Page 15 of Living for Truth
“I love you, Dad.”
“I love you, too, Bubs.”
Chapter 5
Hannah
Usually, I dread Sundays. I hate the thought of having to put on a mask and sit through two hours of droning meetings that repeat the same things over and over again.
When I was married, it wasn’t so terrible to go to church because we were assigned the nursery-aged kids—eighteen months to three years old—and I spent most of my time just hanging out with them.
When I moved back home, and my mom insisted I go back to the single young adults ward, I started to hate going to church again. I hate feeling like an old lady, even though I’m only twenty-six. The ward I’m in is filled with fresh-faced eighteen-year-olds who have just graduated high school, or twenty-one-year-olds who just got back from their missions and are looking for their eternal companion. There are a few older people, but most of them are also women. The men who are over the age of twenty-five are looking for a fresh-facedeighteen-year-old. No one wants to date the newly divorced, fat girl.
That’s fine with me, though. I don’t think I want to get married again, at least not anytime soon.
After seeing Elli’s parents practically disown her, I’m even more scared to skip church on Sundays because I have nowhere to go if my parents kick me out without imposing on someone else.
I’d like to think that wouldn’t happen, but I don’t know at this point.
Today, I’m not dreading Sunday. I’m excited to hang out with a new friend and eat some delicious food.
I tried to meet her in person on Friday when I went to pick up Mom’s flowers from Dad, but the only person at the shop was the attractive giant who looked out of place amongst the delicate flowers.
When Dad asked me to pick up the bouquet he ordered, I was reluctant. First of all, why get flowers if they’re just leaving for vacation? Second, I just finished my afternoon shift at the library and was looking forward to coming home.
But when he sent me the name of the shop, I recognized it instantly. I thought it would be the perfect time to meet Morgan in person without having to plan a meetup.
I was disappointed she wasn’t there, but I didn’t have the nerve to ask the disgustingly attractive man where she was. Maybe Morgan is the sister he mentioned?
Either way, I couldn’t get out of there fast enough. I haven’t been interested in anyone since Liam, but even I can admit the guy at the counter was hot. The way he was looking at me made me nervous. Not in a creepy waybut in an appreciative way that made my cheeks flame. I was grateful I put on my favorite jumpsuit so I at least felt confident in myself.
I was relieved when Morgan mentioned getting brunch today so I didn't have to think of a plan to meet in person. I’m nervous, sure, but I’m more excited to get to know a new friend. We seem to have a lot in common, and I’m excited to see if this friendship works outside of the digital world.
I stare at my closet, willing an outfit to fly out and put itself on my body instead of having to pick it out myself.
Unfortunately, I possess no magic, so that doesn't work.
What does one wear to brunch to meet a new friend?
The Silver Spoon isn’tfancy,but it’s not like an IHOP. I also want to make sure I feel confident because if I feel uncomfortable, I’m not going to be great company.
I eye the outfit I wore on my date with Brody. The one I was wearing when Morgan first texted me. It feels like a full-circle moment if I wear the outfit I was wearing when this all started, so I slip on the buttery soft, blush pink bodysuit and the black floral skirt. Pulling out my black wedges, I slip them on, then go to my jewelry box and put on my usual jewelry. I hop over to the bathroom and add a thin layer of light pink lip stain to my lips and double-check that there are no mascara smudges under my eyes.
I bounce up the stairs and make sure the front door is locked before I hop in my car and plug the address into my navigation system. I may have lived in Utah my whole life, but Downtown Salt Lake isn’t a place I have memorized, nor is it my favorite place to drive.
A thirty-minute drive later, I park in a parking lot down the street from the restaurant, and make the one-block trek to the entrance. It’s the third week of April, which means it’s about sixty degrees today, but it could change tomorrow. We’ve been known to get snow in June sometimes.
The Silver Spoon is on a street of historical houses turned into businesses. It’s nestled in between a quaint little crystal shop, and a nail/hair/eyelash salon combo. The Colonial-Georgian style house is navy blue on the outside, with four sets of windows painted white. There’s a balcony under the upper right corner window that holds brightly colored flowers. The name of the restaurant is painted in swooping cursive letters on a sign that hangs from the balcony.
When I walk in, the hostess stand is right at the entrance in front of a partition blocking off the main dining room.
The inside is painted a light blue with gold accents, and there’s floral wallpaper in the little waiting area.
“Welcome to the Silver Spoon. Do you have a reservation?” the pink-haired hostess asks me with a bright smile. Her name tag says her name is Greta.
“I think the reservation is under Morgan Fowler?” I should have double-checked. I should have checked to see if she’s here, too. Now I feel kind of silly.
“Oh! Perfect. Morgan’s already here. Let me take you over,” Greta says, leading the way around the partition.
