Daughters

Daughters

My three beautiful daughters are doing remarkably well in spite of all that's befallen their lives. God has protected and watched over the girls. Shayne and Abby are seniors in high school, and I'm extremely proud of these two young ladies. Both girls maintain a high GPA, and are very active in their schools, involved in a variety of extracurricular activities from student council to sports. They're making the most of their senior year.

Shayne is outgoing, adventurous, and possesses an endless curiosity. That beautiful sense of wonderment has not waned through the years. At times it scares me to death. She certainly knows how to keep me on my knees in prayer. I speak to her throughout the week, and every time we talk, her stories have me laughing, then worrying. She is a people person and has a boundless world of friends. When I call, it seems she's always introducing me to someone new. She'll just pass the phone, saying something like, "Meet my Dad, he's awesome. Don't worry that he's in prison, it's a crazy story." Next thing you know, I'm talking to her friends as if we've known each other for years. That's just Shayne: fearless, bold, a free spirit, living every minute to the full. She lives in the sunrise of life. Her personality causes me to see the wider horizons, the wider berths. Like a beautiful sunrise breaking across a violet sky, her wonderful spirit conveys the infinite power of possibility.

Abby is more reserved and has a sweet, tender spirit. She is polite, courteous, always giving thought to others, and loves God with all her heart. She's a servant, going beyond the call of duty at her school and church. Abby has a dry, quiet sense of humor. She is loyal and mature beyond her years. If Abby's your friend, you'll have a friend for life. She also maintains a carefree spirit, choosing not to worry about anything. She is a hard worker, disciplined, and keeps her nose to the grind in her efforts. Abby's personality causes me to see the extraordinary beauty that comes from a life engaged in altruistic ideas. Like a million points of light twinkling in the black canopy of night, her beautiful spirit sparks inspiration.

Abby and Shayne are resilient, having experienced wounds their peers know little about. Life has been unfair to them. Selfish choices of adults have fractured their hearts, clouded their sunshine. Yet, in that world of cruelty, the girls did not become victims of their circumstances. Never did they become bitter or hardened, or surrender to self-pity. They've determined themselves to define the negative experiences. The innocent forms of their lives, though wounded by deep cuts of pain, have survived and are now blossoming. Those petals are unfolding, revealing two beautiful, talented, and incredibly resilient young ladies.

Abby is hoping to attend Pepperdine, UC Davis, or the University of Hawaii in the fall and desires to become a pediatrician. Shayne has applied to NYU, Boston University, Loyola-Chicago, Hofstra, and USF, aspiring to become a lawyer.

My youngest is Shelby and she is now eight. She's in the third grade and growing up fast. She's extremely intelligent and very articulate. Just like with the older girls, I miss my little bundle of life so much. I have not seen her in nearly six years. Shelby's a little sweetheart. Her personality is a combination of her two older sisters. We speak on the phone two or three times a week, and our conversations center mainly on her world. Sometimes, we take make-believe trips to different countries and cities. Thus far, we've toured Los Angeles, New York, and London; Russia, Germany, Mexico, and Switzerland. Shelby enjoys taking care of her pets, going to church, playing games on her iPod and Nintendo DS. She was voted to her school's student council, enjoys spending time with her sisters and friends, and takes ballet lessons. This winter she'll perform in Sacramento's production of "The Nutcracker Suite."

Unable to play the role of a conventional father, I try to speak with one of the girls on the phone each day. I send cards, notes, and do whatever I can to be a father from a difficult place. Yet, I'm well aware that nothing will fill the cavernous void my physical absence brings to their lives. Daughters need fathers who are present, who dote, comfort, encourage, guide, embrace, and actively engage their lives and world. Every day, in my confined space, I get down on my knees and ask God to make this happen for my girls, to reunite us much sooner than expected. At night, in bed I brush their photos against my lips, place them over my heart, and whisper to God to do a miracle for us all.

When I think of my girls, it feels as though there is a gaping hole in the middle of my heart. I've been absent from the most important years of their young lives. Absent from the evening meals, the laughs, the events, the accomplishments, the illnesses, the school days, from the long string of simple rituals that make up a child's life. I've missed the beautiful smiles in the morning, the innocence of discovery, the genuine wonder in their eyes. I've missed the constant chatter that was in our home: the giggling and screaming and crying and banging. I loved all the chaos the girls brought when they were playing, living it up, having the time of their lives. I just loved all that life. I loved being an active father: the sports, the bike rides, the travels, the movies, the lake, the activities. I miss holding my girls. Nothing ever fits a father's palm so perfectly, feels so right, or inspires so much, as the hand of his child wrapped inside his hand. And nothing bring more comfort and more hope and more security to a child than their little hand nestled inside daddy's big hand.

