Page 46 of Dare to Hold (Dare To Love #1)

Ivy

Harper’s apartment smells like spiced pumpkin and cinnamon, the kind of warm, sweet scent that clings to your sweater and makes you want to linger.

A fall garland drapes across the bookshelf, little pops of orange and gold leaves catching the light.

On the coffee table, a candle flickers beside a half-finished mug of cider, and a plaid blanket is thrown carelessly over the arm of the couch.

I’m curled up on the couch with a fuzzy blanket wrapped around my legs, Harper bustling in the kitchen with her chai latte concoctions while Olivia sits beside me, unusually quiet.

“You okay?” I ask gently, nudging her with my elbow.

She gives a small nod, her fingers wrapped tightly around the warm mug Harper just handed her. “Yeah. Just…been thinking a lot.”

Harper flops onto the armchair across from us, sipping from her snowman mug. “About?”

Olivia’s eyes shift to mine, then drop to the blanket. “About that brunch. When I said all that stuff to you.”

I blink, surprised. I hadn’t expected her to bring it up.

She clears her throat. “I was frustrated. At myself, mostly. But I took it out on you, and that wasn’t fair. I shouldn’t have questioned your faith like that.”

I open my mouth to respond, but she keeps going, her voice softer now. “But…honestly? I think you needed to hear it. And I think I needed to say it. Because watching you these last few weeks—I mean really watching you—something’s different.”

My throat tightens. “Liv…”

“No,” she shakes her head, a faint smile pulling at her lips. “Let me say this. You’ve always been good at adapting. At becoming who people needed you to be. But this? This doesn’t feel like that. You’re not trying to perform, or please anyone. You just…are. And it’s beautiful, Ivy.”

Harper exhales slowly, her eyes glossy. “Amen to that.”

I press my mug against my chest, warmth blooming deeper than just the chai latte. “Thank you,” I whisper. “I think your words were exactly what I needed, even if they hurt in the moment. They kind of…cracked something open in me.”

Olivia swipes at the corner of her eye with her sleeve, then shrugs with a watery laugh. “Guess we’re all a little broken.”

“We are,” I say, reaching over to take her hand. “But I think that’s the whole point. That’s where grace meets us.”

She nods slowly. “Yeah…I think I’m starting to get that.”

Harper leans forward, her smile playful but her tone sincere. “You should come to church tomorrow. They’re doing a Thanksgiving message—‘Thankful, Grateful, Blessed.’ I heard it’s supposed to be really good.”

Olivia hesitates, then glances at me. “Okay. I’ll come. But no promises on the singing. ”

“That’s fair,” Harper grins.

And just like that, something shifts between us. A new layer. A deeper thread weaving through old friendship.

Not perfect. Not polished.

But real.

Thanksgiving feels…different this year.

It’s been eight weeks since I pulled away from Gray. Eight weeks since I stood in his living room and told him I needed space—not just from him, but from everything.

I never imagined it would feel like this—like breaking apart and coming back together at the same time.

The first few days were unbearable. I couldn’t focus.

Couldn’t think straight. Everything reminded me of him.

Of us. I’d lie awake at night, replaying every word, every look, wondering if I made a mistake.

But I knew. Deep down, I knew. If I didn’t figure out who I was in this faith journey on my own, it would always be tangled up in him. I didn’t want that. I couldn’t have that. If I was going to believe in God, it had to be real.

So I took a step back.

And then I took another.

I threw myself into my role at the church.

I finalized the promotional graphics for the Christmas Eve service, made weekly bulletins, even helped Harper with the posters for the kids’ ministry Thanksgiving party.

I showed up early. Stayed late. And for the first time in my life, I wasn’t just attending church.

I was part of it .

And I started praying. Really praying. Not the kind of desperate, scattered prayers I used to whisper when everything was falling apart.

These were different—intentional. I’d light that cinnamon candle, open a devotional, and just sit with God.

Sometimes I spoke. Sometimes I didn’t. Sometimes I cried and said nothing at all.

And slowly…I began to feel something.

Not lightning. Not fireworks. Just…peace. Gentle and unexpected. Like He’d been waiting for me to get quiet enough to notice.

