Page 58 of The Friend Game

“Not cheating on someone isn’t just a Christian value.” I can feel angry heat creeping up my neck as I speak; the memory of the day I found out the truth about Marshall rising like bile in my throat. “Furthermore, I’m proud of the Christian values I have. It’s a blessing to be able to live a life of obedience to God. I deserve none of the grace He has shown me, so my obedience to Him is a joyful expression of my gratitude.”

Marshall looks unmoved.

Which is really no surprise. The first compromise I made with Marshall was agreeing to go out with him despite him not being a Christian. I let myself be drawn in by his natural magnetism, and, if I’m honest, by the flattery I felt that he, a successful art dealer ten years my senior, was interested in a nobody artist like me. And anyway, I reasoned at the time, I could always get him to convert. I was being missional dating him, dang it!

Famous last words.

“Hannah,” Marshall says impatiently, “I came in here to have an adult conversation about us and our future, but if you can’t even do that then maybe I should leave.”

“You should absolutely leave,” I agree, finally finding my backbone, “because I’m not interested in discussing any future that has you in it. We are over, Marshall. Over.”

His expression turns cold. Marshall has never liked being told what to do. He lives his life making whatever decisions he wants and expecting others to fall in line with it. And, naive and infatuated as I once was, for a long time I did. At least until I found out about Carmen. His live-in fiance´e.

That’s when I finally woke up and realized everything that was wrong in my relationship with Marshall. The power dynamics (namely that he held all the power), the constant need I felt to be perfectfor him, and, above all else, the fact that he was engaged to be married in only a few short weeks–something he’d neglected to tell me during our six months together.

Oh the shame and guilt I felt when I found out the truth. All of these months later the memory of what happened pierces me afresh with shame. How could I not have realized it? Did I miss signs? Was I too busy basking in the sunshine effects that linking myself to such a prestigious art dealer brought me on a professional level?

Late at night, when I’m all alone with my thoughts, I can admit that it was this last one. That the sudden notoriety Marshall brought to my work simply by putting it in front of the right people, went straight to my head. So much so that it covered the multitude of signs that I missed at the time, but can identify in retrospect. The way he wanted to keep our relationship a secret for the first couple of months (at the time he claimed it was to protect me from looking like a woman using a men to further her career when my work so clearly merited attention all on its own…and yes, to my everlasting shame, I ate these words right up), the way he never invited me to his place (we only ever ate out or went to my apartment to hang out), the way he never took me with him to the fancy dinners and events he was always going to.

I should’ve suspected. Should’ve figured it out sooner.

But I was too busy enjoying my sudden success.

That’s why, up until recently with the kids, I’ve sworn off pottery. I don’t deserve to do the thing I love.

“Over? I see.” Marshall is studying me with calculating eyes. A shiver runs down my spine, like my body can sense the storm heading my way. “Need I remind you of what happened last time you ended things with me?”

And there it is. The threat. He ruined me once before, and now he’s back to do it again.

“Why?” I hate the desperation in my voice, the pathetic plea contained in just one word.

“I love you, Hannah. Isn’t that enough of a reason?”

“You don’t love me,” I whisper. “Love is sacrificial. It gives more than it takes and it views the other person as being of greater significance than oneself. No, what you love, Marshall, is having someone to control. But that’s not me anymore.” The words I’m saying are bold, but my hands are shaking and my heart is pumping so fast I’m actually worried I might blackout.

Marshall doesn’t respond. He simply holds my gaze until, despite my best intentions, I look away in defeat. Then he exits my classroom, and Icollapse into the nearest chair, shaking.God, please help me.I send up a quick prayer as I sit there, thankful that He, at least, doesn’t hold my sins against me.

I only wish I didn’t continue to hold them against myself.

Luke is due to arrive any minute, so in a desperate attempt to pull myself together I put my head between my knees and start humming “I Will Survive.”

I’ve sang karaoke to this song more than my fair share of times at Brooke’s bar, so it peps me right up. Sometimes a girl needs a power ballad and Gloria Gaynor supplies it in spades. My humming switches to singing and I’m up off the chair in an instant, picking up feathers and corks and forks off the ground as I declare that I will survive.

Full disclosure, I get so lost in the lyrics that I forget about Luke’s impending arrival. Still, when he walks in I don’t flinch. He’s caught me mid-song so many times prior to this that I have decided to no longer be embarrassed.

This is who I am. I sing a lot. If he wants to date me in T-minus seven weeks, he’s going to have to learn to accept that.

Of course, my lack of embarrassment is replaced by a double dose of embarrassment when Lexie Stone walks in behind him. Her perfectly manicured eyebrows pop right up at the sight of mesinging into a fork (both a fun paintbrush alternativeanda perfect makeshift microphone) and my cheeks cycle through about fifty shades of red.

Immediately I stop singing and hop to my feet.

“Good morning, Pastor Abbott, Mrs. Stone,” I chirp, smoothing my hands down over my skirt and stabbing my leg with the fork in the process. I hold back a wince. “Um, sorry about the mess.” I gesture to the floor. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

Lexie frowns and glances over at Luke. “But I thought you two had a meeting about the art show.”

“Oh, yes.” I nod. “Yes, I was expecting Pastor Abbott, but not…you…” I trail off, feeling the force of my own awkwardness. “And I know you like things tidy,” I add stupidly. Luckily Lexi likes this assessment of herself.

“Yes, I do,” she agrees congenially.

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