Resulting from our own choices, and at times, the choices of others, we all reach some sort of disenchantment in our lives. We arrive at some place where we hoped for elation and fulfillment, but found desolation and emptiness instead. And that locale is a very difficult place to live, to understand, often void of answers. Events are upon you in an instant, unforeseen and without warning, and sometimes marked by disappointment and tragedy. Yet, landing at such a place can lead to a better understanding of the bittersweet truth of life: Every human endeavor is collaboration. Even though life now is not what I expected or imagined, I have experienced things these last few years, which I never knew, existed. You lose a lot in an ordeal like this, but you find a new you, a newfound belief in yourself and life's greatest treasures.

An African proverb says, "A person is a person through other people." No man is an island. We do little on our own. We play a role in the genesis of our own experience and in the experience of others. Deep emotional currents move us all, marking our passage through life. There is providence in every step we take. God gently walks by our side. He celebrates our victories. He mourns with us in our defeats. He is there when we honor Him with our choices; and He is still there when we dishonor Him. He is there for one reason:  He loves us unconditionally. I have learned that in the darkest moments of my life, God has been here, even when I thought He abandoned me. And I know that if God did not leave me in my time of trouble, He will not leave you when you walk through your deepest valley. If your facing adversity, overcome by failure, feeling hurt, keep pressing toward God's plan for your life, seeking to live in a way that honors him. Don't give up or give in. Love your family, your spouse, your children, with all your heart. Hold nothing back. For they are your greatest treasure.

Writing, Reflections, Gifts: An Update

Over the last year, I've received letters, cards, email, and visits that have been a great source of encouragement. Such kind acts humble me and bolster my spirits. The communiqués reiterate the power of encouragement. We can make the world such a better place through encouragement. When we take the time to raise another's spirit, we unleash a perpetual cycle of good in the world, a providential blessing that comes full circle.

Nearly six years of cramped life has not squashed the free spirit in me. I remain keen to revisit the blue waters of the world I love, the green grass and rolling hills, the rich valleys, the shining cities and magnificent beaches. Until I was imprisoned, I never fully appreciated the capacity of memory, the endless string of information the head can carry. Nor did I recognize the value of all those wonderful places on the globe I've encountered. I'm grateful for those memories, for they sustain and fuel inspiration.

Most commonly, I'm asked three questions: "What is it like in there?" "How are your daughters?" "Can you tell us what really happened?" In detail, I want to try to answer these questions in the upcoming months. There's this idea that if you haven't been here, you're incapable of understanding it, which I think is untrue. Life in prison is akin to being a castaway in the land that time forgot, as if you're living on a distant planet that offers brief flashbacks to the planet you once occupied. Those flashbacks come in the form of email, visits, phone calls, magazines, newspapers, chapel services, movies, and television. But at the end of the interaction, you're right back in this odd, surreal world.

I'm fortunate to be in a place that has lush vegetation. The grounds brim with a diverse mix of trees – oaks, crate myrtles, willows, cedars. Beds of flowers and rows of hedges line the sidewalks. Lush plants, some tropical, border the buildings. Cats live on the compound. In many respects, the prison looks like a small idyllic college campus. Within fifty yards of the recreation yard, I see life as it should be – cars passing, people strolling, and rows of houses.

I fill my time with a variety of disciplines. Mostly, I do what I can to make the best of the situation. Though sequestered from the real world, I still carry a colossal zest for life. Life is magical and must be lived. If it's behind a fence, so be it – I'll live it with all my heart. Confinement will not quell my spirit nor crush my dreams.

This experience has become a clarion call, forcing me to think creatively again, to build new ideas from scratch in my head. I remember looking at the grim forecast early on, and saying to myself, "I'll never recover from this nightmare. I've rekindled the ashes in the past, but not this time." And then I thought, I'm not going out like this in scandal and failure. I'm not going to let my daughters down anymore, my family.

How do you give up? You don't. You suck it up. You take responsibility for your actions. You apologize to those you've hurt. You do everything you can to make your wrongs right. You roll up your sleeves and do what it takes to restore order from the chaos your actions caused. You fight to gain some semblance of normalcy, to make a distorted world circular again.

