The Writing of a Love Story, Part 2

chocolate

Be sure to catch part one.

 

One Sunday evening, as I sat in the dining room with my roommate, the director of the training center came up behind me and whispered in my ear, “I need to see you in my office when you’re finished.” Immediately, I felt sick to my stomach. I managed two more bites, then realized I was too sick to stuff more in.

I looked around the dining room for Michael. Just a smile or even a look from him would put my nerves to ease. But I could not find him. I quietly excused myself, cleared my dishes, and slowly made my way to the director’s office.

“Hello, Samantha,” he said, without looking up from his computer. “Take a seat.”

I sat down in the leather chair positioned in front of his desk. He cleared his throat and turned toward me. By this time, I felt as if I would vomit right there all over his shiny polished desk.

“It has been reported to me,” he began, “that you and Michael have been carrying on a secret romance and meeting for secret dates every week.” He paused, waiting for my reaction.

I don’t think my expression changed. I continued to simply stare at him, unsure of what to do with such a ludicrous accusation.

He leaned forward, placed his hands on the desk, and folded them in a sort of praying fashion. “You know the rules here. There are to be no romances. Any romantic relationship should be developed only with your parents overseeing eyes.”

I had heard enough. “Sir. Michael and I have not been secretly dating. We gather supplies each week at the same time to give us a chance to just talk and be friends without someone condemning us. It’s the plain and simple truth.”

He looked at me and raised an eyebrow. “Samantha, THAT’S dating.”

I leaned forward and looked him in the eye. “Now let me get this straight. If my friend, Bridgette, and I were to gather materials at the same time every week, so we could talk and just be friends, we’re dating?”

He pushed himself back from his desk. “You know what I mean, Samantha. Now go pack your bags. You’ll be leaving Tuesday morning. I’ve already called your father.”

There’s was nothing left to do, but stand up and leave his office. I went to my room, but I didn’t pack. My roommate came in after a while, and I told her everything. She cried with me and said she’d pray.

The next day, Monday, I was relieved of all my duties. I had nothing to do but hang out in my room and pack. I cried a lot.

I’m not sure what made me do it, but I went down to 208 at 7:00. I hadn’t seen Michael since Saturday evening, but I guess I was hoping that somehow he would be there too.

I walked into the room and looked around. There was nothing in there but paper and boxes and shelves upon shelves of supplies. I made my way to the long waist high table in the middle of the room. “Now what?” I thought. I didn’t want to leave, but what was the sense in staying?

I leaned forward, folded my arms across the table and buried my face. I knew that going home was going to be awful. I would have to face the silent anger of my father and the sorrowful disappointment of my mother. I just needed one more hour with Michael. I needed his strength.

I felt a hand on my back, and I quickly jerked my head up. There he was in all his handsome glory. Michael. Relief washed over me like a welcomed wave. For a moment, we didn’t speak. We just stood, receiving comfort and courage from each other’s presence.

“Where have you been?” I finally asked.

He took my hand and held it tightly. This was the first time he had ever displayed affection for me. I wasn’t sure what to do. Everything I had ever been taught about the defilement of affectionate touches from the opposite gender ran through my mind. I wanted to pull my hand away, but the need for him was too great in that moment.

“I was called into the director’s office Saturday night,” he answered. “I was told that I would have to leave the training center by Tuesday morning. Apparently, they disapprove of our friendship.” He paused and smirked mischievously.

“I left that night. I called my uncle who lives nearby and stayed with him. He gave me a job on his construction crew. Today was my first day. I borrowed money from him to buy a car. I will continue to work for him until I can pay off the debt. I want to get my own apartment too. No one knows I’m here tonight, but I just wanted to see you one more time.”

He pulled his hand from mine and sat in a nearby folding chair. My empty hand felt cold, and I shivered. “I called my parents last night,” he said as he folded his hands nervously. “They were not happy.  My father told me to end my rebellion and come home. He said I needed to serve my family and forget about you. When he realized I was not changing my mind, he said he and the church would pray that God would bring me out of my backslidden mindset.”

He stared at the shelves of colored paper until I broke the silence. “I fly home tomorrow morning. My dad is going to be silent and angry. He will treat me like I’m not even there. My mom will cry and sulk. They think I’ve sinned, but I’ve done nothing wrong.”

