Authors: Mina Bennett
Really, though, I had no idea what I was walking into. I only knew Mr. Moore a little, and even though Marissa had sent me, I didn't know if that meant he was going to treat me any differently than he would anyone else like me. An inexperienced eighteen-year-old with no relevant education, asking for a business loan so he could open a bike shop. A bike shop, really? I imagined myself in his shoes, and tried to figure out if I'd ever say yes in a million years.
Sitting in the lobby, I couldn't stop my leg from jiggling up and down nervously. I was convinced some of the other customers were eyeballing me suspiciously, like they thought I was there to rob the safe.
"Jacob!" Mr. Warren came out of his office, smiling. I stood up quickly and surreptitiously wiped my hand on my pants before I accepted his handshake.
"Hello, sir," I said. "Thank you so much for meeting with me."
"Oh, it's nothing," said Mr. Warren, showing me back towards his office. "As soon as Marissa told me about your plans, I was excited to meet with you. You've always had a real talent for fixing bikes and I think it's fantastic that you want to start a business. I can't wait to hear what your ideas are."
"Well," I said, sitting down. "I have a plan all drawn up here, if you wanted me to go over it for you."
"Oh," he said, looking mildly surprised. "That's - no, that's fantastic. I just thought this was going to be more of an informal thing, but you actually brought a business plan, that's great."
I cleared my throat, and began the speech I'd rehearsed a hundred times in my room. He barely reacted, except to raise his eyebrows at a few of my numbers, and a few of the business jargon words I'd picked up in my research. I honestly wasn't sure how to take it. Had he just been planning on humoring me? Was it insulting that he seemed to have expected me to slouch in with nothing but a few vague dreams?
When I finished my presentation, my mouth felt like a desert. I sat there quietly, waiting for his reaction.
"Well," he said, shuffling some papers. "I have to say, Jacob, I'm very impressed with your initiative."
I took a deep breath. "If it's all the same, sir," I said. "I'd like your feedback as a regular loan applicant - not just someone you're seeing as a favor."
He looked at me, frowning a little. Had I made a horrible mistake? Probably. I felt slightly dizzy.
Finally, he smiled.
"All right," he said. "You know, I have to respect that. I've always liked you, and I know that my daughter likes you. Not a lot of people really...well, you know. Some people find her to be difficult to get along with. So having you around...well, you're important to her. That's all I'm trying to say. But objectively..." He frowned again. "Objectively, if you really want to know, your presentation was excellent, but optimistic. And as a loan officer, I have concerns about your age and inexperience. I'm sure none of that is a surprise to you. But working with what you have, I can't imagine a better presentation than what you gave me." He cleared his throat. "Now, this decision has to pass through a few hands. So I can't promise you anything. But my endorsement does mean something, so I'm going to push this through and see what I can do for you. Okay?"
I nodded. That was really the best I could hope for.
"Now," he went on. "It often takes some time for this to come back, and I know the waiting's going to be tough, but I'll call you as soon as I hear something. Okay?"
"Thank you, sir." I stood up, shaking his hand again.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Marissa
Another day, another wedding.
I wouldn't be exaggerating if I said weddings were probably the second most common social event in our community, aside from birthdays. It pretty much went along with the territory. Mark and I had only been married ourselves for a few months, before he was presenting me on his arm at another ceremony officiated by Pastor Dave, to join college kids Madeline and Curtis in holy matrimony. I had a new dress just for the occasion, bought on a trip to the mall while Mark was in class. I'd kept it tucked away in the bag since then, somehow knowing that he'd find an excuse to criticize it if he possibly could. But now that I was a married woman, I felt like I couldn't keep wearing the polyester floral-print skirts and sateen blouses that I'd gotten away with as a young girl. The dress was very modest, but it still showed a lot more skin than I'd done in a long time. Even my wedding dress had cap sleeves and lace that went all the way up my chest and neck. I had mostly given up fighting this issue with him. It was easier to just give in to what he wanted.
I slipped it on shortly before we were to leave, dabbing a little lip gloss and twisting my hair up into a bun. When I walked out to the living room, I could feel his eyes on me.
His lips were slightly pursed when I looked at him.
"Do you like it?" I asked, figuring the direct approach was best in this situation.
"I like your blue skirt and top," he said. "What happened to that?"
"I always thought they felt kind of childish," I replied, breezily. "I thought I'd wear something a little more age-appropriate."
His fingers were laced together in his lap. "Did you take the tags off that dress already?"
I held his gaze without wavering. "Of course," I said.
"All right," he said. "I hope you're going to wear a shawl."
I didn't answer him.
The hall was already packed by the time we arrived. It was very warm inside, so I took off my jacket and walked around bare-armed, without a shawl in sight. Mark might have been justified in glowering, but he didn't.
We moved over to the chapel to find seats, and I immediately caught sight of Jacob and Lily in the corner, talking with their heads close together. They were both smiling.
I forced myself to look away, before Mark noticed. But he was nowhere to be found, I realized belatedly. After scanning the room again, I finally saw him with his camera up to his face, snapping away.
Of course.
I sat down on the pew, saving the spot next to me with my purse. I figured he'd be back any minute, but just as the ceremony was clearly about to start, I still didn't see him. The music kicked in, and I started to get worried.
Then, as the bride started walking down the aisle, I heard something. Not one shutter click, but two. And again. They were coming too fast and furiously to be the work of just one person.
The professional photographer was huddled in the far corner of the chapel, on the end with the pulpit, to get the best viewpoint for those classic "walking up the aisle" pictures. And behind him, he had a shadow, lurking. Following his every move. Snapping almost every picture that he snapped.
Mark.
I sank down in the pew, praying for a hole to open up in the ground and swallow me. Anything would be better than this. What on earth was
wrong
with him?