Verses I used to skim over started to mean something. Words like grace and mercy weren’t just abstract ideas—they were personal. Real. Woven into every crack in me. And for the first time, I didn’t feel like I had to earn it.

I think back to last Sunday, standing in the back of the church while the worship team played Reckless Love. I’ve heard it a dozen times, but something about it hit different this time.

Oh, the overwhelming, never-ending, reckless love of God.

My hands trembled as I gripped my notebook. Tears fell before I could stop them—not because I was ashamed, but because I believed it. Really believed it.

This love wasn’t earned. It wasn’t about performance. It was just…there.

Always had been.

And Gray—he never stopped showing up. Not in person, but in little things. A verse he was studying. A photo of his cup of coffee at sunrise. A voice memo of him playing guitar late one night. I must’ve replayed that one a hundred times.

He didn’t push. He didn’t pressure. He just…stayed.

And that made all the difference.

I still haven’t called him. Not because I don’t want to—but because this journey, this fragile becoming, still feels sacred. And I need to walk it alone for just a little longer.

The Thankful, Grateful, Blessed service is coming. Everyone says it’ll be meaningful—warm music, stories of gratitude, and a message that speaks right into the heart of the season. Part of me wonders what I’ll feel. If I’ll be ready.

I don’t know what I’m expecting.

But something in me is starting to hope.

Maybe…I’ll be ready by then.

The church is quieter than usual when I arrive that evening. The lobby smells faintly of cinnamon and cloves from a candle flickering at the welcome desk, and the muffled sound of kids’ voices drifts down the hallway where they’re working on decorations for tomorrow’s Thanksgiving party.

I pull my cardigan tighter around me and carry the poster tubes under one arm, walking toward the sanctuary doors.

Inside, volunteers are taping construction-paper turkeys and “thankful leaves” along the walls, the kind kids scribble prayers and blessings on in shaky handwriting.

Tables are being lined with butcher paper and crayons, ready for the chaos of tiny hands and sugar-high laughter.

Harper spots me from across the room and waves. “You’re a literal lifesaver,” she says as I hand her the posters for the gratitude wall.

“Anything for my favorite overworked children’s ministry volunteer,” I tease.

She rolls her eyes but grins, brushing a strand of red hair from her face. “Seriously though, thank you. I don’t know how you’ve managed to juggle all this and still keep showing up with that sweet, calm energy.”

I laugh, shrugging. “Maybe it’s the pumpkin spice latte I grabbed on the way here. Feels like liquid patience.”

She snorts, then her expression softens. “You doing okay?”

I pause, fingers tracing the edge of the poster tube before I nod. “Yeah. Actually…yeah.”

She studies me for a second, like she’s trying to read between the lines. “You look…lighter.”

“I feel lighter.”

And I do. Not all the time. Not every minute. But enough that I notice.

Harper pulls me in for a quick hug. “You know I’m proud of you, right?”

“I know.”

We part, and she heads off to prep the kids’ area.

I linger in the sanctuary, slowly walking the center aisle.

A few paper leaves have fluttered down from the gratitude board up front, scattered across the floor like reminders that even blessings can be messy.

I glance toward the stage—toward the spot where Gray usually stands with his guitar.

My heart clenches, but it doesn’t ache the way it used to.

It feels more like longing laced with peace.

Tomorrow morning, people will gather here—families, students, grandparents. Some grateful, some heavy, some searching. Pastor Jack will talk about what it means to live thankful, grateful, blessed—not just as a cute slogan, but as a way of seeing God’s hand in every season.

And maybe… maybe that will be the moment for me. Not waiting for some dramatic sign, but choosing to believe that even in the quiet, even in the waiting, He’s here .

I exhale slowly and whisper, “I’ll be ready.”

The words echo in the empty sanctuary, and for the first time in a long time, I believe them.

It’s almost midnight when I finally get home.

The apartment is quiet, save for the low hum of the heater kicking on. I kick off my boots by the door, shrug out of my coat, and let the silence settle around me.

