Page 40 of Dare to Hold (Dare To Love #1)

Gray

The silence in my truck is deafening.

I can still feel the way she hugged me goodnight—quick, stiff, her eyes darting anywhere but mine. No lingering smile. No soft moment at the car door like usual. Just a polite “thanks for tonight” before she slid inside and shut the door a little too fast.

And I knew. Right then, I knew I’d blown it.

I’d let all the things I wanted for her come tumbling out like a flood I couldn’t hold back. Word vomit. That’s what it was. My zeal drowning out her pace, my urgency silencing the quiet way God’s been working in her heart.

I took control.

Before I even turn the key, I bow my head for just a second, hands resting on the steering wheel. Lord, help me see her heart the way You do. Help me not get in the way of whatever You’re doing. Please…guide me.

I’ve got the windows cracked, hoping the cool air will knock some sense into me, but all it’s doing is making my knuckles tighter around the steering wheel.

What just happened ?

I replay the breakfast conversation over and over—every word, every breath.

The way Ivy’s voice faltered when I brought up baptism.

The way her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes when I told her I she was my person.

The way she slowly pulled her hand out of mine, like she didn’t even realize she was doing it.

I meant every word I said. I don’t regret telling her how I feel.

But I pushed. I pushed.

And I felt it—the moment she started to retreat.

I thump my head back against the seat at a red light, exhaling hard. “Come on, man,” I mutter. “You promised yourself you wouldn’t do this again.”

But here I am. Same pattern. Different girl.

I blink, and suddenly I’m not in my truck anymore. I’m back in that cramped apartment two years ago. Sitting across from Claire, my last girlfriend. She had her arms crossed, eyes glossy with tears.

“You don’t get it, Gray,” she said, voice trembling. “I’m trying, but it’s like I’m always behind. You expect me to be perfect. To believe as hard as you do. To want everything you want—right now.”

I remember sitting there, stunned. Thinking I was helping her. Guiding her. But all I was doing was pushing her toward a version of faith that looked like mine—but wasn’t hers.

She walked out two weeks later. And I told myself I wouldn’t be that guy again.

But this morning…I felt it happening all over again. The urgency. The fear. The need to seal something before it slipped away.

I grip the wheel tighter, jaw clenched. “I can’t lose her,” I whisper .

The light turns green, but I pull over instead. Park along the curb and stare at my phone for a second before dialing the one person I know will call me out and still love me after.

Jack.

Voicemail.

“Of course,” I mumble, scrubbing a hand down my face. “Of course you’re preaching or off saving the world.”

I hesitate a beat, then scroll to the next name that matters.

Micah.

I hit call before I can talk myself out of it.

It rings once. Twice. Then?—

“Gray?”

Relief punches through me.

“Hey, you free?” My voice cracks in a way I hate. “I...kinda need someone to talk to. Like, now.”

There’s a pause, then Micah says, “Yeah, man. You okay?”

I exhale, pinching the bridge of my nose. “Not really.”

“I’m at the church. Come by.”

I nod like he can see me. “On my way.”

I hang up and toss my phone onto the passenger seat, heart pounding.

Because the thought I can’t shake is the one I’ve been too afraid to say out loud: what if she doesn’t choose Him?

What if Ivy never gets there? What if all my prayers, all my waiting, still end with her walking away—from Jesus? And from me?

The questions circle like vultures, heavy and relentless. I grip the steering wheel until my hands ache.

For the first time in a long time, I feel like I’m this close to messing up something good.

And I’m not about to let fear and old habits take Ivy away from me.

The church hallway is quiet, yet it feels too loud with my head being this full. I find Micah in his office, hunched over a clipboard with crayon doodles on the edge.

He looks up, and the grin that spreads across his face is equal parts relief and welcome. “There you are. I was starting to wonder if you’d actually show up.”

I manage a half-smile, though it feels thin.

Micah pushes the clipboard aside and nods toward the chair across from him. “Sit down, man. Whatever’s eating you, we’ll figure it out.”

I sit, elbows on my knees, trying to find the words. “I messed up, man. With Ivy.”

Micah doesn’t flinch. “How bad are we talking?”

“I don’t know. Breakfast started fine, but then I told her I have been thinking about our future. That she’s my person. Basically almost proposed over pancakes.”

Micah lets out a low whistle. “Wow. You really swung for the fences.”

“She didn’t say no,” I add quickly. “But she didn’t really say anything either. And then I brought up baptism.”

His eyebrows shoot up. “Bold move.”

“She’s been going to church, reading her Bible, having conversations about God. It didn’t feel that crazy to ask.”

Micah’s brows knit, his voice gentler than his expression. “Gray…has she even given her life to Christ yet? ”

My mouth opens, but nothing comes out. My silence is its own answer.

Micah exhales, leaning back in his chair, arms folded. “Bro, baptism isn’t the first step. Salvation is. Surrendering her heart to Jesus has to come before any outward symbol. Otherwise it’s just getting wet.”

I drag a hand down my face, heat creeping up my neck. He’s right, and I hate that he’s right.

“And what’d she say?” Micah asks finally.

“She shut it down. Flat-out no. Wouldn’t even consider it.”

There’s a long pause.

“And that bothered you.”

I nod, jaw tight. “It wrecked me.”

Micah doesn’t speak right away. When he does, his voice is low. Careful. “Gray, you know I love you. But man...sometimes you hold people to a standard they haven’t even agreed to yet.”

I bristle, straightening. “I just want her to grow. To see what life could be like when it’s centered on something real.”

“I get that,” Micah says. “But let me ask you something, and I need you to really hear this, is your hope that she falls more in love with Jesus…or more in line with you?”

I blink. “What’s the difference?”

