just black.” Definitely out of high school.
He hands me a ten, and I make change for him. Why is my hand shaking? Not because I’m interested. Definitely not interested. I don’t date. I wonder if this is what God means when He says, “The flesh is weak.” My hand is weak, but my heart knows better. There’s no way college-shoulders Jake is for real. I feel my whole body exhale when he turns to leave, but then he stops. U-turns. I suck in my breath.
“Lovette, what time’s your shift over?”
I shake my head, unable to speak, trying to convey “never.”
“Right now,” Kim pipes in and hands me my time card.
“I, uh, have to race home.”
“Well, then,” he says, smiling warmly. “You better hurry.” He holds up his sandwich bag. “Thank you.”
I nod way too vigorously, and he turns and leaves. Everything in me collapses, and I rest against the counter for support. Kim nudges me so the lady can pay for her sandwich. I clock out, turn the open sign to closed, and remove my hairnet and apron.
“Are you out of your mind?” Kim whirls to face me as soon as the lady exits. I grab my backpack from the back room, ignoring her. “Hello?”
I fiddle with my phone. “Too old for me.”
“No, he wasn’t!”
“Yes, he was. Did you see his shoulders?”
“That means he works out, not that he’s forty!”
I fumble with my backpack zipper, my hand still not cooperating. As I pull my swimsuit out of my pack, I mumble, “I don’t date, remember?”
“So?”
“So,” I say and head to the bathroom to change.
Once I’m outside, the beach breeze blows cool against my sweaty neck. I unlock my bike by the light of the moon, coast down the three blocks to the ocean, and then ride ten short blocks south, parking at Old Man Mike’s place. He’s my old surf coach from when I was a kid, a retired guy who lets me stash my bike in his side yard.
And my wetsuit.
I wriggle into the neoprene, and it’s a bit of a struggle since it’s still damp from yesterday. With my legs and arms suctioned in the suit, I reach over my shoulder and pull the zipper up my back. I get goose bumps from the cold, and my teeth start chattering, but it’s worth it. It’s always worth it.
I hurdle over the pile of towels, his skateboards, and his two surfboards, then back out the gate. I jog through the alley to the boardwalk, empty except for one lone cyclist with a flashing light. The cold sand squeezing between my toes, I walk onto the beach, look out at the majestic expanse of dark water, and charge at it in full sprint. The moon, whose reflection makes a walkway from me to her, shimmers as white water explodes and crashes at my feet. I don’t hesitate before I leap into the ocean and dive under the cool, churning waters. A smile starts deep inside of me and finishes on my face. The heavens declare the glory of God.
This is where I’m home.
I don’t know why I feel more alive in the water than on the land, but it’s like I can float and fly and dive, and nothing’s impossible, and the world’s okay. It’s where I feel closest to God, like He’s holding me on all sides and reminding me, “I’ve got you.” And I feel His embrace most in the waves. I don’t care if they crash over me, if they tumble me, if I get tossed around, because even when I’m submerged, I still feel safe. When it all settles, I know the ground’s right there.
* * *
An hour later, I walk into my house, my hair still tangled and wet from hosing it off at Old Man Mike’s. I wrap it in a T-shirt as I walk down the hall. Dad pokes his head out of my parents’ bedroom.
“Hi,” he whispers. “Mom’s already asleep. How was the Y?”
Usually he says, “How was it?” so I don’t feel like I’m lying when I say, “Great,” but today, he asks how the YMCA was—which is where he’s assumed I go every day since it’s right next to my work, and I come home from Billy’s Buns with wet hair. I’ve never corrected him.
“Hmm?” I say because I hate lying. Like hate hate it. There are certain sins you do without thinking about them, and that’s bad enough, knowing sin put Jesus on the cross. But lying’s one of those sins that you know you’re doing, and that’s just mean to Jesus. It’s like saying you’re His friend while hammering another nail on that cross.
“How was it?”