Page 42 of Sunrises & Salvation

HUNTER

I think this was a bad idea. Probably one of the worst. The confidence I felt when I asked a man to come over to cook dinner for him , like I’m some sort of housewife welcoming my husband home after he’s been away at war , dissipates the longer I stare into my fridge to find ingredients to cook.

All the skills my mom has taught me flew right out the window on my drive home from the bookstore today.

My chest is tight against my ribcage, the organ ricocheting with every beat. My throat is tight, and the air filling my lungs does not calm the panic brewing in my body.

I pick up my phone, debating between calling my therapist and telling her I made a huge mistake and that I will never listen to her advice about accepting the love I deserve, or I can call my mother.

Either way, I’m going to explain I invited a man over to my house for dinner as a way of saying thank you.

My mom answers on the third ring, almost letting it go to voicemail.

“Hey, honey.”

“Mom, we have a code red. I’m freaking out.” My voice sounds panicked to my own ears. My dad says something in the background, and my mom makes a shush noise as I hear her footsteps as she enters a room and closes the door behind her.

“What’s wrong? Do I need to come over?”

“I don’t know what I need, but I need something. Maybe a lobotomy? Isn’t that what they used to do to people to relieve tension?” That might fix my problem. It will cause other issues down the road, but that’s a problem for a later date. I need something to help calm the blood roaring in my ears.

“You don’t need a lobotomy. Did you take your medicine today?” The medicine in question is Sertraline, a 100 milligram tablet, once a day. Every morning with my breakfast. I haven’t missed a day since I started taking it after I moved to Austin for my intern position at McIntire Corporation.

It was pure luck that I found the job while I laid in bed, contemplating how many times I could get fucked over in life before it came too much.

I made it through the extremely rough ending to my first semester of college.

My professors had agreed to let me finish all of my assignments online, thankfully.

But by then, I had lost all of my motivation to continue with a degree I wasn’t devoted to.

I scraped by with passing grades, but they were nothing to shout about from the rooftops.

McIntire Corp. didn’t care, though, and the hiring agent who reached out to me after I applied for every job listed online with the bare minimum requirements was ecstatic that I wanted to pursue graphic design.

Seven and a half years dedicated to a company, saving up every dollar that wasn’t used for my basic needs, all while creating projects that I was proud of behind the scenes.

Don’t get me wrong, I loved my job. I met so many people, traveled to amazing places, learned that I liked cooking and gardening, and took the time to grow and heal on my own.

Some of my wounds still aren’t healed, though, and the ache I feel in my chest will never be one hundred percent gone.

I’ve accepted it, with a lot of therapy and medication to help with my anxiety.

Because, as it turns out, the thoughts that were constantly floating through my head aren’t what normal people experience.

“Yes, Mom, I took my medicine. That isn’t why I’m panicking.

” Or is it? It was touch and go there for a little bit at the beginning while we tried to work out the best medication and dosage for me.

Is my body rejecting the medicine now, when it’s been stable for the past few years?

I really need to get my medical charts sent to a local doctor so I can check in with them.

I don’t want to end up back on the downhill slide I was on.

“Tell me what’s going on, then. Want me to come over and I can bring cookies? They’re in the oven now.” My eyebrows furrow, and I pull the phone back from my face to check the date. No alert in my calendar telling me I’m missing something.

“Why do you have cookies in the oven?” My tone is suspicious, and I can hear her eye roll as she huffs into the receiver.

“Do you really want to know?” No, I absolutely do not because the only thing she could be talking about is the one thing we agreed not to talk about. Adam. She’s baking cookies for him while I worry about the date I’m about to go on.

A snarky part of me wants to show up, making him go away so I can enjoy my mom’s cookies so he won’t get to.

He doesn’t deserve them, I do. I’m the one freaking out, what does he have to panic about?

His great life with all the money in the world and no care about the people he hurts.

But that’s why my parents and I agreed not to talk about him. We don’t see eye to eye on the man.

But also… a secret part of me wants to see him. To show him that I’m doing better than I was when I left. That I have a lot going for me in life and I’m thriving.

Why hasn’t he reached out, though, if he knows I’m back in town?

I know he knows, because my dad let it slip that they told him. So obviously he doesn’t care about me anymore, and there’s no point in holding on to the past. Maybe he’s truly gotten over it, and I’m the one stuck holding on to the past when it doesn’t hold any value.

Nope. Not thinking about it. Not letting my thoughts go down that vicious road, with thoughts of despair and desperation. I’ve learned a lot since then, about the world and myself.

“Honey?”

“I’ll be fine, Mom. I’m just worried, I’m having a guy over.

” Her excited shriek is enough to burst my eardrums, but a smile creases my face.

I’m happy that she’s happy for me. Sure, I’ve told her about a guy or two that I’ve gone on dates with, but it’s always after the fact.

After we have our fun, I gently let them know that I’m not interested in anything else.

I’m not sure if that’ll be the case tonight, because the guy I invited was the definition of h-o-t.

Tall, handsome, with dark eyes and an arm sleeve of tattoos.

The complete opposite of the tech guys I normally go after.

