“I’m here,” he huskily whispered into the phone.
Heart pounding, I rose from my messy bed and scrambled towards my front door. Most people would expect Mormons to knock on their door but not me. I asked for this. I wanted this. I was excited.
“Coming,” I replied before ending the call.
Sure enough, when I swung the door open with fierce, there he was: six-foot-one, brown hair and eyes, square jaw and a furrow in his brow that gave away his nervousness. Just as I had asked, he was dressed in a white dress shirt, blue tie, dress pants and shiny loafers. His Sunday Best. It was eleven o’clock at night and my flood lights accentuated the dimples in his timorous smile.
“Hi,” he said in a timid voice with his phone still pressed against his ear. The Book of Mormon was clutched by his waist in his left hand.
“Hi,” I said while extending my arm towards my couch, “Come in.”