If we all had more courage, more honesty, and determined ourselves to do the right thing, there would be a lot less pain and hurt in this world. It takes courage to look inside and acknowledge failure, to admit acts of injury. Truth is all around us, but our human tendency is to rationalize our shortcomings, leading to difficult, arduous, pure hell for lack of a better term. I went through periods of depression, self-doubt, uncertainty, then ultimately emerged in a state of heightened confidence. Somehow, through it all, with God's help, I determined my spirit to fight; I willed my mind to believe.

What keeps me believing? Something simple but unshakeable: I know God is bigger than what's transpired. None of these physical restraints can take away my gifts or God's plan for my life. I know the talents I have, and I'm using this time to develop them further, to better them, to refine them. I'll use this experience to help others. All who lost financially, who were hurt, will be made whole. I've seen God in the worst situations imaginable. I've seen miracles throughout the world. God didn't allow me to be part of such miraculous acts just to taunt my own faith. He allowed them into my life to fortify and strengthen my faith, to inspire belief for His spoken promises in a time when the elements surrounding my life contradicted those very promises.

I still believe that things are going to give for me, and not just naturally, but supernaturally. So I press forward, believing and trusting and doing my part. When we accept responsibility for our actions, we feel our heart expand and unfold as it releases burdens of fear, failure, and self-doubt. Fresh faith is born and begins to grow. Sometimes those moments that you spend hoping and believing and waiting for something good to happen become the most defining moments of your life.

I spend my days in a routine of discipline, six days a week. I spend each morning reading, starting early with the Bible. Following my spiritual time, I move on to the Wall Street Journal, various periodicals, and books. At 11:30, I hit the weight pile for two hours. Cross-fit training makes up the first, incorporating weights and cardio. I work my core and two different muscle groups during the second hour. When finished, I squeeze in a high-protein meal, shower, and start writing. My writing time occupies five hours, and is my favorite part of the day. In the evenings, I watch movies, sports, and various television series, or go to the gym and play basketball.

Writing has become my way of making sense of the world, especially going through these difficult years. When I'm writing I can feel it; there's a real feeling when I know I'm getting it right. What has helped me through my recovery is being willing to essentially become an open book and share both the good and bad of my life. Most people are sympathetic beings. They understand fear, loss, regret, and failure, so they can understand what I write. Anyone who knows me, who has read or heard some of what's out there in the media, in the public eye, has said to himself, "There has to be another side to the story." There is. When the legal process is final, I'll tell all and hold nothing back, sparing no details.

I've always possessed a great interest in the human story, in the intricacies of life that shape us as individuals. This fuels my love of history, of story. I think the richest and most significant stories defy easy answers. That's what draws me to writing. The best movies, the best novels, the best works of nonfiction are, I think, complicated. They rouse raw emotions, stirring the seed of life within us, waking us from slumber, inspiring something beyond ourselves.

Most of us love a story. Rarely do we remember easy stories. Characters facing their greatest fears with intrepidity are what make a story good. Cherished movies and books are tales embroiled in conflict. You had this, you had that, you crashed, you burned, you rose from the ashes – these are all typical, mythological things we understand and feel. Be it in our romances, careers, escapades, the polar changes, the happy and sad things in life, are something we've all experienced. The same elements that make a story meaningful are those that make a life meaningful; love, loss, forgiveness, risk, fear, bravery, honor, failure, redemption. We think life is about building a nest egg, finding security, but the truth is, life is about our experiences, what we live, feel, and encounter.

The writing has reunited me with my calling and unearthed a new internal fire – fiction writing. For the past year I've been writing a novel. The five-hundred-page work is near completion. Writing fiction involves placing yourself in imagined circumstances, creating a world, and bringing that world to life. I find in that labor of concentration something wonderful, something that can be, something that is born. Looking candidly, this correlates with the role I played when I stood behind pulpits and spoke to thousands weekly. Back then, I understood my gift to be oratory, and at one point, believed I squandered that gift. But now I see otherwise. My gift never left, and its prime role remains intact. Only the delivery, the format, has changed.

Our gifts can transcend our perception of where those gifts are applicable, where they might work, flourish, and be used to touch the lives of others. Your gifts and talents are transferable. Even if you're in a place right now that's not ideal, not what you expected, your gifts will be utilized. And there are things you will learn in that place to sharpen those gifts that will become transferable. The biblical lives of Joseph and David live out this idea.

Hardship or crisis creates opportunity. When your back's against the wall, you have no choice but to try new things and stop being dependent on the former. The adversity can be an advantage. It can be that one moment that opens something up for you, something you were unable to see in comfort or stability.