And he was so sweet, too. I fully expected him to blow me off when I asked him for help.

I don’t know why I asked him either, but the thought of actually asking a worker had my hands turning clammy.

They would have looked at me like I was dumb, like I should know exactly where something is that I’ve never used in my life and had never heard of before my dad sent me to the store to find it so we could patch the small holes in the walls of my new house.

“When is he coming over? I can bring these cookies over so you can have dessert.”

“I think I’ll be okay, but he’s going to be here in an hour, and I have no clue what to cook. It’s like every thought disappeared out of my head and the only thing left is a hollow space where random thoughts keep bouncing off the sides.”

“Make him carbonara, that’s one of your best meals.” She’s right, it’s something that I know like the back of my hand.

“Can you stay on the phone with me, keep me company?” She agrees, and I fall into my cooking routine, washing and cutting my veggies for the side salad and setting those in the fridge while I begin chopping the onions with a wet paper towel beside the cutting board.

I don’t know if it actually helps, but it’s something my mom swears by, even now while she’s telling me about her plans to visit the farmers’ market this weekend, continuing the one-sided conversation while I try my hardest not to cry from the sting.

“If you need fruits or vegetables, I have my garden.” My garden, which I very carefully uprooted and moved to the backyard of this house.

I couldn’t even begin to count how many hours I spent on YouTube and Google trying to make the best plan of action.

I didn’t want to lose any of them, and I didn’t.

I’m practically a professional botanist at this point.

“Do you have banana nut bread or focaccia bread?” she asks, humor lacing her tone.

“Can I plead the fifth?” Bread, of any kind, is not my strong suit.

Baking is not my strong suit. I prefer cooking, where I can mix any number of ingredients, and it doesn’t matter if I don’t put enough eggs.

Heaven forbid you don’t put exactly an egg and a half in a recipe, it’ll turn into a hockey puck.

And how are you even supposed to measure to get half of the egg?

Speaking of eggs.

“Mom! I don’t have chicken. I can’t make chicken carbonara without the chicken!

” I moan into the phone, wanting to curl up into a ball and wallow in self-pity.

I told myself I was going to go grocery shopping yesterday after work, but that turned into me complaining to my dad about how there are pin holes in my wall and I can see them and it bothers me.

That resulted in me going to Home Depot and asking a man to come over to my house for a date.

With no chicken. And the holes are still in my wall because I pleaded with my dad to come over and help me do it this weekend.

“It’s fine, Hunter. I’ll swing by and drop off some chicken we have in the fridge.”

“You don’t mind?” I ask hopefully.

“Of course I don’t mind. I’m walking to the kitchen to grab it, and I’ll be there soon.”

“Thanks, Mom.”

“Love you, honey.”

She brings the chicken and the half-done cookies so they can finish baking at my house, and sits with me until the food is done and Trent lets me know he’s fifteen minutes away.

“You’ll do great. Just be yourself and I know he’ll love you.

It’s hard not to.” Her words are sweet and reassuring, but with a sad undertone as well.

I know she’s thinking about Adam and how she wanted me to talk to him.

I don’t know if she planned on us trying to work it out or simply get closure, but this is how I’m choosing to move on.

“Love you, Mom.”

My mom leaves, and instead of going back into the kitchen, I wait by the front door. Not standing directly in front of it and watching like a creeper, but close enough that I’ll be able to see Trent when he comes up my driveway.

A truck parks, and I wait patiently for him to get out. My palms sweat as he waits in his front seat. I can’t see his expression from here, but I really hope he’s excited. I wanted tonight to be perfect. Tonight is my second chance at love, and a chance to start over.

I open the door when he finally gets out and I watch him with bated breath as his foot lifts like he’s going to get back into his truck, and my stomach drops.

Pathetically, I wave my hand at him, hoping that he knows I’m waiting for him.

I sadly am desperate enough that I want him to give me a chance.

I want someone to pick me, to choose me first.

Trent doesn’t get back in his truck; he slams his door shut and walks over to me. His dark hair is tucked behind his ears, and his short-sleeved shirt is showing off the sleeve of tattoos on his right arm.

“Hi,” I say shyly when he steps onto the porch.

The strong smell of his cologne meets my nose, and I fight the urge to inhale deeply.

It’s masculine and exactly what I would expect a guy like him to wear.

I check his outfit up and down. The soft jeans he’s wearing are worn around the knees but stick to his thighs to show off the tight muscles underneath.

“You look handsome.” I offer up the compliment, trying not to come off too strong and scare him away.

“So do you,” he tells me, and I run my tongue across my bottom lip, trying to avoid biting the skin and ripping it open.

“Dinner’s ready.” By the grace of my mother. “I hope you’re hungry.”

And the date goes great. He’s nice, and he has so many stories about the local people that there’s not a spare moment to overthink our conversation as we eat. He says and does all the right things, complimenting the food and offering to do the dishes. It’s almost too good to be true.

At the end of the night, right before he gets in his truck, he asks to see me again.

I agree, because how could I not?

When he presses a gentle kiss to my forehead, I melt a little on the inside.

This is what I deserve, what I crave. A soft, gentle type of love to guide me through life.