Page 43 of Dare to Hold (Dare To Love #1)

Ivy

The drive home is quiet.

Not the kind of quiet that soothes—but the kind that stretches. Long. Still. Heavy with everything I didn’t say, and everything I did.

I keep one hand on the wheel, the other curled in my lap, fingers still trembling. I feel wrung out—like I left pieces of myself back in that diner booth. Like my faith cracked open in front of the people I love most.

And maybe that’s not a bad thing.

Maybe it needed to crack for something real to take root.

I glance out the window as I turn down the road toward my apartment. The sun’s low in the sky now, golden light casting long shadows across the pavement. The world feels still. Waiting.

Like maybe I’m on the edge of something.

Not a breakdown.

A breakthrough.

Because for all the messiness of today—Gray’s silence, Olivia’s questions, my own unraveling—I can’t shake the feeling that God is still here. That He saw it all. Heard every word. Collected every tear.

Maybe he’s not disappointed in me.

Maybe He’s drawing me closer.

I remember Gray telling me once that God doesn’t wait for us to have it all together—He meets us right in the middle of the mess. Or maybe it was that verse Pastor Jack preached on last month: “The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.”

Either way, the truth presses in now, quiet and steady. Maybe this unraveling isn’t failure. Maybe it’s the thread He’s tugging on to draw me into His arms.

I pull into the parking lot, shifting the car into park but not moving. I sit there for a moment, breathing in the quiet. The chaos of the morning feels far away now. Like something I lived through, not something I’m still drowning in.

I want to meet God in the silence. I want to ask Him what to do with everything I’m feeling.

And this time…I want to mean it.

The apartment is too still, the silence settling like dust in the corners of the room. I sit on the edge of my couch, fingers laced together, my knuckles white with tension.

I’ve never done this before. Not like this.

Prayer always felt…distant. Like I was sending words into the void, hoping they might stick somewhere on the way up. But today…

Today, I want them to stick.

I draw in a breath, shaky and unsteady. “Okay,” I whisper, glancing around the empty room. My voice feels too loud in the stillness, but I push forward anyway. “Um…hi, God.”

I fold my hands tighter, knuckles pressing against each other. “I don’t really know how to do this—talking to You. But…I’m going to try.”

The silence stretches, but I keep going.

“I don’t want to fake this. I don’t want to just show up at church or read the Bible because it makes Gray proud of me. I want it to be real. I want You to be real to me.”

My throat tightens. “And I guess that means I have to be honest. I don’t feel like I measure up. I never have. But Gray keeps saying it’s not about being enough—it’s about what Jesus already did. That You sent Him because I couldn’t fix myself. Because I can’t save myself.”

The words scrape out of me, raw and halting. “So…if that’s true, I don’t want to keep pretending I’ve got it all together. I don’t. I need what He did for me. I need forgiveness. I need…Him.”

I close my eyes, hands falling into my lap.

“I don’t want this to just be another Ivy-tries-to-fit-in moment.

I want it to be surrender. I want You to take this heart of mine and make it Yours.

Not because of Gray. Not because of Harper or Olivia.

But because Jesus gave His life for me. Because He’s worth it. ”

A tear slips down my cheek as the last words tumble out, small and trembling. “So here I am, Lord. Please forgive me. Please make me new. Help my unbelief.”

The silence stretches long and deep, and for a moment, I wonder if I’m doing it wrong. If maybe I’m not good enough at this to get an answer.

But then my phone rings.

My eyes snap open, the sound cutting through the room like a blade. I scramble to find it on the coffee table, the screen lighting up with Gray’s name. His picture flashes up—a candid shot I took of him laughing at something I said over coffee a few weeks back.

My thumb hovers over the screen.

It would be easy. So easy to answer and let him talk me down from the ledge. He’s good at that—at making me feel seen. Safe.

But…

I let out a slow breath, my thumb moving away from the screen. I watch it ring until the call drops off and the room is silent once more.

I set the phone down carefully, my hands still shaking. For some reason, the quiet feels heavier now. Like it’s pressing down on me.

My eyes drift back to my hands, fingers still locked together. It feels strange, but I don’t let go. I take a deep breath, and before I can stop myself, the words spill out.

“God…if You’re real…if You really hear me…can You just…fill me with something real? A peace that’s not pretend? Not something I’m trying to make happen, but something that only You can do.”

My voice wavers, but I press on. “I don’t want to just do this because it makes Gray happy. I want it to be for me. For You. I want it to be…real.”

