Total pages in book: 71
Estimated words: 67211 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 336(@200wpm)___ 269(@250wpm)___ 224(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 67211 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 336(@200wpm)___ 269(@250wpm)___ 224(@300wpm)
I met him today, for the first time. He’s serious. So very serious. But how am I supposed to spend the rest of my life married to a man who doesn’t smile?
“He’s a good provider,” my mother says. “He graduated top of his class and has already been offered a head position at his uncle’s firm.”
Great. A good provider. What exactly is it that she wants him to provide for me? Companionship and love are clearly not on that list.
My cousin married the man her parents picked out for her, and she’s… happy. I think. Sometimes it works out well. And sometimes it doesn’t. How could it in my case? My parents don’t know me at all.
“Hey,” comes a gentle voice above me. I look up into the most beautiful blue eyes I’ve ever seen. Care and concern are written across his features, and to my demise, I read those before I see the stark white of his collar. Ice pulses through my veins. I shouldn’t even talk to him. He’s the new priest who moved into the rectory last week. We own the house two doors down from the rectory. My parents don’t speak to the Catholics in this neighborhood, but they’re aware that a new priest is in town.
No one told me he was young, and beautiful, and he has the eyes of an angel.
“Hey,” I say, looking away. I’m ashamed of my tear-stained cheeks and swollen eyes.
He sits down next to me, a good distance away, but close enough like he’s showing me his silent support. He doesn’t know who I am or why I’m crying, but he sees someone sad and alone, and he chooses to stay. I turn away and get to my feet. I shouldn’t be alone with any man, most especially not this one.
I go to leave, but his deep voice arrests me. “No,” he says gently. “Don’t run off. I won’t hurt you.”
I look at him in surprise. In my home, tears are a sign of weakness. It’s unheard of that an emotional reaction like this garners sympathy instead of ridicule and chastisement. It’s why I hid when I knew I was going to cry.
“Thank you?” I say tentatively. He gives me the ghost of a smile. It’s so sad, but there’s promise in it.
“You’re welcome?” he answers my question with a question, and I laugh.
He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a tissue, then hands it to me. I nod my thanks and take it. I blow my nose and tuck the tissue into my sleeve.
We sit in silence. I’ve always trusted my instincts, though. I don’t know him at all, but deep down inside I know he’s a man to be trusted. At the same time, I know this is wrong.
“It’s my nineteenth birthday,” I blurt out. I feel my cheeks warm. He didn’t ask me, and I wonder if it’s rude to offer this knowledge unsolicited.
“Happy birthday,” he says.
I can’t help but laugh. “Thank you.”
Folding his hands atop his knees, he gives me a sidelong glance. “Something about that make you sad?” he asks. He’s so much bigger than I am, and it looks almost funny that he’s sitting on the stairs like that. He dwarfs them with his stature.
“My parents introduced me to my future husband today,” I tell him. “I suppose it was a sort of birthday present.”
“Oh?” he asks. His brows rise. “Is that right?”
He’s trying not to judge, but this has clearly surprised him.
“Yes. My family still believes in arranged marriages. Few do anymore, but lucky me, my parents still do. It’s safer, they say, and my parents have been planning my marriage for a number of years. Typically, it happens when a woman is eighteen and a man twenty-one, but they bent the rules, so I could graduate high school.” I’m not sure why I’m telling this stranger my life story, but it feels right. And it feels nice to have someone to share my pain with.
“I see,” he says, nodding. “I’m sorry, I wouldn’t know anything about marriage,” he quips, tugging on his collar.
I smile. It’s the first time I’ve smiled in days.
“Me neither,” I whisper.
We sit in silence for a moment longer.
“My name’s Noah,” he says after a time, extending his hand to me.
“Chandra,” I say, and I take his hand.
His hand is strong and warm, the palm a little callused. When he touches me, my body does curious, wonderful things it’s never done before. My heart races and my mouth goes dry. I don’t even know Noah, but just touching his hand, I feel his innate strength and courage. To my surprise, his own eyes widen and the grip on my hand tightens.
“Chandra,” he repeats, then swallows. “A beautiful name.” He stops, and I know he’s censoring himself. It isn’t right for a priest to be talking to a young, sheltered girl like me. If anyone knew…