Micah’s tone sharpens. “The difference is control. You don’t mean to, but you want to control the pace. Her faith. The outcome. Maybe even her.”

The words hit harder than I want to admit.

“I’m not trying to control her,” I say, defensively. “I just—I've been through this before. I don’t want to watch someone drift because I didn’t speak up.”

Micah exhales slowly. “And maybe you did need to say something. But Gray, you can’t push her over the finish line. That’s not how faith works. And it’s not how love works, either.”

I look away, throat tight.

“Just...give her time,” Micah says more gently. “And trust that the God who saved you is more than capable of doing the same for her. Without you forcing His hand.”

I stand, a little too quickly. “Yeah. Thanks, man. I appreciate it.”

Micah watches me for a beat. “You don’t sound like you believe it.”

“I’ll think about it.”

“That’s all I’m asking.”

I turn to leave, my pulse pounding. “I’ve got rehearsal.”

“Gray.”

I pause.

Micah’s voice is calm, but firm. “Don’t let fear talk louder than grace. You’ve come too far for that.”

I nod once, tight, and head down the hall.

But the weight of it doesn’t lift.

If anything, it presses harder.

Because what if Micah’s right?

And worse—what if I can’t stop myself from proving him wrong?

The notes should feel like they belong—stacked perfectly, flowing seamlessly, like a river running smooth and sure. But today? Everything is jagged and offbeat.

I run my hands through my hair, gripping the ends a little too tight as I watch the team try to pull it together. Caleb is a half-second behind on the drums. The harmonies are tripping over each other, flat in one spot, sharp in another. My teeth clench.

“All right, hold up!” I snap, louder than I intended.

Everyone stops, instruments trailing off into an awkward silence.

A few of them exchange glances, uncertain.

“We’re losing the rhythm, guys. Drums, you’re coming in late.

Keys—you’ve got to hold that note for another count before you transition.

And, Molly…” I look back, her eyes wide.

“You’re rushing the verse. Slow it down. Let it breathe.”

Her cheeks flush, and she nods quickly, adjusting the mic stand even though it doesn’t need adjusting. My stomach twists, but I press on. “Let’s run it from the top.”

The guitarist, Chris, clears his throat. “We’ve been running it from the top for the last thirty minutes, Gray.”

I swallow hard, jaw locked tight. “And we’re going to keep running it until we get it right.”

An uneasy tension ripples through the room. Usually, rehearsal is light, even fun. But right now, it feels like a pressure cooker ready to blow. I grip the edge of the music stand, knuckles white. I know I’m pushing. I know I’m making it tense. But I can’t stop.

“Again,” I bark out, nodding to Caleb. He hesitates before tapping the sticks together to count us off.

We get four bars in before the harmony slips. Molly misses her cue, her voice faltering on the word grace.

My hands slam down on the music stand. The crash echoes through the sanctuary. “Stop!”

Silence. Thick and heavy. No one meets my eyes.

I rub my hands over my face again, fingers pressing into my temples. “Five-minute break. We’ll...we’ll try again.” I don’t wait for their responses. I turn and shove open the side door, the cool hallway air hitting me like a slap.

The door swings shut behind me, muffling the whispers I can already hear starting up. I pace the narrow corridor, hands on my hips, breath coming in shallow bursts. I press my back against the wall, sinking down until I’m sitting on the floor, knees pulled up.

What is wrong with me?

This isn’t me. I’m not the guy who slams music stands or snaps at Molly for singing too fast. But it’s like something is clawing at my insides—this relentless need for everything to be perfect. To go smoothly. To be in control.

But it’s not just about rehearsal, and I know it.

My hands rub over my face again. Lord, I don’t want to be that person. Not again.

The hallway is silent except for the distant hum of fluorescent lights and the soft echo of someone’s footsteps. I don’t look up until they stop right in front of me.

“You good?”

I glance up to see Luke—one of the worship leaders and probably the most patient guy I know. He’s holding two cups of coffee, one stretched out toward me.

I stare at it for a second before accepting. “Thanks.”

He leans against the opposite wall, crossing his arms. “You want to talk about it?”

I blow out a breath, the coffee steaming in my hands. “Not really.”

Luke nods, taking a sip of his drink. “You’re kind of ripping people apart in there.”

I cringe. “I know.”

“Not like you.”

I sigh, my shoulders sagging. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me, man. ”

Luke doesn’t rush me, just lets the silence stretch. Finally, I look up. “I guess...I’m just trying too hard to make everything perfect.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Everything? Or something specific?”

I stare down at my coffee, the ripples on the surface stilling as my hands stop shaking. “It’s just...Ivy. Things are getting real. Fast.”

Luke nods, his eyes softening. “And that’s a bad thing?”

“No, it’s just...I don’t want to mess it up. I’ve messed it up before. Tried to force things. Tried to control what wasn’t mine to control.”

Luke watches me for a long moment. “You’re talking about Claire.”

I stiffen at the name, but nod. “Yeah. I just—I don’t want to be that guy again. The one who tries to take the reins when it’s God’s job to lead. But it’s hard...when you care this much.”

He leans his head back against the wall, closing his eyes. “That’s the thing about faith, man. You don’t lead. You follow.”

I let that sink in. It feels heavy and light all at once, like a weight I didn’t realize I was carrying just got lifted, even if just a little.

After a beat, Luke pushes off the wall, stretching his back. “You good to go back in?”

I nod, standing slowly. “Yeah. I’m good.”

He claps me on the back. “Just don’t bite anyone’s head off, alright?”

A small laugh escapes me, and I shake my head. “I’ll try my best.”

We step back through the door, and I take a deep breath, hoping—praying—that this time, I can let go. Just a little.