Page 64 of The Grumpy Side of Paradise

But another hot make-out sesh isn’t the only reason I want Adam to come over. I like being close to him. It’s as simple as that. Doesn’t matter that I’ve only known him a month. I like everything about him. Even his grumpy face.

And it’s because I care about him that I don’t go over. I pick up my phone and type instead. After about a million tries, I craft the message I want to send to Adam.

Slowing down doesn’t mean stopping. I like spending time with you. I like kissing you. I like YOU. If you can give me a little time, things will make more sense, and I may be able to stay in Paradise longer.

Then all I have to do is work up the courage to press send. That takes about a million deep breaths, but I finally do it. After it’s sent, I sit very, very still, listening for any noise downstairs that may signal Adam’s reaction to my words. All I can hear is Rosie’s barking, as usual.

A lifetime passes before my phone dings. I lift it expecting Adam has answered me, but it’s a message from my sister.Stepsister. Typical of her—or maybe every twenty-one-year-old—it’s one word long.

Hey.

Me:Hey, yourself. Shouldn’t you be in bed?It’s two hours later in Kansas, and it’s ten o’clock here. Plus, she’s got a toddler.

Hannah:Too much Stats homework.

That explains why she’s up. The only time she can do homework is when her son is asleep. She’s attending community college in Wichita with the goal of transferring to a university after she’s got her general eds done. But she’s always struggled in math. The first time we ever connected was when she was a teenager and I helped her with algebra homework.

Need some help?I text back.

How about you just do it for me?She writes back.I’ll never get this.

I know exactly how to answer her.Have a little faith.

Hope responds witheye roll, and I laugh.Have a little faithhas been a running joke between us since she was thirteen years old and giving Dad and his wife hell.

I don’t visit my dad often, but after graduating college and before moving to New York for grad school, he invited me to spend a few days at his house. He’d made the effort to come to my graduation and had given me a big check to help with grad school, so I felt obligated.

One night, Dad asked me to help Hope with her algebra homework. He knew she idolized me and that I wanted as little to do with her as possible. I’m sure he was hoping his “daughters” might develop a relationship while I was there, and he had the perfect opportunity right in front of him. He knew he could count on me to fix Hope’s problems. My parents always counted on me to fix problems they didn’t want to take care of themselves.

His plan worked. Eventually.

The first thirty minutes of helping Hope, though, were brutal. The more frustrated she got with the Algebra assignment, the closer she came to tears. So, I did what I always do when people aren’t happy: I make a joke or do something funny.

If there’s one thing I know teenagers like, it’s an ally. Someone who has their back when it comes to dealing with parents. So, when Hope burst into tears, and cried, “I can’t do it!” I had the perfect comeback.

“Have a little faith,” I said in my best imitation of the syrupy sweet voice of her mother, fittingly named Faith.

What I didn’t know, and what made the joke even funnier to Hope, is that my dad’s wife—who I will never call anything close to mom, not even step—was right behind me.

When Dad’s wife, Faith, heard me mock her, she let out a tiny gasp, then quickly regained her composure. Before I could stop her, she wrapped her arms around my neck in an awkward hug. I had no desire to return. “Thank you for helping, Hope. You’re right. All she needs is a little faith.”

As soon as Faith walked out of the room, a silence fell between us until Hope whispered, “Awkward.”

Faith is well known for her effort to wear her name well. An effort that includes a heavy dose of perpetual optimism. She wrote the book on how tohave a little faith.

Literally.

Faith Lytle—pronouncedlittle—used to be a household name in every Christian home I knew of, and they all had a copy ofHave a Little Faithnext to a Bible on a bookshelf. She was a guest on all the religious networks—the war widow with a toddler who could convince the biggest skeptic that faith worked. She had a huge following.

Then she got pregnant, and the affair she and my dad were having came to light. Faith’s fame faded, Dad resigned from his youth pastor job at my grandfather’s mega church, and I lost my father.

In that moment when she caught me making fun of her, if Faith had gotten angry or cried or done something that I could fix by making her happy again, I think I could have loved her right then and there. Instead, she said the thing she used to avoid facing problems. Her answer to every trouble. The thing she still says, even after her star crashed and burned.

Someone wants a close parking spot?Have a little faithand the spot will appear.Bought a scratcher at the gas station?Have a little faithand the lottery money is yours. Mother dying of cancer?Have a little faithand she’ll survive.

I still go out of my way to avoid Faith, but Hope and I have been friends ever since. Which is so much better than acting like a big sister to her. Having a sister means remembering that Hope got my dad. She got the siblings and the perfect family I wanted.

Having a much younger friend means I can pretend I’m her favorite aunt or older cousin. There’s nothing sad about that.

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