As people self-select, choosing what's comfortable, they miss the serendipity of bumping into ideas that may not agree with them, but are life altering. Embrace what you don't know, what you fear. Embrace hardship and difficulty. Though life may not be breaking your way, God has a plan for it all. You might discover and unleash a beautiful gift lying dormant inside your heart. Sometimes the only way to make sense of the adversity is to plunge headfirst into it, to take the swim.

Fiction writing has accomplished things in my life I never imagined. It has a life and significance beyond what I fancied. With my novel, I initially wrote because there was a story inside me burning to get out. I wanted readers to view life through the lens of two characters taking the human journey, to feel the ups, the downs; the laughter, the tears; the joys, the heartbreak. I hoped to move an audience by conjuring emotions that inspire something greater, helping readers comprehend why bad things happen to good people, to feel the nostalgic currents of childhood, of romance, of the journey itself, the good and bad of those affairs. I wrote to take readers outside of themselves, to a place where they could feel these characters and be reminded that no matter what transpires in life, there is a river of destiny flowing in the unseen space surrounding that life. Blended streams of fate do shape our lives even when we doubt ourselves.

The further I delved into the story, the more I fell in love with the characters, and the story took turns and twists I never expected or imagined. Though the story contains all of what I wanted, it holds more than I anticipated. The result is something captivating. I think most readers will fall in love with the book and its characters. The response from a group of twelve reviewers seems to support this premise: "Engrossing." "Fascinating." "Riveting." "A novel I'll read again and again." "Moving and unexpected." "Unforgettable."

Writing should change the way we look at things, inspiring us to look through a different lens. For me, it boils down to this: If there's one person who sees my mistakes, learns from them, and keeps pressing on through their own shortcomings, then writing was the right thing for me to do. We all have life experiences that can bless others. Whoever we are, wherever we find ourselves, no matter our age or station in life, we all have stories to share – stories that can make a positive difference in the world and change another person's life. Don't be afraid to use the good and bad of your life to brighten someone's world.

Love and Its Discontents

Stories are as distinctive as the people who live them, and the best stories transcend time and space.  So it begins, this story, like most great stories, with a woman, a city, and the hand of fate.

Julian sits on a grassy knoll observing two players in the thrall of an outdoor chess match on a life-sized board.  Checkmate is imminent.  There is no escape for the black king.  The contestant controlling the dark pieces should resign, but is unwilling, circling the board in languid steps, searching for an out.  The crowd sighs, tosses hands skyward in disbelief.  One shouts, "You cannot win!" The contestant is unresponsive, oblivious, detached from his audience, unwilling to see what the spectators see, determined to find what's not there.

Julian feels the tension and wonders why black won't fold.  But then he knows.  He recognizes the fierce determination in the contestant, the illusions.  His detachment with the girl is just as vast, feeling infinite, insurmountable, unbeatable.  He thinks his denial is as portentous as that of the circling contestant.  Black cannot win. To think otherwise is a mirage.

Julian rises from the lush, immaculate carpet of green, leaves the knoll.  The contestant continues to circle the board.  People's lives are lost in the trance of delusion, Julian thinks, as he moves through the historic city of Canterbury, passing the cathedral, the oldest in England.  He turns down a winding lane, brushes against the weeping willows as a gust of wind rattles the drooping branches. The lane curves, snakes alongside the riverbank.  Julian hears the chirping of swallows, smells the wildflowers, crosses an ancient footbridge, pauses at the apex.  He leans against the stone, wonders if he's as delusional as the losing chess player: repeatedly circling, refusing to cave, misreading the pulse of his own heart.  He looks down at the river, watching his shadow, the current surging in silence, his mind preoccupied, unable to shake the girl from his thoughts.

It's been this way since he moved from London three weeks back to attend the University of Kent for his final year of law school.  He goes for stretched, aimless walks, hoping to get away from returning to the one place he wants to be. Ever since he spotted her waitressing at the popular pub near his apartment in the walled city, his decision making vacillates, follows an identical pattern.  Just when he decides he's not going back, he feels something inside breaking, some pull, tugging at him like an undercurrent. But today will be different, he tells himself.  The ridiculous denial of the chess player has strengthened his resolve.

Julian observes the swans, ducks, fighting upstream on the clear waters of the Stour River.  His heart is roaring inside, tugging, pulling again.  He glances at his watch, fidgets, wrangles with his doubts, takes in the birds again.  Their fight inspires something within.  He closes his eyes, pinches the lids with his thumb and forefinger, changes his mind once more.  Today will be no different.  He will return.  He will follow the path of the birds - against the flow, upstream, refusing to cave.