I move through the space slowly, turning on the little lamp by the couch, lighting the candle I keep near my Bible. The soft glow fills the room, warm and golden, wrapping around me like a familiar hug.

I sit down cross-legged on the rug, Bible in my lap, journal nearby. My phone buzzes.

Gray

"Do not be anxious about anything, but in every situation, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God. And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus." Philippians 4:6–7

I smile. He’s been quieter lately, but the messages haven’t stopped. They never stop. Each one is like a small flame. Never demanding anything from me, just…being there.

I set the phone aside without replying. Not because I don’t want to. But because I need this moment to be just mine .

I flip open my journal and write the date, then sit for a long time, pen hovering. The words don’t rush out like they usually do. Instead, I find myself writing slowly, thoughtfully.

The service tomorrow is about “Thankful, Grateful, Blessed.” Pastor Jack even joked that it sounds like something you’d see on a Hobby Lobby sign, but he said the message would be about more than just a cute slogan. About choosing to see God’s hand in every season—even the waiting ones.

So tonight, I’m trying. I pulled out this journal, and instead of overthinking what I’ll wear tomorrow or whether Harper will rope me into helping with the kids again, I’m going to write down what I’m thankful for.

November 26th

Thankful—for the way God has carried me through these past weeks.

For the mornings that felt heavy but somehow I still got up.

For laughter with Harper when I didn’t feel like laughing.

For Olivia showing up even when she doesn’t feel sure about church.

For little reminders that I don’t have to have it all figured out to be loved.

Grateful—for the Bible that sits on my nightstand now, worn from my fumbling hands, and for devotionals that help me make sense of it piece by piece.

For songs that settle into the cracks of my heart when words don’t come.

For quiet mornings with coffee and highlighters, when I feel closer to God than I ever thought I could.

Blessed—for Gray.

I almost hesitate to write that, because things are complicated. But even with the distance, he’s been a steady thread. The simple “how was your day?” texts. The way he still checks in without pressing too hard. The verse he sent last week—Philippians 4:6–7.

Do not be anxious about anything, but in every situation, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God.

I write that down, reading it over and over. It’s like I want to believe it, but my heart still stumbles.

Because the truth is? I’m anxious.

I wonder if he would even want to be with me again.

Before, he was ready. More than ready. He talked about a future, about marriage, about leading me in faith and life.

And I panicked. I wasn’t there yet. I needed space to find Jesus for myself—not through him, not because of him. So I told him I needed a break.

Now, two months later, I wonder what’s left of us. Did I hurt him too much? Did I push him too far away? Would he even want to step back into this with me…or has he decided it’s safer to guard his heart?

I trace the verse again with my pen: Do not be anxious about anything .

Maybe that’s the whole point. To stop gripping so tightly. To stop trying to figure out if he still wants me, and instead ask if God still wants us.

Maybe it’s not about rushing into answers, but learning to live in the questions with open hands.

I set the pen down and rest my palms on the page, staring at the words until they blur. My chest aches with longing, but there’s something steadier underneath it too—like maybe gratitude and ache can coexist.

I bow my head, whispering into the quiet.

“Lord, You know me. You know Gray. You know the way my heart pulls toward him, even when I try to focus only on You. I don’t want to idolize him.

I don’t want to make him the center when that belongs to You.

But I also don’t want to lose what we had.

So if it’s time—if You’re saying we’re ready—show me.

Make it clear. And if not, help me trust Your timing.

Help me release the fear that I ruined everything.

Help me believe that if You want us together, nothing can undo that. ”

Slowly, I thumb back through the pages of my journal, tracing the scrawled prayers, the verses that once felt foreign but now feel like lifelines, the messy notes from Sunday messages, the moments I poured my heart onto the paper because I didn’t know what else to do.

I pause at the very first page.

Taped to the inside cover is that small, crinkled note Gray left with the flowers months ago. His handwriting stares back at me.

I dare you to be my girlfriend.

The tears come before I can stop them. Big, quiet sobs that shake my shoulders as I clutch the journal to my chest. I ache.

Ache for him. For his arms around me, for the way his hugs made the world feel safe.

I miss him so much it physically hurts, and I don’t know how much longer I can go without that comfort.