The room is still. My breath is loud in my ears, and I’m not sure what I’m expecting—some sign, maybe? A whisper? A warmth that floods the room?

But there’s just…silence.

And yet, it doesn’t feel empty.

I sit there for a long moment, letting the quiet stretch out around me, feeling it wrap itself around my shoulders like a blanket. My chest loosens, the tension slipping away bit by bit.

Maybe this is what peace feels like.

I draw in a breath, deeper than I’ve taken in a while, and the words come before I can even think to hold them back. “I think…I think I need to focus on You. Not just Gray. Not just church. Just…You and me for a bit.”

The thought is startling, but it fits. Like a puzzle piece I didn’t know was missing. I’m always running from one thing to the next—trying to prove I belong, trying to fit. But maybe…maybe belonging isn’t about fitting. Maybe it’s about being held.

I stand slowly, the motion feeling deliberate.

I head to the bookshelf by the window where I stacked the books I picked up from the church gift shop weeks ago.

My fingers brush over the soft leather binding of the Bible I bought on a whim—along with the pastel highlighters, sticky notes and pens.

Beside it is the small devotional I’d picked up. The title reads Grace Upon Grace .

I hesitate for just a second, then grab them both and head back to the couch. I settle in, tucking my legs beneath me, the Bible heavy in my lap. I trace the letters on the cover before flipping it open, thumbing through pages until I land on a verse I remember from Sunday service.

"But he said to me, 'My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.' Therefore I will boast all the more gladly of my weaknesses, so that the power of Christ may rest upon me." — 2 Corinthians 12:9

My breath catches. My power is made perfect in weakness.

I let the words soak in for a moment before setting the Bible aside and opening the devotional. I crack the spine, flipping to the first page.

Day 1: Grace Upon Grace

God’s grace isn’t earned. It isn’t something you deserve. It’s something you receive because He loves you. It’s not about perfection. It’s not about performance. It’s about trust. It’s about resting in the knowledge that He’s already done the work for you.

My eyes blur with tears, and I blink rapidly, sniffling against the wave of emotion rising up. It’s not about performance.

It feels like a whisper straight to my soul.

I press my hand to my chest, swallowing back the lump in my throat. “Okay,” I whisper, voice cracking. “Okay, God. I’m listening.”

I put my phone on do not disturb and spend the next half hour reading through the devotional, marking down thoughts in the margins, circling verses that feel like they’re meant for me. Not earned. Not deserved. Just given.

It’s a concept I’m not used to. I’ve spent my whole life earning—approval, love, validation. But this? This just…exists. Freely.

By the time I’m finished, there’s a softness in my chest. A crack in the armor I’ve been holding up. Maybe it’s small, but it’s there.

I lean back against the cushions, Bible and devotional still in my lap, and close my eyes. “Thank you,” I whisper, the words slipping out without thought. “For meeting me here. I’m going to try…to meet You here too.”

The sky outside fades into a soft wash of lavender and gold, the sun beginning its slow descent behind the buildings. The apartment is quiet, still, but it doesn’t feel empty anymore. Not in the same way it did earlier.

I wrap a blanket around my shoulders, letting the weight of the day settle over me. Not the heavy, soul-crushing kind—but something lighter.

I don’t know everything yet. I’m still full of questions. Still scared. Still unsure of what’s next.

But for the first time in a long time, I’m not trying to fix it all myself. I’m not trying to be the version of Ivy that fits what someone else needs.

I’m just…here.

Me and God.

And somehow, that feels like enough for tonight.

I reach for my phone again, not to check for missed calls or scroll aimlessly, but to open the notes app. My fingers hover over the screen for a second, then I type slowly, deliberately.

Things I’m learning:

Faith doesn’t have to look perfect.

Grace is free. I don’t have to earn it.

It’s okay to take a step back so I can take a step forward.

I stare at the words for a moment, then lock the screen and set the phone aside.

There’s still a conversation waiting for me.

With Gray.

And I know it won’t be easy. I know I’ll probably cry, and he might look at me like I’m breaking something beautiful—but I’m not doing it to break us.

I’m doing it to make room for something deeper. Something real.

I’m choosing to believe that if this love between us is rooted in something holy, it will hold. Even if I have to loosen my grip for a while.

Even if it hurts.

I press my forehead to my knees, whisper one last prayer into the quiet.

“Give me the strength to follow You. Even if it means letting go.”