The historic streets look old and purposeless basking in the afternoon sunlight.  Turning onto High Street, he glances toward the sky and notices an encroaching army of clouds choking the blue in the distance.  He speeds his steps, the world tilting beneath his feet, rushes past the corn market, the mansion of the White Friars.  Canterbury's shop windows become a blur of colors as he moves down the King's Mile, through the city inhabited since pre-Roman times.  The city feels timeless, motionless, without gravity.  He think's of Chaucer's Canterbury Tales, wonders if its subjects felt buoyant like he does, moving through the enchantment of all that's been before.

Julian reaches the front door of the pub as the first drops race from the sky.  He pauses in the anteroom, hears the clatter of dishes, the clinking of glasses, SKY Sports broadcasting a Premier League match on the mounted monitors beyond the interior door.  The room is typical European fare; a mirror, wooden coat racks bloated with hats, coats, scarves, all things British.  The pub is packed.  He looks in the mirror, adjusts some strands, gulps deeply.  A deafening roar rattles the mirror, vibrates his reflection.  He sees what he feels, his heart lurching inside.  The walk through the interior door seems like the longest of his life.  He enters to shouts and hugs, raised pints sloshing beer, the packed crowd singing furiously.  Chelsea's fight song confirms the goal that has prompted the roar.

Julian takes a seat in an open booth, reverential, feeling as though he's in the presence of royalty.  The rowdiness subsides as the pro-Chelsea crowd pines for another goal.  He glances around the pub.  Though he doesn't see her, he spots her.  Like wind, he spots her by what she moves.  The twisting heads and contorting necks, the stammering lips and wandering eyes.  Only one happening can bend the crowd's eye away from the soccer match.  Her moving through the pub.  She's impossible to miss. Magical skin, long wavy locks framing a pretty oval face, pouty lips, mesmerizing curves, perfect in contour, provoking reveries of eroticism in men's minds.  Her beauty is hypnotic, having captured Julian the first instant he saw her, and every time since, sending his heart galloping wildly to a place it's never been.

And then she comes into full view.

Julian feels a sensation surge through him, a charge that is half thrill, half panic.  His pulse speeds up in that electric, yet terrible way, as she comes near, takes his order, scribbles, looks up, smiles.  Pure intoxication.  He catches his breath, feels the wetness under his arms.  The butterflies are soaring.  She spins, stuffs the white notepad in the back pocket of her jeans, moves away from the table in spectacular fashion, a bewitching gait, and mercifully vanishes into the thick crowd, allowing him to breathe again.

He has been visiting the pub to catch a glimpse, thrilled to be inhaling the same air as she, spending his meager savings on appetizers and drink, viewing her from a safe distance.  He is stalking and doesn't know why, or pretends he doesn't know why.  He is scared stupid by what he's doing but he can't stop himself.  No force on earth can prevent him from entering the pub.  He is not one to fall in love with a girl over appearance, an expression, a gesture, but in those moments she glances his way, passes near, his heart rockets out of his chest.

Everything about her entrances him.  He notices the little things.  The sway of her long tresses, whipping side to side, as she clears a table.  The beautiful arch of her back while carrying foamed pitchers of hops across the wooden floor to the old drunks clamoring for her, and another drink The reading glasses perched on her nose, her face buried in a book, foot bobbing with delight, her thoughts elsewhere, during her break. On every level, there is a draw for him, and each time he pays the bill, there comes a flicker of sadness, a foreclosure of some sort, his heart sinking inside.

Julian notices that Alexa never seems to bask, take pleasure in all the attention she receives from spellbound men. She seems oblivious to it all, as if she believes beauty is trivial, fleeting, inconsequential in life, undeserved.  He is unaware of what thrills her, what she cherishes most.  Upon waking each morning, she rushes to the nearby orphanage, volunteering, spending the early part of each day with young children. Unbeknownst to Julian, she loves children and hopes to relocate from her native England to some third-world nation, to better the lives of the abandoned.  There is a higher pull, an endless spiritual draw tugging at her heartstrings.  This is why she works at the pub, saving every pence; the tips are enormous.

