Page 53 of Anything (Mayberry University #1)

CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

Rendered motionless in the back of the chapel, I reel with the verdict that I’m poison to Kit’s wounded mind.

A merciless image sears through my mind—Kit finding someone else.

Her carefree laugh. Her contented silliness.

Her brilliant mind at peace. She’s happy and whole.

With him. A vice crushes my stomach. Acid burns up my throat.

Samwise. He’s the only one who could deserve her—the only one good enough, pure enough.

He can nurture and protect. His happy, loving family will adopt her as one of their own.

Jealousy claws, but something deeper rises to meet it.

I will do anything to give her the best. Anything.

If that’s what she needs, I will put every ounce of my will and determination into making that agonizing image a reality.

I will make any sacrifice for her wholeness, even if it means watching her with him.

Even if it means enduring a marriage like my father’s.

It’s in that crushing moment that it hits me—I love her.

Does this mean “pay attention?”

This story smacks me in the face, but I don’t know why. Today’s reading in my Bible-in-a-Year plan led me to 1 Samuel 1. With my head in my hands, elbows planted on my childhood desk, I pore over the passage. What am I supposed to see here?

Hannah wanted a child so badly. Her husband insisted that she had enough in him.

Her sister-wife rubbed it in her face. But what she needed was surrender.

She got there—Hannah said that even if she got the child she wanted, she would give up raising him, that it was enough to see that God remembered her.

She found peace, she felt better, even before knowing whether God would grant her request.

The child she longed for was a good dream in itself, but it had become her identity, her deepest longing—her soul’s anchor. She had to surrender it so it wouldn’t eat her alive.

Am I like Hannah? Have I made Kit the anchor of my soul?

I scoot my chair out and kneel.

She’s not my savior. You are. You’re the only one I worship. I accept your decisions, whatever they are. I accept what you have for me. You’re the only one I need.

Emotion grips me. My legs move under me until I’m sitting, arms resting on my knees. I sit in surrender, eyes closed.

I finally open my eyes, taking in the familiar surroundings from a new perspective.

This imposing mahogany desk. My four-poster bed sitting on the antique rug I’m not allowed to eat on, the ornate crown molding, my antique dresser.

Thumbtack holes on the dresser serve as relics of a fort Everett and I once attempted with blankets.

That did not go well for us. My floor-to-ceiling bookcase is still crammed with old books and yearbooks, sports trophies and piano awards.

Childhood stuffed animals and books hide behind the cabinet doors on bottom.

On the other side of the room, the fireplace beckons with its crackling fire and my cozy leather chaise.

This bedroom is monstrously large and opulent compared to my dorm room.

I don’t need all of it, any of it. It doesn’t satisfy. But neither does economy.

My knuckles rap against the desk. I had to leave when I graduated, to see what it would be like to live differently.

A huge blow to my pride, to start—I was pitiful when I showed up on campus.

Laundry, vacuuming, shopping for shampoo, even making a sandwich were skills I never knew I lacked.

Austin taught me everything I needed to know and never once ratted me out for my ignorance, never treated me like I was obnoxious.

We’ve been like brothers ever since. He had his own skills to learn.

Winning friends and girls’ attention had come easily on the varsity football team, but at Mayberry, Austin had to begin anew. We helped each other.

It’s weird to be back here. Growing up, menial tasks were a rarity for me, yet the expectations that remained nearly crushed me.

Here, I was never enough. In Texas, I’m some kind of fascinating specimen.

To blend in enough but not too much is exhausting.

But my reputation isn’t my job, here or there.

I surrender that too.

I raise myself to the chair and my journal.

I’m your son, wherever I am and however my life looks. Whether I have a lot or a little, teach me to be content. Like Paul said.

My empty stomach pleads to be addressed.

After swimming this morning—a luxury in my family’s heated outdoor pool—I’m already ready for lunch.

Undoubtedly, premade delicacies fill the fridge.

Another perk of being home. Plus, I’m sure my parents are downstairs now, and I should see how they’re faring after everything this week.

I place a hand on the open pages of my Bible, as if to maintain memory of what I’ve discovered.

I will accept what God chooses for me. I worship him alone.