Once he'd gotten a few pictures of the bride and groom facing each other at the altar, he snuck over to the pew and slid into the spot next to me. A few people glanced at him askance, but not nearly enough, in my opinion.
I didn't even look at him until the groom's sister started belting her rendition of Etta James' "At Last" and I could hiss without being heard:
"What the heck are you doing?"
He looked at me like I was the crazy one.
"Just taking some pictures," he whispered. "Relax."
I couldn't even begin to formulate a response to that, so I just sat, fuming, until the service was over.
At the reception, I went through the food line mechanically, filling my plate from random chafing dishes only to sit down at the table and eat absolutely none of it, my chin resting in my hand and my eyes on the centerpiece.
"Are you seriously mad that I took some pictures?" Mark prodded me in the arm.
"You're not the photographer," I said. "Following him around like that...it's tacky."
"Well, I should have been," he muttered. "Besides, what do you know about tacky?"
"Wait." I turned to look at him. "What do you mean, 'I should have been?'"
"I offered Curtis my services as a discounted rate," he said. "It was a big mistake to turn me down."
"So, what, you're going to show them your pictures and rub it in their face?"
"I'm not going to rub anything in anyone's face," he insisted. "What's wrong with you? This is a wedding, just relax and have a good time."
I could see there was absolutely no sense in arguing with him.
Eventually they cleared the plates, and the music started. The bride and groom had their dance, and everyone oohed and aahed. After that, Madeline and her father glided around the room to "Butterfly Kisses," and many tears were shed. Finally, they invited the rest of us onto the floor.
"Come on," said Mark, getting to his feet and taking my hands. He had that infectious smile, the kind that he used to wear so much more often before we were married. The kind I couldn't say no to. "Dance with me."
I did.
For a few songs, I closed my eyes and let him lead me around the room. It felt good to melt into the crowd, to spin and spin and turn and forget about everything.
Suddenly, without warning, he dropped my hands and stepped back. I stared at him as he retreated, too shocked to even think of the question I wanted to ask.
"Going to take some pictures," he said, by way of explanation, before he disappeared out of the crowd, leaving me standing there in the middle of the dance floor, alone.
At first I was too stunned to react. I stood there with my arms hanging at my sides, couples swaying around me. After everything else, why this one thing - this one, silly little thing - was making my brain stutter with the inability to process it, I couldn't possibly say. But it sat in my stomach like a stone, weighing me down. Rooting me to the spot.
***
I didn't talk to him again until we were in the car.
"I can't believe you just left me in the middle of a dance," I said, softly.
He looked at me, frowning a little, and then chuckling. "Oh, Mari, is
that
all you're upset about? Come on, honey."
"I just don't get it," I said. "That's all."
"There's nothing to get. It's like I said, I just wanted to take pictures!" His tone was so light and casual. "Why are you trying to make big deal out of this? It's not anything personal, I just realized I was missing a whole lot of great shots because I was in the middle of the action. I just really wanted to capture it. We can dance anytime, but Madeline and Curtis aren't going to get married every day."
"But we don't dance anytime," I grumbled, even though I knew he wasn't listening.
"I don't expect you to understand it," he said. "But can't you just accept it? This was an incredibly holy occasion and documenting things like this is just one of my callings. If you're going to make that difficult for me..."
He drifted off, as he often did. I couldn't stand for it anymore.
"Or what, Mark?" I demanded, twisting around in my seat so I could face him fully. "If I'm going to make it difficult for you, then what?"
He shook his head, making a vague gesture with his hands. "I don't know, Marissa. I really don't. Am I going to have to take you to marriage counseling? Is that what you want? Am I not giving you enough attention? I don't get it."
"I just want to feel like the most important thing in your life," I said, quietly. "Just once."
"Mari, you
are
the most important thing in my life," he said. "Of course you are. But you have to understand, it's never going to be even between us. You don't have the same obligations that I have. You don't have the same demands on your time and your energy. You only have to love
me
. I have to love the church, and the congregation, and all the people in the world who need to hear the good news. That's just how I'm built. It doesn't mean I love you any less, it just means it can't all be about you, you,
you
all the time."
I slumped back in my seat, hot tears of frustration sliding down my cheeks. Every time I tried to talk to him, he twisted every word to mean something completely different than what I said. If I wanted even the smallest amount of consideration, I was asking for "everything to be about me." If I wanted to be treated with respect, I didn't "trust his judgment."
I knew things were uneven between us. I'd always known, from the beginning. He didn't need to point it out. I felt bad enough already, like I was just another obligation and drain on his energy that he didn't need.
It wasn't supposed to feel like this, was it?
A sick feeling was growing in the pit of my stomach. It was something I'd known all along, something I had been deliberately ignoring because...
Because if I didn't have Mark, what did I have?
I was going to be a burden to someone, no matter what happened. But at least with Mark there was less baggage. Or there used to be. At least with him, I could feel like I was earning my keep. Going back to my family would feel like the worst possible defeat. But at least that was the devil I knew.
Was I really sitting here in the car next to my husband thinking about
leaving
him? What was wrong with me? He'd left me on the dance floor, not a war zone. There was absolutely no excuse for me to act like a child.
So I was unhappy. So what? This was life. Nothing would make me happy until I got to Heaven, at least that was what my mom always told me. I was starting to think she was right. As a little girl, of course I'd dreamed of marrying a husband who would make me feel loved and wanted and make all my dreams come true. But what I had was this, instead - a disappointing reality, but at least it was real. At least with him, I could clean his house and pack his lunches and submit to his insistent pawing in bed. I'd feel less guilty about existing.
Wouldn't I?
"I'm sorry," I said, finally. "I don't mean to start a fight. But next time, maybe you could wait until the song is over?"