Neither of us knew what to say. He stood and took a step toward me. He looked into my eyes, and this time, I did not look away. There was a good 12 inches between us, but the burning pull was irresistible. I just wanted to be in his arms. I wanted to lay my head on his chest and know that everything was going to be ok. It took every ounce of will I could muster to keep from flinging myself at him.

He reached for a small box of chocolates on the table. I hadn’t even noticed it before then. He held it out to me. “I wanted to give you this before I leave,” he stammered.

I took it from his hand. “Thanks,” I whispered.

He quickly leaned forward and gently kissed my lips. “Only God can write a love story,” he whispered. “Don’t let anyone else dictate yours for you,” He turned away from me and walked out of the room. I thought that was the last time I would ever see him.

I slowly made my way upstairs to my room. I opened the door and stepped inside, sighing with relief that my roommate was not there. I walked to my bed and sat down. I wanted to cry, but there were no tears left.

I was not hungry for chocolate, but I opened the box anyway. Inside I found a CD and a note.

My Dear Samantha,

Please read these Bible verses and listen to this song. Call me if you feel as I do. 123-123-1234.

Love, Michael

Listed below were several Bible passages. I pulled my Bible off the nightstand and onto my lap. I turned to the first passage and read the story of how Eve was created for Adam. I flipped to the next and read about Jacob and Rachel. Then Ruth and Boaz. And on and on. Love story after love story. Each of them different, yet each of them orchestrated by God.

My roommate still had not come in, so I put the CD into her player. I didn’t know who sang the song, but her voice sounded young and confident.*

Elevator buttons and morning air  Strangers’ silence makes me want to take the stairs  If you were here we’d laugh about their vacant stares  But right now my time is theirs

Seems like there’s always someone who disapproves  They’ll judge it like they know about me and you  And the verdict comes from those with nothing else to do  The jury’s out, but my choice is you

So don’t you worry your pretty little mind  People throw rocks at things that shine  And life makes love look hard  The stakes are high, the water’s rough  But this love is ours

And it’s not theirs to speculate  If it’s wrong and  Your hands are tough  But they are where mine belong and  I’ll fight their doubt and give you faith  With this song for you

So don’t you worry your pretty little mind  People throw rocks at things that shine  But they can’t take what’s ours  They can’t take what’s ours

The stakes are high, the water’s rough  But this love is ours

*Ours by Taylor Swift

I went home the next morning. I talked with my parents for hours that night. I told them about everything that had happened while I was in New York. I told them how Michael and I had questioned and put to test every principle the Advantage Teaching Institute was built upon. I told them how I had liked Michael since the day I first met him. I told them how I never knew he felt the same about me until he kissed me. I told them I was going to study hard, pass the GED, and then attend college. I told them I was going to get a job to pay for it all. Most importantly, I told them that I loved them, but this is what I had to do.

They were sad that I questioned all that I had been taught. They were mortified that I let a man kiss me. And they were outraged that I would work outside the home and go to college.

I called Michael the next day and every day after that. He gave me courage to resist bondage. It would have been a lot easier to simply submit and continue in the conservative, quiet life my parents felt was right. I needed his strength when my parents kicked me out of the house. I was told not to return again until I let go of my rebellious streak. I needed his acceptance when I was shunned by everyone in my parents’ church. Those who did speak to me simply stated they were praying for my soul.

Eight months later, I was on my way to New York again. This time as an independent adult, headed for the college life experience. It felt odd, but so freeing.

Michael and I kept our 7:00 Monday dates for the entire four years of my college time. I got a job at the local newspaper, editing articles before they were sent to the press. Michael continued working in the construction industry with his uncle. He took a few classes on the side as well.

I graduated as valedictorian of my class. I invited my parents, but they did not come. They could not support my decision to live away from home and further my education.

Two weeks later, Michael and I were married. It was a small wedding with local friends and family. Once again, I invited my parents, but they did not show up.

We’ve been married now for 10 years. We have three very adorable daughters and one handsome baby son. I am ever so grateful for a box of chocolates, a kiss, a song, and a God who writes unique love stories.

 

*While this story is written in the first person, it is entirely fictional. Any correlation between this story and the stories of those raised in ATI (Advanced Training Institute) is entirely intentional.

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