Julian feels bashful, shy, afraid to strike up conversation beyond the routine obligation of placing his order.  It's unlike him and killing him inside.  He tries to walk away numerous times, each attempt taking a sharp right just before the exit, landing him in the men's room with nothing to do.  He talks to himself in the mirror, exhorts his psyche, splashes his face, takes a million deep breaths, mutters the same lines over and over, and when confident, exits the restroom.  The confidence seeps out with each step back to the booth, leaving him deflated again.  He expects the magnetic pull of her to fall away, to lead nowhere, to cease, for the ice to never break, as it hasn't on all previous visits.  But then, today, like a miracle, it does.  She looks his way, smiles, so brightly, it's a wonder she doesn't set something alight.  She approaches to refill his drink.  Something detonates inside Julian, bursting upward, a feeling defying explanation, spine-tingling.  Their eyes meet, freeze, something otherworldly locked in the gaze.

"Why are you always staring at me?" She asks.

Julian's heart kicks, slams into his throat.  He chokes on his water.  Seconds later, barely composed, he stumbles over his words.

"I'm not staring at you."

"Yes, you are. Every time I look your way, I catch you staring at me."

The discomfort that would normally overtake Alexa in a situation like this is allayed by Julian's noticeable unease.  Alexa finds it amusing, and even endearing, the way he keeps blushing and shaking his head in apology.  His embarrassment, the flushed cheeks, the squirming, charms her in some way.  Unlike most men in the pub, he's free of braggadocio, false bravado, speech stooped in flattery and insinuations.  She leaves, returns with an appetizer of fried Mozzarella, his favorite, leaves again, the sheen of her smile keeping him planted.  Between runs to other tables, some sexist comments, one catcall, she steals glances of him.

His face is now submerged in his law books.  He doesn't dare look up, yet amazingly, he has not left.  This impresses her as she studies him.  He's not completely handsome: the nose a bit small, the hair long and unruly, the jaw not so strong, but his eyes are alive, piercing blue.  He has a fabulous grin, beautiful teeth, and a habit of punctuating his orders with a positive, happy cadence.  And though his face does not enthrall Alexa as those of previous boyfriends, it's a kinder face and, as Alexa will learn, a visible emissary for the attentiveness, the compassion, the enduring goodness that resides within Julian.

Still embarrassed, croaking inside, Julian closes his books, vacates the booth.  He places a few pounds on the table, pays the tab, moves to the door, exits without peeking Alexa's way, his heart plummeting again.  He supposes he should be relieved, but he wants something else.  Perhaps if she had erupted, displayed some emotion, told him she feels uncomfortable, to never come back.  Something definable, like checkmate, no possible out.  Instead, he gets an appetizer and that breathtaking smile lighting up the world.

Julian walks a half block down the cobblestoned street in the dreary drizzle of the British Isles, feeling her absence, his senses still smitten by her aroma.  The air is frigid, and the valve in the clouds loosens.  Raindrops pelt the cobbles, blur the shop windows, ripple windshields, drench his hair and clothes.  He doesn't care; he needs the lashing, the cleansing, an atonement of some sort.  His head is hanging low, knowing he can't go back.  Ever.  The embarrassment of it all, caught ogling, lying like a psychopath.  "I'm not staring at you," how stupid of him.  He feels the force of it, like a thousand daggers, puncturing the life within.  Waylaid, he doesn't hear the sound of running feet, the splashy steps approaching from behind.  Her voice startles him, seizes the air from his lungs.

"I think you owe me a coffee for lying to me."

His heart rumbles, races for the moon.  He's tongue-tied.

"Don't pretend you didn't hear what I said," she says smiling

He knows what he needs to say, but he can't utter a single word.  Cotton mouthed.

"So are we going for coffee?" She asks impatiently.

"Yes." His head nods longer than his monosyllabic reply.

"Only one condition," she says.

"That I pay?"

"Well, that's acceptable, but not the condition."

He stares.

"You're staring at me again."

Dying a thousand deaths, he barely gets the words out, "It's hard not to."

Alexa blushes, feels warm inside, quickly adjusts.

"No more lies," she says.

"Excuse me?"

"The condition ... no more lies; it's a bad way to start something."

Rigid with embarrassment, Julian nods in agreement, his eyes looking away, his lips pursed like a child caught disobeying.  They move wordlessly toward the coffee shop, the rain concealing the film of sweat inching across Julian's skin.  A cool wind sheets the mist against his face as the world dizzies into a blur of feelings he can't identify.

A few steps into the walk toward his new life, he breaks the silence.

"I'm sorry for lying to you."

He pauses, turns her way.  All of what he's about to say, she sees in his eyes.  He feels the words surging, words that have been churning in his mind, pounding his heart, building for weeks, hours, minutes, seconds.

"I stare at you because you're the most beautiful girl in the world, the most beautiful girl I've ever seen."

To be continued ...